“We’ve traced it to here, laddy-bucks.” Buck said, tapping a map. “Dis is the Libary. Before it were torn down, see, it was a warehouse; oddly, it neve seemed to be in use. And before that, my dear chaps, it was our buddy, a Mister Ludwig Beethoven’s esteemed residence.”
This revelation evoked an awed silence from his men, who stood around an oak table in his hideout. It was late in the night, but they had been hand-picked by Buck for this job: Beethoven had been renowned as musical genius. Deaf, true, but still a genius. Legend had it that before he died, he wrote a book. No one knew what the book looked like, or under what name, or even what it was about; but that book, if found, would be priceless.
Clipto pipped up “How’d ya figa dat one out, Boss?”
The seven others gaped at the moronic question of the thick-skulled tow-head. “No, I’ll tell humor yous.” He allowed. “But foist, get me the scopes o that.” Buck directed his gaze to the paper Library. “Jonses! I want you to get on that, foist ting tomorros.”