The Burglar in the Library Page 8

  “I might have a little more of this one,” I said, setting down an empty glass. “Color, bouquet, taste, and aftertaste. I want to make sure I’ve got the drill down pat.”

  He beamed. “Rather special, wouldn’t you say? The Drumnadrochit.”

  “It’s remarkable,” I said, and topped up my glass.

  We’d found him in the bar, where his role was more that of host than bartender. The bar at Cuttleford House ran on the honor system; you poured your own drink and made a note of it in the leather-bound ledger kept for that purpose. There seemed to me to be an inherent danger in the system; as the evening wore on, wouldn’t one become increasingly apt to forget to make an entry?

  “Shocking weather,” he said, as I nursed the second wee snifter of Glen Drumnadrochit. “It’s still snowing, you know.”

  “I was watching out the window,” Carolyn said. “It’s really beautiful.”

  “Quite so. If all one has to do is look at it, it’s rather an admirable display of nature’s majesty and all that.” Color, bouquet, and flavor—and down the hatch, even as he reached for the bottle to top up his glass. He was putting it away at a good clip, was Nigel Eglantine, for all the ritual he made of appreciating it. There is, I suppose, a thin line between the connoisseur and the common drunk, even as there is a similarly fine distinction to be drawn between the gourmet and the glutton. Nigel wasn’t slurring his words or tripping over his shoelaces, nor was he telling the same story over and over. He seemed perfectly fine to me.

  Still, the night was young.

  “I couldn’t say how many times Orris has been out already,” he said. “Clearing the path with the snowblower, then shoveling snow from the footbridge and plowing the drive clear out to the road. I told him not to bother again until morning. No point.” He looked up. “Ah, good evening, Colonel.”

  “Evening,” said Colonel Blount-Buller, who had just joined us. He made himself a drink and noted the act in the leather-bound ledger, a ritual he went through daily for half the year. “A long winter, eh? Snow’s got some depth to it, Eglantine. Good job you’ve got Orris. Had another couple due, didn’t you? Did they ever get here?”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Littlefield.” Color, bouquet, flavor. “I rather doubt we’ll be seeing them, Colonel. I just hope they’re not stuck in a snowbank somewhere. Much better if they’ve had the good sense to turn around and go home.” He turned to me. “They’re New Yorkers as well, Mr. Rhodenbarr. Don’t suppose you know them?”

  “It’s a big city,” I said.

  “Too big for my taste,” the colonel said. “Bad as London. That the bell, Eglantine?”

  “I don’t think…there, I heard it just then.” He set his glass on the bar and hurried off to answer the doorbell.

  “Good chap,” the colonel said. “They run a tight ship, Eglantine and his wife. Not an easy thing, making a go of a place like this.”

  “It must be a lot of work,” Carolyn said.

  “You’re working all the time,” Colonel Blount-Buller said. “Man thinks he’s done for the day, relaxes with a drink, and the bloody doorbell rings. Far cry from a soldier’s life, where you’re either fighting off wogs or fighting off boredom. Hard to say which is worse, yet when you add it all up there’s no better life for a man.”

  Carolyn asked a question that drew him out a little bit, and he waxed eloquent in his reply. Then Eglantine returned with two new people, still wrapped in their overcoats and alternately rubbing their hands together and stamping their boots to get the last of the snow off.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Dakin Littlefield,” Nigel announced. “Of whom we’d quite despaired, and in whose safe arrival we rejoice. And these are the Rhodenbarrs, Mr. and Mrs. Rhodenbarr, and this is Colonel Blount-Buller. And before anything else I’m going to insist that you both have a drink. That’s our first order of business, getting the chill out of your bones.”

  While he was at it, Nigel set about filling everyone else’s glass as well. He was pouring yet another unblended malt whisky, and he announced its name and pedigree, but I didn’t pay close attention, nor did I let him add any to my glass. I still had a little of the Drumnadrochit left, and felt it might as well stay unblended. Anyway, I’d had enough to drink, so I reached out a hand and covered my glass.

  “Mrs. Rhodenbarr?”

  “Well…”

  “You know what they say,” Dakin Littlefield put in. “A bird can’t fly on one wing.”

  Mrs. Rhodenbarr indeed. One wing indeed. I thought of alternative analogies that might better fit the circumstances. A dog can’t walk on three legs, or an ant on five, or a spider on seven. But I kept my mouth shut and took a good look at the Littlefields as they got out of their heavy coats and into the spirit of things.

  She was a honey blonde, medium height, with a pretty face and a pleasing figure, and in the ordinary course of things I would have done most of my looking at her, but instead he got the lion’s share of my attention. He was tall, with wavy dark hair worn long; he looked as though he might at any moment sit down at the piano and play something mournful. Prominent brows shaded his dark eyes. He had a hawk nose and an aggressive chin, and he had a cruel mouth. I’d seen that phrase in books and always wondered what a cruel mouth looked like, and now I knew. His narrow lips seemed poised somewhere between a pout and a sneer. You took one look at his mouth and you wanted to give him a smack in it, because you somehow knew you were dealing with a real son of a bitch.

  “Past my bedtime,” I said abruptly, just as the colonel had paused for dramatic effect in a reminiscence of the old days in Peshawar. “Carolyn?”

  She took a moment to knock back the rest of her drink, then said good night all around. We found the staircase and climbed it, and at the top she paused for breath, then asked if I remembered the way to Aunt Agatha’s Room. “Aunt Augusta,” I said.

  “What did I say, Bern?”

  “Agatha.”

  “I did? I meant Augusta. Though it’s not hard to figure out where I got Agatha from, is it?”

  “The misty Miss Christie?”

  “Uh-huh. Snow falling, and nobody here but us chickens? This could turn out to be a cross between The Mousetrap and Ten Little Indians. All that’s missing is a body in the library.”

  “There’s going to be something else missing in the library,” I said. “Something by Raymond Chandler.”

  Her eyes widened. “You think somebody’s going to swipe it?”

  “Uh-huh. In an hour or so, when the house settles down and most of the people in it are asleep.”

  “You’re the one who’s gonna swipe it.”

  “Good thinking, Carolyn.”

  “But I thought you wanted to leave it for the time being, Bern. You explained it all on the way to the bar, how it would be safer to leave it where it was until the last minute. What changed your mind?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Huh?”

  “This is the last minute,” I said, “or at least you could call it the penultimate minute. Or the eleventh hour, anyway.”

  “What are you talking about, Bern?”

  “In the morning,” I said, “the faithful Orris will blow the snow off the path and shovel the snow off the bridge and plow the snow out of the driveway, and, just as soon as he’s done all that, you and I are going to get the hell out of here.”

  “We are?”

  “If there’s a God in heaven.”

  We had reached Aunt Augusta’s Room, and not a moment too soon. Carolyn put her hands on her hips, cocked her head, and stared at me. I pushed the door open—we’d left it ajar, for the cat’s benefit—and motioned her inside, then followed her in and drew the door shut.

  She said, “Why, Bern? Hey, was it something I did?”

  “What did you do?”

  “I had that last drink, and I saw the look you gave me when I let him fill my glass again. I’m a little bit snockered, I admit it, but—”

  “But a centipede can’t walk on ninety-nine legs,” I said. “N
o, that’s not it, and if I gave you a nasty look it was unintentional. The nasty look wasn’t for you.”

  “Who was it for?”

  “That asshole.”

  “Nigel? I thought you liked him.”

  “I like him fine.”

  “I mean he’s sort of pompous about the Glen Drumnawhatsit, but—”

  “That’s not pomposity,” I said. “That’s reverence, and the Drumnadrochit deserves it. He’s not the asshole.”

  “The colonel’s the asshole? What did he say that was assholeish? I must have missed it.”

  “The colonel’s good company. I miss a word here and there because certain consonants get stuck in his clenched teeth, but I can usually get the gist of what he’s saying. No, I like the colonel. Dakin Littlefield’s the asshole.”

  “He is?”

  “You said it.”

  “Actually, you said it, Bern. But what did he do? He just got here. He hardly opened his mouth.”

  “It’s a cruel mouth, Carolyn. Open or shut.”

  “It is? I didn’t notice. Bern, we don’t know a thing about him except that he’s from New York. Is that it? Do you know him from the city?”

  “No.”

  “I never even heard of him myself. I’d remember the name, it’s distinctive enough. Dakin Littlefield. Hey, Dakin, what’s shakin’? Dakin, Dakin, where’s the bacon?”

  “He ought to get a haircut,” I said.

  “Are you serious, Bern? His hair’s a little shaggy, but it’s not even shoulder length. I think it’s attractive like that.”

  “Fine,” I said. “Go share a bed with him.”

  “I’d rather share a bed with her,” she said. “That’s why I hardly noticed him, because I was busy noticing her. She’s stunning, don’t you think?”

  “She’s all right.”

  “Great face, fantastic shape when she took off her coat. Damn shame she’s straight.”

  “What makes you so sure she’s straight?”

  “Are you kidding, Bern? She’s here with her husband.”

  “How do you know he’s her husband?”

  “Huh? They’re Mr. and Mrs. Littlefield, Bern. Remember?”

  “So? We’re Mr. and Mrs. Rhodenbarr, according to everybody here at Cuttlefish House.”

  “Cuttleford House, Bern.”

  “Whatever. Everybody thinks we’re the Rhodenbarrs, that nice couple, she’s a canine stylist and he’s a burglar. Does that make us married? Does it make you straight?”

  “It makes me confused,” she said. “Are you telling me they’re not married?”

  “No,” I said. “They’re married, all right.”

  “Well, that’s a relief. I’ll sleep a lot easier knowing they’re not living in sin. But what makes you so sure?”

  “They’re newlyweds,” I said. “It sticks out all over them.”

  “It does? I didn’t even notice.”

  “I did. They got married today.”

  She looked at me. “Did they say something that I missed?”

  “No.”

  “Then how can you tell? Has she got rice in her hair?”

  “Not that I noticed. What was that?”

  “What was what?”

  “That pathetic scratching noise.”

  “It’s the best he can do,” she said, “without claws.” She opened the door and Raffles walked in, looking as confused as everybody else. He walked over to a chair, hopped up on it, turned around in a slow circle, hopped down again, and left the room.

  “I wonder what’s on his mind,” I said.

  “Don’t change the subject, Bern. Why don’t you like Dakin, and how come you’re so sure he’s married to her, and—”

  “Don’t say ‘her,’” I said. “It’s impolite.”

  “It is?”

  “Of course it is. She’s got a name.”

  “Most people do, Bern, but I didn’t happen to catch it.”

  “Neither did I.”

  There was a pause. “Bernie,” she said slowly, “I know it tasted great and everything, but I think maybe there’s something in that Drums-Along-the-Drocket that doesn’t agree with you.”

  “It’s called alcohol,” I said, “and it couldn’t agree with me more. Here’s what I’ll do, Carolyn. I’ll tell you Mrs. Littlefield’s first name, and all at once everything will be clear to you.”

  “It will?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “What difference does it make what her name is?”

  “Believe me, it makes a difference.”

  “But you just said you didn’t catch her name either.”

  “True.”

  “Then how can you tell it to me?”

  “Because I know it.”

  “How can you possibly…oh, God, don’t tell me.”

  “Well, all right, if you’re sure, but—”

  “No!”

  “No?”

  “Tell me her name, Bernie. No, wait a minute, don’t tell me! Is it what I think it is?”

  “That depends on what you think it is.”

  “I don’t want to say,” she said, “because if it isn’t, and even if it is, and…Bernie, I don’t know how we got into this conversation, but we have to get out of it fast. Tell me her name. Just blurt it out, will you?”

  “I’ll give you a hint,” I said. “It’s not Romaine.”

  “Oh, God, Bern. I bet it’s not Curly Endive either.”

  “It’s not.”

  “Bern, spit it out, huh?”

  “Lettice,” I said.

  “Oh, shit. You’re kidding, right? You’re not kidding. Ohmigod.”

  CHAPTER

  Nine

  The bookshelves in the Great Library of Cuttleford House extended all the way to the twelve-foot ceiling. One couldn’t be expected to reach the uppermost shelves without standing on the shoulders of giants; in their absence, one of the several owners of the property had thoughtfully provided a set of library steps.

  This article of furniture was made of mahogany and fitted with casters so it could be rolled to where it was needed. It consisted of a freestanding (and freewheeling) staircase of five steps. It had been the designer’s conceit to give it the form of a spiral staircase, and the steps were accordingly triangular, tapering from a width of four or five inches at their outer edge to no width at all at the center.

  I was poised on the fourth step, one hand clutching a shelf for balance, the other hand reaching out for The Big Sleep, when I heard my name called.

  “Bernie!”

  It was Lettice, of course, Lettice Runcible Littlefield. I didn’t have to turn around and look at her to establish as much, but I did anyway, and there she was.

  I should have waited. My plan, if you want to dignify it with that name, was simplicity itself. Step One—get the book. Step Two—go home. As long as I performed those two tasks in that particular order, things ought to work out. I wanted to undertake Step Two as soon after breakfast as was decently possible, which gave me something like eight hours to execute Step One and scoop up Chandler.

  I thought of sleeping first and going after Chandler at the last minute, virtually on the way out the door. I thought of napping for a few hours, giving the rest of the house time to settle in for a good night’s sleep, and then paying a visit to the library in the hour of the wolf. But I didn’t want to rush, nor did I want to risk appearing furtive to a fellow insomniac. Best to get the book now, I’d thought, and tuck it under my pillow for the night, and make off with it first thing in the morning.

  There were guests in the library when I got there. Rufus Quilp, the very stout gentleman who’d been reading and dozing earlier, was still at it, breathing heavily if not quite snoring. A copy of Dombey and Son, part of a broken half-leather set of Dickens whose volumes I’d spotted here and there around the house, lay open on his lap. Greg Savage, unaccompanied by wife or child, looked up at my approach to flash the apologetic smile frequently found on the lips of the parents of precocious chil
dren, then returned to his book, a Philip Friedman courtroom novel. It was the author’s latest, and, from the looks of it, his longest; if I’d borrowed Savage’s copy and stood on top of it I might not have needed the library steps.

  I did a little reading myself, hoping Quilp and Savage would decide to call it a night, and before long Savage did, slipping away quietly so as not to disturb us. Quilp’s eyes were closed, and what did it matter if he saw me climb the steps and reach for a book? That’s what the steps were there for, and what the books were there for. And, by God, it was what I was there for.

  Then Lettice called my name.

  “What the hell are you doing here, Bernie?”

  I was already on my way down the steps. I touched a finger to my lips, then pointed across the room to the chair where Rufus Quilp sat in a Dickensian doze.

  “All right, then,” she said. “Let’s go where we can talk.” She spun on her heel and stalked out of the library, and I followed in her wake.

  We wound up in the East Parlour, beneath the gaze of the putative springbok. I turned on a lamp. Lettice told me not to bother, we wouldn’t be here that long. I said we might as well be comfortable. “Besides,” I said, “how will it look if somebody sees us sitting together in the dark?”

  “If it’s dark,” she said, “how will they see us?”

  “Sit down,” I said. “You’re looking well. Marriage agrees with you.”

  “What are you doing here, Bernie?”

  “What am I doing here? I’m spending a traditional weekend in a traditional English country house, with more than the traditional amount of snow. I don’t know where you get off being surprised to see me. I told you I had a reservation here.”

  “You also told me you were going to take me.”

  “Well, you had a prior engagement.”

  “So you brought your wife.” She treated me to a sidelong glance. “You never told me you were married, Bernie.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Oh, really? Is little Mrs. Rhodenbarr your mother?”

  “Her name is Carolyn Kaiser,” I said, “and she’s not Mrs. Rhodenbarr. That seems to be an honorary designation a woman receives here when she arrives in the company of a man.”