The Burglar in the Library

  “You should have pointed that out to the colonel. Don’t you love the way he talks? I guess that’s what you call a pukka sahib accent.”

  “I guess so.”

  “If he were any more English,” she said, “he couldn’t talk at all. This is great, Bern. It’s not just that Cuttleford House is something straight out of an English mystery. The guests could have stepped right out of the pages themselves. The colonel’s perfect in that respect. He could be Jane Marple’s neighbor, recently retired to St. Mary Mead after a career shooting people in India.”

  “People and springboks,” I said.

  “And those two women we met in the Sewing Room. Miss Dinmont and Miss Hardesty. The frail Miss Dinmont and the outgoing Miss Hardesty.”

  “If you say so,” I said. “I couldn’t keep them straight.”

  “Neither could God, Bern.”

  “Huh?”

  “Keep them straight.”

  “Oh. You figure they’re gay?”

  “If this were an English mystery,” she said, “instead of life itself, I’d go along with the pretense that Miss Dinmont is a wealthy invalid and Miss Hardesty is her companion, and that’s all there is to the relationship.” She frowned. “Of course, in the last chapter it would turn out that the wheelchair’s just a prop, and Miss Dinmont would be capable of leaping around like a gazelle, or one of those other animals you got from the crossword puzzle. That’s because in the books things are never quite what they appear to be. In real life, things tend to be exactly what they appear to be.”

  “And they appear to be lesbians?”

  “Well, it doesn’t take x-ray vision, does it? Hardesty’s your typical backslapping butch, and Dinmont’s one of those passive-aggressive femme numbers. If you want to remember which is which, incidentally, try alliteration. Dim little Miss Dinmont and hearty horsey Miss Hardesty. As a matter of fact—”

  She broke off the sentence when a small force of nature burst into the room. We’d encountered her before in another room—don’t ask me which one—but then she’d been accompanied by her parents. Now she was all by herself.

  “Hello,” she said. “Have we met? I saw you both before, but I don’t believe we’ve been introduced. I’m Millicent Savage.”

  “I’m Bernie Rhodenbarr,” I said. “And this is Carolyn Kaiser.”

  “It’s ever so nice to meet you. Are you married?”

  “No,” Carolyn said. “Are you?”

  “Of course not,” Millicent said. “I’m just a little girl. That’s why I can get away with asking impertinent questions. Guess how old I am.”

  “Thirty-two,” Carolyn said.

  “Seriously,” the child said.

  “I hate guessing games,” Carolyn said. “You’re really going to make me guess? Oh, all right. Ten.”

  “That’s your guess? Ten?” She turned to me. “How about you, Bernie?”

  “Ten,” I said.

  “She already guessed ten.”

  “Well, it’s my guess, too. How old are you, Millicent?”

  “Ten,” she said.

  “Then we got it right,” Carolyn said.

  “You got it right. He just tagged along.”

  “You’re disappointed that we guessed your age, aren’t you?”

  “Most people think I’m older.”

  “That’s because you’re precocious. That probably makes them guess you’re twelve or thirteen, but if you were you wouldn’t be precocious, and you obviously are. So that would make you about ten, and that’s what I guessed, and I was right.”

  She looked at Carolyn. She was a pretty child, with straight blond hair and Delft-blue eyes and a crescent-shaped half-inch scar on her chin. “Is that what you do?” she wanted to know. “Do you work in a carnival guessing people’s age?”

  “It’d be a good sideline,” Carolyn said, “but it’s a tough business to break into. I’m a canine stylist.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I have a dog-grooming salon.”

  “That sounds super. What’s your favorite breed of dog?”

  “I suppose Yorkies.”

  “Why? Appearance or disposition?”

  “Size,” she said. “There’s less to wash.”

  “I never thought of that.” She turned to me. “What about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “What do you do? Are you a canine stylist too?”

  I shook my head. “I’m a burglar.”

  That got her giggling. “A burglar,” she said. “What kind of a burglar? A cat burglar?”

  “That’s the best kind.”

  “Well, there’s a cat here,” she said, “just waiting for somebody to burgle him. But I’m afraid his tail has already been stolen.”

  “It’s our cat,” I said.

  “Is it really? Is he a Manx?” I nodded. “I’ve never actually seen a Manx before,” she said. “Did you get him on the Isle of Man?”

  “Close. The Isle of Manhattan.”

  “And they let you bring him here? I didn’t know you were allowed to bring pets.”

  “He’s not a pet,” Carolyn said. “He’s an employee.”

  “At Carolyn’s salon,” I said quickly. “Burglars don’t have employees, human or feline. But there are a lot of supplies at the salon, and the mice were getting into all sorts of things. It’s Raffles’s job to put a stop to that.”

  If Raffles was a working cat, she demanded, then why wasn’t he on the job now, guarding the stock from rodent damage? I told her I’d wondered about that myself.

  “He needs company,” Carolyn said. “We won’t get back until late Sunday, or possibly not until Monday. How would you like it if your parents left you home alone that long?”

  “I wouldn’t mind.”

  “Well, you’re not a cat,” Carolyn said. Millicent agreed that she wasn’t, and I asked her what she did for a living.

  This elicited another burst of giggles. “I don’t do anything,” she said. “I’m a little girl.”

  “Are you English?”

  “No, I’m American. We live in Boston.”

  “You sound English.”

  “Do I?” She beamed. “It’s an affection.”

  “You mean an affectation.”

  “Yes, of course that’s what I meant. But I have an affection for England, too. I must have been English in a past life. Do you know who I think I was?”

  “Not a scullery maid, I’ll bet.”

  “Lady Jane Grey,” she said. “Or possibly Anne Boleyn. They were both queens, you know.” She leaned forward, eyes narrowed. “And they were both put to death,” she said.

  “Well, I certainly don’t think—”

  “Oh, that was then and this is now,” she said airily. “But I love to watch Masterpiece Theatre, and all the other English programs on PBS, and I get yelled at in school all the time for spelling words like ‘colour’ and ‘harbour’ with a U, and ‘programme’ with two M’s and an E. I think it looks ever so much nicer that way, don’t you?”

  “I don’t think there’s any question about it,” Carolyn said.

  “And I love coming here,” Millicent went on. “This is our third time at Cuttleford House. I have my own room this time. I’m in Uncle Roger’s Room. That’s right near you, because you’re in Aunt Augusta’s.”

  “How did you happen to know that?”

  “Oh, I know everything,” she said. “People tell me things. I know you’re a burglar, Bernie, and I bet nobody else here knows that.”

  “Maybe it could be our little secret,” Carolyn suggested.

  She mimed locking her lips with a key. “My lips are sealed,” she said, “and only Bernie can pick the lock. And if I’m locked out of Uncle Roger’s Room, you can let me in. Except I shan’t be.” She lifted a string encircling her neck to show a key dangling from it. “I’ve never stayed in Aunt Augusta’s Room. The first time I came here all three of us were in the Vicar’s Upstairs Parlour. It’s the largest sleeping room of all
, the one with three beds. How many beds do you have?”

  “One at the most,” Carolyn said.

  “The last time we came the Vicar’s was taken, and they were going to put us in Poor Miss McTavish’s, but it was too small. My father said he drew the line at that, and my mother said perhaps it was time I had my own room. Do you know what I said?”

  “You probably said that was jolly good.”

  “How did you know? Anyway, Nigel put Mummy and Daddy in Lucinda’s Room, and I had Poor Miss McTavish’s all to myself.”

  “Why do they call it that?” Carolyn wanted to know. “Is it the room that’s poor, or Miss McTavish?”

  “I think it must be Miss McTavish,” the child said, “because it’s a perfectly lovely room. The walls are bright yellow and it’s very cheery. Miss McTavish must be the governess, don’t you think? Someone must have broken her heart.”

  “The butler,” Carolyn suggested.

  “He’s a bounder,” Millicent agreed. “Or a cad. Is there a difference between a bounder and a cad?” Neither of us knew. “Well, whichever he is,” she said, “he’s certainly a bad hat. And Poor Miss McTavish—”

  She broke off when a woman darted into the room, looking a little harried. “There you are,” she said. “Millicent, I’ve been looking all over for you. It’s time you were off to bed.”

  “I’m not tired, Mummy.”

  “You’re never tired,” Mrs. Savage said, aggrieved. One sensed she was often tired herself, and that it was largely Millicent’s fault. She sighed, and became aware of our existence. “I hope she hasn’t been driving the two of you nuts,” she said. “She’s really a pretty good little kid, except when she decides she’s Mary, Queen of Scots.”

  “Oh, Mummy. Not Mary, Queen of Scots.” She rolled her eyes. “Mummy, this is Bernie and Carolyn. They have Aunt Augusta’s Room.”

  “That’s a nice room, isn’t it? It’s nice to meet you both. I’m Leona Savage. My husband Greg’s here somewhere, but don’t ask me where.”

  We said we were pleased to meet her. “They’re very nice,” Millicent announced. “Carolyn’s a canine stylist. And you’ll never guess what Bernie does.”

  “I’ll never guess what a canine stylist is, either, I’m afraid.”

  “She grooms dogs, Mummy. Especially Yorkies, because there’s less to wash. And Bernie’s a burglar.”

  “That was going to be our little secret,” I reminded her.

  “Oh, Mummy wouldn’t tell anyone. Would you, Mummy?”

  CHAPTER

  Seven

  Our next stop was the library. I’d already seen a picture of it in the brochure, but you know what they say about the Grand Canyon. Nothing prepares you for it.

  It was an enormous room, with built-in floor-to-ceiling bookshelves running the length of it and a wall of windows opposite. There was a fireplace at one end, with various savage-looking tribal weapons mounted above it and a bookcase on either side. At the room’s other end, a carved Jacobean table held magazines and newspapers; above it, a Mercator-projection map was mounted on the wall. It showed all of Britain’s crown colonies and dominions and protectorates in pink, and it dated from a time when the sun never set thereon.

  A lectern displayed an opened copy of the Oxford Universal Dictionary, while another showed a National Geographic atlas some fifty years more recent than the map. A two-tiered bookcase on casters held an eleventh edition of the Britannica. Other tables and chairs and sofas were strategically positioned around the room, with good reading light wherever you might happen to sit. A vast oriental covered most of the wide-board pine floor, with area rugs and runners helping out where needed.

  I just stood there and stared. I have been in a lot of magnificent rooms, including more than a few fine private libraries. Sometimes I have been present by invitation, and other times I have turned up on my own, without the owner’s permission and much to his chagrin. I have found it difficult to leave some of those rooms, wanting to extend my stay as long as I possibly could, but this was different.

  I wanted to steal the whole room. I wanted to wrap it up in a magic carpet—perhaps the very one beneath my feet; it looked entirely capable of having magical properties—and whisk it back to New York, where I could install it with a snap of my fingers on the top floor, say, of an Art Deco apartment building on Central Park South. Drop-dead views of the park through that wall of windows, and a gentle north light that wouldn’t fade the carpet or the spines of the books…

  I wouldn’t need anything else. No bedroom. I’d sleep sitting up in one of the chairs, nodding off over a leather-bound Victorian novel. No kitchen, either. I’d pick up something at the deli around the corner. A bathroom would be handy, though I could make do with one down the hall if I had to, even as we were doing this weekend.

  Give me that room, though, and I could be perfectly happy.

  I said as much to Carolyn, said it in a whisper to avoid disturbing the older woman reading Trollope on the green velvet sofa or the intense dark-haired gentleman scribbling away at the leather-topped writing desk. She was not surprised.

  “Of course you could,” she said. “This room’s gotta be twice the size of your whole apartment. Forget my little rathole. You could just about lose my apartment in that fireplace.”

  “It’s not just the size.”

  “It’s pretty nice,” she agreed. “And look at all those books. You think one of them’s the one you’re looking for?”

  “One at the most.”

  “That was my line, Bern. When Millie asked how many beds we’ve got in Aunt Augusta’s Room.”

  “You figure she likes being called Millie?”

  “She probably hates it,” she said, “but she’s not here, and anyway I’m whispering. Bernie, don’t look now, but that man is staring at me. See?”

  “How can I see? You just said not to look.”

  “Well, you can look now. He’s not doing it anymore.”

  “Then why look if there’s nothing to see?” I looked anyway, at the fellow at the writing desk. He looked as though he’d stepped out of a Brontë novel and might at any moment step out of Cuttleford House as well, flinging his scarf around his neck and striding across the moors. Except that he wasn’t wearing a scarf, and there weren’t any moors in the neighborhood.

  “I think he was just staring off into space,” I said. “Trying to think of le mot juste, and you happened to be where his eyes landed.”

  “I suppose so. Incidentally, are you out of your mind?”

  “Probably. What makes you ask?”

  “I was just wondering what possessed you to tell little Princess Margaret that you’re a burglar.”

  “Not Princess Margaret.”

  “Bern—”

  “Lady Jane Grey,” I said. “Or Anne Boleyn.”

  “Who cares? The point is—”

  “I get the point.”

  “So?”

  “I almost slipped,” I said. “I almost let out what I really am.”

  “What you really…”

  “I almost said I was a bookseller.”

  “But fortunately you caught yourself at the last minute and told her you were a burglar.”

  “Right.”

  “Am I missing something here?”

  “Think about it,” I said.

  She did, and after a long moment light dawned. “Oh,” she said.

  “Right.”

  “There’s a million books in the damn house,” she said, “and most of them are old, and some of them are sure to be rare. And if they knew there was a bookseller in their midst—”

  “They’d be on guard,” I said. “At the very least.”

  “Whereas knowing they’ve got a burglar on the premises gives them a nice cozy warm feeling.”

  “I didn’t want to say ‘bookseller’,” I said, “and I had to do something quick, and I wanted to stay with the same initial.”

  “Why? Monogrammed luggage?”

  “My lips were alr
eady forming a B.”

  “‘A butcher, a baker, a bindlestaff maker.’ All of them start with B, Bernie, and they all sound more innocent than ‘burglar.’”

  “I know.”

  “It’s a good thing her lips are sealed.”

  “Yeah, right. She already told Mummy. But you don’t think Mummy believed it, do you?”

  “She thought you were joking with the kid.”

  “And so will anyone else she happens to tell. As far as that goes, do you really think Millicent thought I’d come here to steal the spoons? She assumed it was a gag and she was happy to go along with it. When anyone presses the point, I’ll let it be known that you and I work together at the Poodle Factory. What’s the matter?”

  “Bern, don’t take this the wrong way, but I never had a partner and I never will.”

  “It’s just a story to let out, Carolyn.”

  “I mean it’s not much, the Poodle Factory, but it’s mine, you know?”

  “So I’m your employee. Is that better?”

  “A little bit. The thing is, what do you know about washing dogs? I’m the last person to compare it to rocket science, but it’s like any other trade. There’s a lot of information involved, and if you should happen to come up against a pet owner who’s familiar with what goes on at a dog-grooming salon, it might blow your cover.”

  “I’m just helping out,” I said. “I lost my job, and now I’m helping you at the salon while I wait for something to open up in my own field.”

  “And what’s that, Bern?”

  “I’ll think of something, okay?”

  “Hey, don’t bite my head off, Bernie.”

  “Sorry.”

  “You know what’s funny?”

  “Hardly anything.”

  “Bern—”

  “What’s funny?”

  “Well,” she said, “remember when you bought Barnegat Books from Mr. Litzauer? You were a big reader, and you always liked books, and you figured owning a bookstore would be a good front. You could pretend to be a bookseller while you went on breaking into houses.”

  “So?”

  “So now you’re pretending to be a burglar,” she said, “while you chase around after old books. Don’t you think that’s funny?”