Lawrence Block - The Burglar in the Library

“So it is.”

“You hardly looked at those books, Bernie. You just scanned each shelf for a couple of seconds, and you knew what was there and what wasn’t.”

“Well, I’m in the business,” I said. “When you look at books day in and day out, you develop a knack.”

“Makes sense, Bern. I’m the same way with dogs.”

“And it’s easier,” I said, “when you know what you’re looking for. There’s just one book I’m looking for, so I don’t have to take a careful inventory of everything else. As soon as I know I’m not looking at Raymond Chandler, I can go on and look at something else.”

“Like a springbok,” she said. “If that’s what it was.”

“What else could it be?”

“You named a whole lot of other things, Bern. You didn’t want it to be a springbok. How’d you learn so much about African antelopes?”

“All I know about them I learned from crossword puzzles,” I said, “and that’s why I didn’t think it was a springbok. It’s nine letters long, for God’s sake. When’s the last time you saw a springbok in a crossword puzzle?”

“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?”