Lawrence Block - The Burglar in the Library

“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.

It was around seven in the morning when Carolyn Kaiser awakened. Her eyes barely open, she put on a robe and walked down the hall to the bathroom. It was on her return to the bedroom that she noticed that the bed was empty.

“Hey, Bern,” she said. “Where’d you go?”

She glanced at the wooden chair where her friend had hung the clothes he’d been wearing the night before. It was empty. She got dressed herself and went out into the hallway again, where she saw Bettina Colibri a few doors down fitting a key into a lock.

“Have you seen Bernie?” she demanded.

“Bernie? Your uh friend?”

“Yeah, my uh friend. Bernie Rhodenbarr. Have you seen him?”

“I haven’t seen anybody,” the woman said. “I’m just on my way down to breakfast now. If there’s actually going to be breakfast, in the absence of the cook.”

“I don’t care about breakfast,” Carolyn said. “I’m just worried about Bernie.”

“Why, for heaven’s sake?”

“Why? Because he’s my best friend in the world, that’s why.”

“And friendship is a wonderful thing,” Mrs. Colibri said, “but what possible cause have you to worry? If he’s not in your room he’s very likely gone downstairs himself.”

“I hope you’re right.”

She hurried downstairs, and her state of mind was evident, because everyone she met asked her if something was the matter. “I’m trying to find Bernie,” she told them all. “I don’t know where he is and I’m worried.”

Downstairs, she made her way from room to room. Bernie Rhodenbarr was nowhere to be found. She checked the Breakfast Room, the Morning Room, the Great Library, the various parlors. She inquired of everyone she encountered.

No one mentioned having seen Bernie Rhodenbarr, not since the previous evening. No one had any idea where he might be.

“Maybe he got the hell out,” Dakin Littlefield suggested. “Which is what my wife and I are planning to do as soon as our breakfast has had time to settle. That’s what I told him I was planning yesterday, and maybe it gave him an idea.”

“He wouldn’t do that,” Carolyn insisted. “And he certainly wouldn’t leave without saying anything to me.”

“Well, you know him better than I do,” Littlefield said, with the sort of smirk on his face that suggested she didn’t really know Rhodenbarr well at all.

A more systematic search of the downstairs, wth others lending a hand, was no more successful. Colonel Blount-Buller was clearly troubled by Rhodenbarr’s disappearance, although his temperament was such that he showed far less agitation than Carolyn Kaiser. “You’re quite right,” he told her. “Rhodenbarr’s a level-headed chap. It’s not like him to disappear this way, without a word anyone.”

“I’m afraid,” Carolyn said.

“In the ordinary course of things,” Blount-Buller said, “there’d be no reason to suspect foul play. But in the present circumstances, with three suspicious deaths already-”

“Oh, no,” she cried. “Not Bernie!”

“He’s so alive,” Lettice Littlefield said. “I can’t imagine him being-”