The Burglar in the Library

  Could I have unwittingly left it slightly ajar? If so, he could have come on in. But it had definitely been closed when I came back. He wouldn’t have closed it, let alone slammed it with enough force to make it click shut.

  Why was I making so much of this? The steps were clear. A—I leave the room, thinking I’ve closed the door but failing to engage the latch. B—Raffles, finding the door ajar, enters. C—An air current closes the door again, and makes a better job of it than I had done. D—I return, find the door closed, which is how I incorrectly believe I’ve left it. E—I enter, close the door, fasten the bolt, and am subsequently bewildered to find myself with a cat on my lap.

  I decided it was possible. Not too probable, however. Then I remembered the old dictum about ruling out everything that was strictly impossible. If you did that, whatever possibility remained, however improbable, had to be the truth.

  Had I ruled out every other possibility?

  A chill came over me, along with an awareness of a possibility I had not ruled out, because I hadn’t thought of it. I took a deep breath and let it out, and I sent my eyes on as much of a tour of the room as they could manage without moving my head. And then I said, in what was supposed to be a forceful but low-pitched voice, “Now would be a good time to come out of the closet.”

  There was no response, not even from Raffles.

  “I mean it,” I said, wondering if I did. “You can come out of the closet now.”

  “No I can’t,” came the reply, in a small high-pitched voice. “I’m under the bed.”

  And then she giggled, the imp. I stood up. Raffles sprang forward involuntarily when my lap disappeared, landing predictably enough on all four feet and giving me a look. And, even as I had done a while earlier, out from under the bed crawled the improbable person of Millicent Savage.

  CHAPTER

  Twenty-four

  “You’re not a ghost,” she said. “At least I don’t think you are. Are you?”

  I considered the question. “No,” I said. “I’m not.”

  “Would you tell me if you were?”

  “That’s hard to say,” I admitted. “Who knows what a ghost would do?”

  “Not me,” she said. “I don’t even know if I believe in them. And when I saw you in the hallway I didn’t think you were a ghost.”

  “How come?”

  “I didn’t think you were dead. In fact I thought you were right here, in Young George’s Room. You know what my father calls it? ‘Boy George’s Room.’”

  “He’s probably not the only one. How come you didn’t think I was dead?”

  “Because I saw you under the bed.”

  “You did?”

  She nodded. “When Mr. Littlefield wanted to open the closet door, and Carolyn didn’t want him to. At least I thought I saw you under the bed. I saw something under the bed, but I couldn’t be sure what it was unless I got down on all fours and checked, and I couldn’t do that because my father was holding my hand.”

  “Good for him,” I said.

  “Then Mr. Littlefield opened the door,” she went on, “and there was nobody there. And I almost said something.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t.”

  “‘Look under the bed,’ I almost said. But I didn’t want to help Mr. Littlefield. I don’t like him.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “And besides,” she said, “how could I be sure it was you?”

  “It could have been anybody.”

  “I wasn’t even sure it was a person.”

  “That’s a point. It could have been a monster.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  “Well, maybe a troll,” I said.

  “They live under bridges,” she said. “Not under beds.”

  “I stand corrected.”

  “When there was an extra body on one of the chairs behind the house,” she said, “I thought it was you, and I was positive I made a mistake thinking I saw you under the bed. But then it wasn’t you, it was someone you killed, and…”

  “I didn’t kill anybody.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “Because everybody thinks…”

  “I know what everybody thinks. I didn’t kill anybody.”

  “Not ever? Not in your whole life?”

  “Well,” I said, “I’m still young.”

  She giggled. “I believe you,” she said, “because you say funny things. I don’t think a murderer would say funny things, do you?”

  “No,” I said, “and neither would a ghost.”

  She thought that over, shrugged. “Anyway,” she said, “it turned out you were dead after all. Somebody stabbed you and threw your body off the cliff. I wasn’t supposed to look, but I did.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “Well? Did it look convincing?”

  “I didn’t get a very good look,” she said. “I guess it looked like a body, and somebody recognized the clothes. But you know what I kept thinking about?”

  “What?”

  “The crease.”

  “The crease? Oh—” I drew a wavy line in the air. “The kris.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “I know. What about it?”

  “If I stabbed somebody,” she said, “I don’t think I would drag him all the way to the edge of the cliff and push him over. And if he was already standing at the edge I wouldn’t stab him first, I’d just push him in. And if I did stab him for some reason, and then I wanted to throw him in to make it look like he fell, I’d remove the kris and hang it up on the wall again.”

  “I guess the kris was overkill.”

  “I just kept thinking about it,” Millicent said, “and I started thinking maybe that was you under the bed after all. And then I thought maybe it was a ghost under the bed. Do you ever have times when the more you think about something, the more confusing it gets?”

  “Boy, do I ever.”

  “After everybody came back to the house, I waited until nobody was paying attention. And I came upstairs and I put my ear to the door of this room and listened real hard.”

  “What did you hear?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Oh.”

  “I was too scared to open the door. So I went down the hall to my room and sat in the doorway and watched. I can be very patient.”

  “An uncommon trait in one so young.”

  “Well, I can. And I was watching when you stuck your head out, and I quick drew back so you wouldn’t see me. But I saw you hurry down the hall to the bathroom.”

  “And not a moment too soon,” I recalled.

  “I was pretty sure it was you and not a ghost. You know why?”

  “Why?”

  “Ghosts don’t have to go to the bathroom.”

  “Sure they do.”

  “They do not.”

  “They most certainly do. Haven’t you ever gotten a package in the mail? And when you opened it up, did it have some packing material to keep it from getting broken?”

  “So?”

  “Little white stuff the size of your thumb,” I said. “You probably were told it was Styrofoam.”

  “It is Styrofoam.”

  “Nope.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “Ghost turds.”

  I thought that would get a laugh, but all she did was roll her eyes. “Anyway,” she said heavily, “Raffles came along while you were in the bathroom, and I figured he would know.”

  “If I was a ghost or not.”

  “Right. So I grabbed him and brought him with me and came in here. At first we were both under the bed, but when you opened the door he trotted out to see what was going on. Can I ask a question?”

  “I don’t see how I could stop you.”

  “Why are you pretending to be dead?”

  “Because I’m going to trap the killer.”

  “Do you know who it is?”

  “I think so, yes.”

  “Tel
l me!”

  I shook my head. “Not now,” I said. “But there’s something you’ve got to tell me.”

  “What? I don’t know anything.”

  “You know who the latest victim is.”

  “It’s you,” she said, “or at least it’s supposed to be. Down at the bottom of the gully.”

  “That’s just smoke and mirrors,” I said.

  “Smoke and mirrors?”

  “Well, clothes and pillows. It wasn’t really me down there, Millicent, and it wasn’t anybody else, either.”

  “I know.”

  “But there was a real Latest Victim,” I said. “On one of those lawn chairs out behind the house. There was Jonathan Rathburn and there was the cook, and there was a third victim on a third chair.”

  “So?”

  “So tell me who it was.”

  Light dawned. “You don’t know,” she said. “Everybody thinks you know because everybody thinks you killed him, or at least they did until it turned out that you were dead, too. But you didn’t kill him, even if you don’t happen to be dead yourself, and…”

  “Right.”

  “So you don’t know.”

  “But I will,” I said, “as soon as you tell me.”

  She looked at me.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I know who got killed,” she said, giving it a sort of singsong cadence, “and you don’t. And you know who the killer is, and I don’t.”

  “Time to strike a deal, huh?”

  She nodded solemnly.

  “Okay,” I said. “You tell me who was on the chair, and I’ll tell you who put him there.”

  “‘Him’?”

  “You mean it was a woman?”

  “Maybe,” she said. “Maybe it was a woman and maybe it was a man. That’s for me to know.”

  “And for me to find out,” I finished, “and the way I’ll find out is by you telling me.”

  “And then you’ll tell me who did it.”

  “Right.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  “It’s a deal?”

  She nodded. “It’s a deal.”

  “So?”

  “So what?”

  “So tell me.”

  She frowned. “I think you should go first.”

  “Why? Don’t you trust me?”

  She didn’t say anything, which was answer enough. I could have gone first, but if she didn’t trust me, why should I trust her? I dug out my wallet, looked for scraps of paper, and wound up drawing out a pair of dollar bills. I gave one of them to Millicent.

  “In the space alongside Washington’s portrait,” I said. “Just print the victim’s name there, and I’ll do the same with the killer’s name.”

  “I think it’s against the law to write on money.”

  “If they arrest you for it,” I said, “tell them it was my idea. No cheating, now. No writing ‘Mickey Mouse’ to fake me out. Okay?”

  “I wouldn’t do that.”

  “Sure you would,” I said, “and so would I, but not today. Deal?” She nodded, and I printed the name of my favorite suspect, shielding the action from view with my left hand. When I finished I folded the bill, folded it again, and held it out to the child. With my other hand I took hold of the bill she was offering, similarly folded. Our eyes locked, and she counted to three, and at once we completed the exchange.

  I unfolded the bill, looked at what she’d written. I looked at Millicent, and found her looking back at me.

  “You’re sure of this?”

  She nodded, her eyes enormous. “I thought it was going to be you,” she said, “but it was him instead.”

  “Gordon Wolpert. With the tweed jackets and the elbow patches and…”

  “That’s him.”

  “And he was dead.” I frowned. “Do you suppose it was accidental? Maybe he was overcome with remorse and he pulled up a chair to sit next to the two people he’d killed, and before he knew it he’d fallen asleep and frozen to death.”

  She gave me a look. “Anyway,” she said, “there were marks on his neck. They said he’d been strangled.”

  “Strangled.

  “Did anybody look at his eyes? I wonder if he had pinpoint hemorrhages. But maybe you only get those if somebody smothers you. Wait a minute. Strangled? Maybe he hanged himself. Maybe he was overcome with remorse”—I seemed attached to the phrase—“and he hanged himself from a beam or something, and—”

  “And what?”

  “And cut himself down and went outside and sat on a lawn chair with a blanket over him. Never mind. Gordon Wolpert, for God’s sake. You’re sure it was him? Of course you’re sure.”

  “And you’re sure he was the killer?”

  “Well, no,” I said. “I was a few minutes ago. Now I’m not sure of anything.”

  I got to my feet, crossed to the chest of drawers, and picked up a book I’d been reading earlier, holding it as though absorbing its essence might somehow empower me. Gordon Wolpert, who I’d somehow managed to convince myself was a multiple murderer, had in turn managed to persuade someone else to murder him.

  I opened a drawer, put the book inside. I opened the closet door, got a whiff of Rathburn’s shoes, and closed it again.

  “It’s time,” I said.

  “Time for what, Bernie?”

  “Time for action. You know what Chandler said, don’t you? When things start to slow down, bring in a couple of guys with guns in their hands.”

  “Have you got a gun?”

  “No,” I said, “and I’m only one man, but it’s high time I found a couple of mean streets to walk down. I want you to go downstairs, Millicent.”

  “And leave you and Raffles here?”

  “You can take Raffles with you,” I said. “The main thing is I want you to get them all in one room.”

  “Which room?”

  “The library,” I said. “That’s where it all started. That’s where it should end.”

  CHAPTER

  Twenty-five

  They were all in the library.

  I don’t know how she managed it, but somehow she’d rounded them all up. They perched on chairs and sofas, stood propped against walls and bookshelves, or huddled in twos and threes to talk, probably wondering why she’d summoned them all there.

  Which could have been my opening line. “I suppose you’re wondering why she summoned you all here,” I might very well have said.

  But I didn’t. I just walked across the threshold and took note of their reactions.

  And they damn well reacted. Their eyes widened, their jaws dropped, and a few of them went a shade or two paler. Miss Dinmont’s hands tightened their grip on the arms of her wheelchair, Mrs. Colibri clutched at a bookcase for support, and Colonel Blount-Buller’s upper lip lost a little of its stiffness. There was a fair amount of gasping, but no one actually said anything, until Lettice Littlefield cried out, “Bernie! Is it really you?”

  “In the flesh,” I said, and pinched myself. “See? You’re not dreaming, and I’m not a ghost.”

  “But you were—”

  “Down at the bottom of the gully, creased with a kris,” I said. “Except I wasn’t, not really. And one reason I burst in on you like this was to see which dog didn’t bark.”

  That got some stares of incomprehension. “‘Silver Blaze,’” I explained. “What Holmes found significant was that the dog didn’t bark. Well, if somebody didn’t twitch or gape or go pale at my appearance, it meant he wasn’t surprised. And who would be unsurprised to find me still alive? The person who knew I wasn’t dead. And who would know that better than the man who didn’t kill me?”

  “Well said,” the colonel allowed, and a couple of heads nodded their approval of my logic.

  Then Leona Savage said, “I didn’t kill you.”

  “Huh? No, of course you didn’t, and—”

  “I didn’t kill you,” she insisted, “but I was surprised to see you here, because I saw what I took to be you at the bottom of the gull
y and consequently thought you were dead. I’m not the man who didn’t kill you, but I’m certainly one of the persons who didn’t kill you, and I was surprised nonetheless. It’s a good thing I didn’t have a heart attack.”

  “An excellent thing,” I agreed, “and I’m sorry to have shocked you, but—”

  “In fact,” she pressed on, “nobody here killed you, because you’re still very much alive. So I don’t see—”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Leona,” Greg Savage said. “You always do that.”

  “I always do what?”

  “That,” he said, with feeling if not with precision. “You know what he means, or you ought to. Somebody in this room is a killer. He killed Rathburn and Orris and the cook, and most recently he killed Gordon Wolpert. And the rest of us all assumed he’d killed Rhodenbarr here as well. But the killer, whoever he is, knew he hadn’t killed Rhodenbarr.”

  “Because it’s the sort of thing a person would remember,” Bettina Colibri said softly.

  “And consequently he wouldn’t be surprised,” I said. “But I got a look at all your faces, and you all looked surprised.”

  “I knew it,” Cissie Eglantine said, her countenance transformed. “We’re innocent, each and every one of us. It was some nasty old tramp after all.”

  Nigel sighed, and I don’t suppose he was the only one.

  “It’s not that simple,” I said. “For one thing, even if the killer knew I was alive, he wouldn’t necessarily expect me to turn up as abruptly as I did. Carolyn knew I was alive, because I’d told her what I was planning. But I got a look at her face a minute ago, and she looked almost as surprised as the rest of you.”

  “Well, you startled me, Bern.”

  “I startled everybody,” I said. “That’s fair enough, because I was startled myself when I found out about Gordon Wolpert a few minutes ago. And I’m afraid I’m not done startling you.”

  Miss Dinmont said she hoped there wasn’t going to be more in the way of excitement. Dakin Littlefield rolled his eyes and muttered something unintelligible to his bride. Muttering seemed to be the order of the day, until Carolyn called out, “Quiet, everybody! He knows who did it. Don’t you, Bern?”

  “Did I? I wanted to hedge, to equivocate, to waffle.

  “Yes,” I said firmly. “I know who did it.”