The Thief Who Couldn't Sleep Read Online Free Page B
Author: Lawrence Block
on the Sullivan show, or found a new school of modern dance. She just wanted to go on dancing at the New Life for as long as they wanted her.
I, on the other hand, have many ambitions and I told her of them. "Someday," I confided, "we'll restore the House of Stuart to the English throne. The Jacobite movement has never entirely died out, you know. There are men in the Scottish Highlands who would rise at any moment to throw out those Hanoverian interlopers."
"You're putting me on—"
"Oh, no," I said, wagging a finger at her. "The last reigning Stuart was Anne. She died in 1714 and they brought over a Hanoverian, a German. George I. And ever since that day the Germans have sat upon the English throne. If you think about it, it's an outrage."
"But the House of Stuart—"
"There have been attempts," I said. "Bonnie Prince Charlie in 1745. All of Scotland rose to support him, but the French didn't do all they were supposed to do, and nothing came of it. The English won the Battle of Culloden Moor and thought that was the end of it." I paused significantly. "But they were wrong."
"They were?"
"The House of Stuart has not died out, Kitty. There has always been a Stuart Pretender to the English throne, although some of them have worked harder at it than others. The current Pretender is Rupert. Someday he'll reign as Rupert I, after Betty Saxe-Coburg and her German court have been routed."
"Betty Saxe-Coburg . . . oh, Elizabeth, of course. And who is Rupert?"
"He's a Bavarian crown prince."
She looked at me for a long moment and then began to laugh. "Oh, that's beautiful! That's priceless, Evan. I love it!"
"Do you?"
"Replacing the . . . the German usurpers with . . . oh, it's great . . . with the crown prince of Bavaria— "
"The true English claimant."
"I love it. Oh, sign me up, Evan. It's better than a Barbara Stanwyck movie. Oh, it's grand. I love it!"
And outside, a breeze playing with her marvelous black hair, she said, "I live with my mother and my grandmother, so that's out. Do you have a place we can go to?"
"Yes."
"But Owen said something about you not sleeping. I mean—"
"I don't, but I have a bed."
"How sweet of you," she said, taking my arm, "to have a bed."
C hapter 3
I t was about a week after that when I finally did meet Kitty's grandmother. Kitty had told me several times that I would enjoy the old woman's story, and she became especially enthusiastic when I showed her my membership card in the League for the Restoration of Cilician Armenia. She had never heard of the group—rather few people have, actually—but she was certain her grandmother would be delighted.
"She has some pretty grim memories," Kitty said. "She was the only one of the family to get away. The Turks killed everybody else. I have a feeling she got raped in the bargain, but she never said anything about it exactly, and it's not the kind of subject you discuss with your grandmother. If you're really interested in all this Armenian jazz, you'll enjoy her. And she's getting older, you know, and I think she may be getting a little flaky, so not many people listen to her very much any more."
"I'd love to meet her."
"Would you? She'll be all excited. She's like a kid sometimes."
Kitty lived in Brooklyn, just across the bridge, in a neighborhood that was largely Syrian and Lebanese with a scattering of Armenians. We walked from the subway. It was early afternoon. Her mother was out waiting on tables in a neighborhood diner. Her grandmother sat in front of the television set watching one of those afternoon game shows where everyone laughs and smiles all the time.
Kitty said, "Grandma, this is—"
"Wait," Grandma said. "See that lady, she just won a Pontiac convertible, can you imagine? Now she has to decide to keep it or trade it for what's behind the curtain. See, she don't know what's behind the curtain. She has to decide without looking. See!"
The woman traded. The curtain opened, and Grandma sucked in her breath, then
I, on the other hand, have many ambitions and I told her of them. "Someday," I confided, "we'll restore the House of Stuart to the English throne. The Jacobite movement has never entirely died out, you know. There are men in the Scottish Highlands who would rise at any moment to throw out those Hanoverian interlopers."
"You're putting me on—"
"Oh, no," I said, wagging a finger at her. "The last reigning Stuart was Anne. She died in 1714 and they brought over a Hanoverian, a German. George I. And ever since that day the Germans have sat upon the English throne. If you think about it, it's an outrage."
"But the House of Stuart—"
"There have been attempts," I said. "Bonnie Prince Charlie in 1745. All of Scotland rose to support him, but the French didn't do all they were supposed to do, and nothing came of it. The English won the Battle of Culloden Moor and thought that was the end of it." I paused significantly. "But they were wrong."
"They were?"
"The House of Stuart has not died out, Kitty. There has always been a Stuart Pretender to the English throne, although some of them have worked harder at it than others. The current Pretender is Rupert. Someday he'll reign as Rupert I, after Betty Saxe-Coburg and her German court have been routed."
"Betty Saxe-Coburg . . . oh, Elizabeth, of course. And who is Rupert?"
"He's a Bavarian crown prince."
She looked at me for a long moment and then began to laugh. "Oh, that's beautiful! That's priceless, Evan. I love it!"
"Do you?"
"Replacing the . . . the German usurpers with . . . oh, it's great . . . with the crown prince of Bavaria— "
"The true English claimant."
"I love it. Oh, sign me up, Evan. It's better than a Barbara Stanwyck movie. Oh, it's grand. I love it!"
And outside, a breeze playing with her marvelous black hair, she said, "I live with my mother and my grandmother, so that's out. Do you have a place we can go to?"
"Yes."
"But Owen said something about you not sleeping. I mean—"
"I don't, but I have a bed."
"How sweet of you," she said, taking my arm, "to have a bed."
C hapter 3
I t was about a week after that when I finally did meet Kitty's grandmother. Kitty had told me several times that I would enjoy the old woman's story, and she became especially enthusiastic when I showed her my membership card in the League for the Restoration of Cilician Armenia. She had never heard of the group—rather few people have, actually—but she was certain her grandmother would be delighted.
"She has some pretty grim memories," Kitty said. "She was the only one of the family to get away. The Turks killed everybody else. I have a feeling she got raped in the bargain, but she never said anything about it exactly, and it's not the kind of subject you discuss with your grandmother. If you're really interested in all this Armenian jazz, you'll enjoy her. And she's getting older, you know, and I think she may be getting a little flaky, so not many people listen to her very much any more."
"I'd love to meet her."
"Would you? She'll be all excited. She's like a kid sometimes."
Kitty lived in Brooklyn, just across the bridge, in a neighborhood that was largely Syrian and Lebanese with a scattering of Armenians. We walked from the subway. It was early afternoon. Her mother was out waiting on tables in a neighborhood diner. Her grandmother sat in front of the television set watching one of those afternoon game shows where everyone laughs and smiles all the time.
Kitty said, "Grandma, this is—"
"Wait," Grandma said. "See that lady, she just won a Pontiac convertible, can you imagine? Now she has to decide to keep it or trade it for what's behind the curtain. See, she don't know what's behind the curtain. She has to decide without looking. See!"
The woman traded. The curtain opened, and Grandma sucked in her breath, then
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