Lawrence Block - The Burglar in the Library

“Uh-huh. Except in this case Adam fell off and drowned, and the raft’s got a hole in the floorboards. So all that’s left is Eve, holding on for dear life.” She took a bite. “Not bad, though, I have to admit. Even if it’s not what I expected.”

“What did you expect?”

“I don’t know, Bern. Some exotic form of comfort food, I suppose, if that’s not a contradiction in terms. Like this black pudding.”

“It’s exotic comfort food, eh?”

“Well, kind of.” She lifted a forkful to her mouth, chewed thoughtfully. “Very simple,” she said, “but very tasty at the same time. And it’s black, all right, but it’s not like any pudding I ever tasted.”

“A far cry from Jell-O,” I said.

“They’ve got funny ideas about pudding, Bern. Look at Yorkshire pudding. I mean, it’s good, too, but you wouldn’t rush out and squirt Cool Whip on it, would you? Black pudding. What do you suppose they make it out of?”

“Blood.”

“Seriously, Bern.”

“I’m serious. ‘Blood sausage’ is another name for it.”

“I wish you hadn’t told me that, Bern.”

“Well, you asked.”

“That didn’t mean you had to tell me. At least now I know why they call it black pudding. If they called it blood sausage, no one would want any. What about the white pudding, Bern? What do they make that out of, lymph?” She frowned. “Don’t answer that. You want more kippers, Bern?”

“I think I’ve had my limit.”

“I guess I should just be grateful,” she said, “that they don’t use a real toad for toad-in-the-hole. Listen, if they serve us bubble and squeak, do me a favor, okay? If there’s something disgusting doing the bubbling and squeaking, keep it to yourself.”

“I think it’s leftover cabbage and potatoes.”

“That would be fine,” she said. “Just so it’s not recycled reptiles and rodents. Bern? Who do you figure killed Jonathan Rathburn?”

“How should I know?”

She shrugged. “I just thought you might have a hunch. That was pretty cool the way you proved it was murder, and found the two murder weapons and everything. Struck down with a camel, then smothered with a throw pillow. What a way to go, huh?”

“Uh-huh.”

“What’s the matter, Bern?”

“I was right there,” I said.

“So was I, Bern. So was everybody, at one time or another. You want to know something? All the time we were in there standing around Rathburn’s body, I couldn’t stop glancing up at the top shelf to see if The Big Sleep was still there.”

“It’s still there.”

“I know. And I didn’t want to stare at it, but I kept looking at it over and over. I don’t think anybody noticed. I hope they didn’t.”

“I think the dead body got most of their attention.”

“Yeah, and I wish I knew who killed him.” She frowned. “What do you mean, you were right there? You don’t mean just now.”

“No.”

“And you don’t mean last night, when we were both there.”

“No.”

“You mean you were there when he was killed? Bern, you didn’t…you couldn’t have…”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Then what do you mean? And why is the book still on the shelf? I thought you were going to get it last night. And how come-”

I filled her in quickly on the events of the previous night. When I told her about the interlude with Lettice in the East Parlour, her eyes widened and her jaw dropped. “My God,” she said. “Imagine doing something like that on your wedding night.”

“Lots of women do something like that on their wedding night,” I pointed out. “The thing is, most of them do it to their husbands.”

“But not Lettice.”

“I don’t know what she did upstairs with him,” I said. “I just know what she did downstairs with me.”

“You know,” she said, “I was watching her while you were explaining things in the library, and there was something about the way she was looking at you.”

“Oh?”

She nodded. “She looked like the cat that swallowed the cream.” She frowned. “Make that the cat that ate the canary, okay?”

“Whatever you say.”

“Anyway, she looked smug. I guess I know why. You know what, Bern? I think it’s something in the air.”

“In the air?”

“Last night. Some sex vibe or something. You wouldn’t believe the dream I had.”

“Oh?”

“Amazingly vivid. I could have sworn-” She broke off in midsentence and motioned to our waitress, who was in fact Molly Cobbett, the downstairs maid who had happened upon Rathburn’s corpse and awakened the house with a scream. “Say, Molly,” she purred, “do you suppose we could have a little more tea?”

“Why, of course you could, mum.”

“I’m Carolyn, Molly. And this is Bernie.”

“Very good, mum.”

We sat in silence while Molly poured our tea. As soon as she was out of earshot, Carolyn said, “She was in it.”

“Who was in what?”

“Molly. In my dream.”

“Oh.”

“You wouldn’t believe how real it was, Bern.”

“Yes I would.”

“You would? How come? You weren’t in the dream, Bernie. It was just Molly and me.” She made a face. “That sounds like a song cue, doesn’t it? ‘My Blue Heaven.’ Anyway, it was unbelievably hot. Now I want to blush every time I look at her.”

“She’s a country girl, Carolyn.”

“I know.”

“Pretty unsophisticated.”

“I realize that,” she said. “Her idea of eating out is a burger at the Dairy Queen. I know all that.” She pursed her lips. “But in the world of dreams,” she said, “the woman is hot hot hot. But I still don’t understand what you said before. About being there when it happened.”

For a moment I missed the transition, and I thought she meant that I was there when her dream-moment with Molly Cobbett took place. As indeed I was, but that was something she never had to know about.

Then I said, “Oh, when the murder took place. I wasn’t, not exactly.” And I explained how I’d been about to enter the darkened room when I’d heard two people whispering.

“It must have been Rathburn,” she said.

“One of them must have been Rathburn.”

“And the other was the man who killed him.”

“The man or woman.”

“Right, and now we’re back to he or she and his or hers. You think a woman could have done it?”

“I think anybody but Millicent Savage could have done it,” I said. “It wouldn’t take too much strength to hit a person hard enough with a bronze camel to knock him senseless and split his head open. A fatal blow might take more in the way of brute force, although an athletic woman like Miss Hardesty could probably supply as much sheer brute force as most of the men around here. But in this case the blow wasn’t fatal, and it may not have been all that hard. So I don’t think we can rule out anybody.”

“Except Millicent.”

“Well, it’d be a reach for a ten-year-old girl.”

“And Miss Dinmont.”

“What about Miss Dinmont?”

“Well, for openers, she’s in a wheelchair.” Her eyes widened. “Wait a minute, Bern. You don’t think…”

“I don’t think what?”

“That the wheelchair is a ruse? That she’s really physically fit? Is that what you think?”

“Why would I think that?”

“Because you’ve read Agatha Christie,” she said, “and you know that things are seldom what they seem in situations like this one. Bernie, you’ve got to do something. I hope you realize that.”

“I know what I have to do,” I said. “I have to get the book, which is going to be a neat trick with the library out of bounds. And I have to get out of here, which is impossible as long as we’re snowed in, and probably out of the question until the police send us home. So I can’t do either of the things I have to do, not for the time being. In that case, I know what I’m going to do.”