The Burglar in the Library

CHAPTER Twenty

“I’m not surprised,” I said. “I don’t really want to talk about it, to tell you the truth, but I can’t say I’m surprised.”

“I don’t suppose it’s really very important, Bern. With people getting killed left and right, a rare book doesn’t seem all that significant. But the idea that it could just disappear like that…”

“You’re right,” I said. “It’s not important.”

We were in our bedroom, and I didn’t want to talk about The Big Sleep, so I asked about Molly Cobbett. Carolyn’s expression turned wistful.

“She’s sweet,” she said, “and she’s full of stories about this part of the country, and about the Cobbetts clear back to Revolutionary War days. But I guess she’s more innocent than I thought, Bern.”

“You mean she’s only been sleeping with boy cousins?”

“That’s about it. Remember how I told you she was looking at me before? Well, I’m beginning to get the sense that she just stares that way at everybody. It’s what passes for manners in Cobbett country.”

“So I guess you won’t be sneaking off in the middle of the night to pay a visit the servants’ quarters.”

“Only in my dreams,” she said, and grinned. “And if tonight’s dream is half as good as last night’s, I won’t have anything to complain about.”

Getting ready for bed wasn’t all that much of a problem. Occasionally on a late night one of us stays over at the other’s apartment, and the business of changing to sleep-wear isn’t all that awkward, even in close quarters. It was being in the same bed together that was strange, and stranger still for my recollection of her dream of the night before.

I sat up and read, willing Evelyn Waugh to take my mind off pretty much everything it was on, and Carolyn sat beside me reading a book of her own, and I wondered who’d be first to switch off the bedside lamp. And then, of course, there was the sound of scratching at the door.

“Raffles,” she said.

“I’m afraid you’re right.”

“You want to let him in?”

“If we let him in,” I said, “we’ll just have to let him out.”

“Can’t we just leave the door open? That’s what we did last night.”

“Sure,” I said. “In a house where three people have been murdered so far.”

“You think a locked door could keep a murderer away?”

“I’d prefer a clove of garlic on a string,” I said, “but I don’t want to go all the way down to the kitchen at this hour. I don’t know if a locked door would keep anybody out who was really determined to get in, but an open door’s an invitation. ‘Here I am, murder me.’”

“Leave it locked, Bern. Maybe he’ll go away.”

Fat chance. The scratching was repeated half a dozen times in the next few minutes, and at that point I gave up and let him in. And left the door ajar.

He came in, made his rounds, nibbled some dried food, invited strokes and behind-the-ear scratches, and took his leave. I watched him go and stared for a long moment at the open door.

Then I went back to my book.

“ Bern? When I was in the kitchen with Molly? I thought I might learn something that would help us figure out who the killer is. But I didn’t get anywhere.”

I closed the book.

“I’m completely lost,” she said. “Stumped. And I guess you’re the same way, huh?”

“Not exactly,” I said.

“What do you mean? Don’t tell me you know who did it.”

“Well,” I admitted, “I sort of have an idea.”

“Well, for crying out loud, let’s hear it!”

I shook my head. “Not now,” I said.

“What do you mean, not now?”

“It’s just a hunch,” I said, “and I could be completely wrong. And I haven’t worked it all out in my mind yet.”

“So what? Bern, there’s nobody in the room but you and me. Nobody’s gonna sue you for slander.”

“I know.”

“So?”

I considered, then shook my head. “It wouldn’t be right.”

“ Bern!” She grabbed my arm. “Don’t you see what you’re doing? You’re refusing to act.”

“I am?”

“I’ve read hundreds of books,” she said, “where the detective does just what you’re doing. And he says the same kind of harebrained thing you just said, about how it’s too early to tell what he knows. And the next thing you know there’s another corpse on the floor, and he’s saying something like ‘Dash it all, it’s all my fault. I waited too long.’ And that’s what you’re doing, Bern. You’re waiting too long.”

“But it’s just a hunch,” I said, “and I’m probably wrong, and the puzzle’s still got too many pieces missing.”

“That’s what they all say.”

“And it’s the middle of the night.”

“That’s not what they all say. But what difference does it make?”

“Even if I’m right,” I said, “I can’t run out now and do anything about it. So what’s the point in talking about it?”

“For one thing, it’ll keep me from going crazy.”

“Maybe, but it would have been better if I hadn’t said anything in the first place.”

She shook her head. “You’ve got to tell me, Bernie. Suppose that creepy little kid is right and you get killed tonight. If you don’t tell anybody, your secret will die with you.” She held up her index finger, pointing at nothing in particular. “That’s another thing you read about all the time,” she said. “Somebody has it all worked out and won’t tell anybody, and then he’s the next victim.”

“I don’t want to be the next victim,” I said.

“Don’t even say it, Bern.”

“You’re the one who said it. You really think I’m in danger?”

“You might be. Anybody might be.”

“And you really think I’ll be safer if I tell you?”

“All I know,” she said, “is I’ll never be able to sleep unless you do.”

She was sleeping.

I’d been the first to turn out my bedside lamp, but I never even came close to dozing off. I lay there in the dark, listening to the creaking and groaning of the old house. I wasn’t any drowsier when Carolyn put her book aside and switched off her lamp, and I was still wide awake when her breathing slowed and deepened.

I was at least lost in thought, if not yet actually sleepy, when she stirred beside me and rolled over onto her side. Her arm reached out and draped itself over me, and she drew close, ready to start playing softball on the Field of Dreams.

Gently, gingerly, I disentangled myself and got quietly out of bed. Carolyn’s arm, deprived of a body to clutch, pawed at the air. I took the pillow I’d been using and slipped it into the circle of her embrace. She held off for a moment, as if weighing the pillow’s merits as a Molly Cobbett surrogate, then decided in its favor.

I dressed in the darkness, quickly and silently. The door, I noted, was still ajar, and the game was afoot.

I let myself out.