Lawrence Block - The Burglar in the Library

“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?”

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.”