Lawrence Block - The Burglar in the Library

I eased the door open a crack and took a look-see. I couldn’t spot anybody, and the only sounds of human activity I could make out were a floor away. I opened the door a little farther and scanned the long hall. I caught a trace of movement out of the corner of my eye, and that might have inspired more in the way of reconnaissance at a less urgent moment, but I couldn’t wait. I rushed down the hall to the bathroom, darted inside, and, well, let’s for God’s sake draw the curtain on the next several moments, shall we?

Thanks. I feel better already.

I’d closed the bedroom door when I left it, but of course I hadn’t wasted time locking it, so I didn’t have to waste time unlocking it on my return. I slipped inside, heaved a great sigh, and slid the bolt across. Then I sat down once again on the edge of the bed and tried to remember what I’d been thinking about before Nature had called.

Timing, that was part of it. And some of the details about the string of murders. A thought came along and I frowned at it, trying to pin it down and think it through. I was getting somewhere in the old ratiocination process, it seemed to me, and then Raffles brushed against my ankle and began purring, and my train of thought was shunted off on a sidetrack.

I patted my lap, a clear invitation for him to spring up, but he didn’t seem to notice. His purring picked up in volume, and he was really busy rubbing his head against my ankles, which meant either that he was damned glad to see me or that his ear itched and this was the best way he could think of to scratch it.

Of course, I thought, the two possibilities were not mutually exclusive. He could have an itching ear and still entertain a feeling of abiding affection for the chap who kept him in Meow Mix. For my part, I was pleased to discover that I was glad to see him. So I reached down and scooped him up and plopped him down on my lap, where he continued to purr up a storm.

“Good old Raffles,” I said aloud, and gave him a scratch behind the ear. “Didn’t see much of you last night. How’d you get through the hours?”

He didn’t answer, but then he never does. But I went on looking at him and petting him, and another far more unsettling question came to me.

How the hell did he get in the room?

He would have had to come in while I was in the john down the hall. Because he certainly hadn’t been in the room before then, and here he was, big as life.

But how did he do it?

Simple-he followed me home. He was in the hallway when I finished up in the bathroom. I hadn’t noticed him because I wasn’t looking at the floor when I scanned the area, being on the lookout for a taller specimen.

Could he have done that? Scooted in right behind me without my noticing?

No, I decided. I would have noticed.

He couldn’t have managed it when I first eased the door open a crack, either, or when I let myself out. And then I’d closed the door.

Could I have unwittingly left it slightly ajar? If so, he could have come on in. But it had definitely been closed when I came back. He wouldn’t have closed it, let alone slammed it with enough force to make it click shut.

Why was I making so much of this? The steps were clear. A-I leave the room, thinking I’ve closed the door but failing to engage the latch. B-Raffles, finding the door ajar, enters. C-An air current closes the door again, and makes a better job of it than I had done. D-I return, find the door closed, which is how I incorrectly believe I’ve left it. E-I enter, close the door, fasten the bolt, and am subsequently bewildered to find myself with a cat on my lap.

I decided it was possible. Not too probable, however. Then I remembered the old dictum about ruling out everything that was strictly impossible. If you did that, whatever possibility remained, however improbable, had to be the truth.

Had I ruled out every other possibility?

A chill came over me, along with an awareness of a possibility I had not ruled out, because I hadn’t thought of it. I took a deep breath and let it out, and I sent my eyes on as much of a tour of the room as they could manage without moving my head. And then I said, in what was supposed to be a forceful but low-pitched voice, “Now would be a good time to come out of the closet.”

There was no response, not even from Raffles.

“I mean it,” I said, wondering if I did. “You can come out of the closet now.”

“No I can’t,” came the reply, in a small high-pitched voice. “I’m under the bed.”

And then she giggled, the imp. I stood up. Raffles sprang forward involuntarily when my lap disappeared, landing predictably enough on all four feet and giving me a look. And, even as I had done a while earlier, out from under the bed crawled the improbable person of Millicent Savage.

“You’re not a ghost,” she said. “At least I don’t think you are. Are you?”

I considered the question. “No,” I said. “I’m not.”

“Would you tell me if you were?”

“That’s hard to say,” I admitted. “Who knows what a ghost would do?”

“Not me,” she said. “I don’t even know if I believe in them. And when I saw you in the hallway I didn’t think you were a ghost.”

“How come?”

“I didn’t think you were dead. In fact I thought you were right here, in Young George’s Room. You know what my father calls it? ‘Boy George’s Room.’”

“He’s probably not the only one. How come you didn’t think I was dead?”

“Because I saw you under the bed.”

“You did?”

She nodded. “When Mr. Littlefield wanted to open the closet door, and Carolyn didn’t want him to. At least I thought I saw you under the bed. I saw something under the bed, but I couldn’t be sure what it was unless I got down on all fours and checked, and I couldn’t do that because my father was holding my hand.”

“Good for him,” I said.

“Then Mr. Littlefield opened the door,” she went on, “and there was nobody there. And I almost said something.”

“I’m glad you didn’t.”

“‘Look under the bed,’ I almost said. But I didn’t want to help Mr. Littlefield. I don’t like him.”

“Neither do I.”

“And besides,” she said, “how could I be sure it was you?”

“It could have been anybody.”

“I wasn’t even sure it was a person.”

“That’s a point. It could have been a monster.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Well, maybe a troll,” I said.

“They live under bridges,” she said. “ Not under beds.”

“I stand corrected.”

“When there was an extra body on one of the chairs behind the house,” she said, “I thought it was you, and I was positive I made a mistake thinking I saw you under the bed. But then it wasn’t you, it was someone you killed, and…”

“I didn’t kill anybody.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“Because everybody thinks…”

“I know what everybody thinks. I didn’t kill anybody.”

“Not ever? Not in your whole life?”

“Well,” I said, “I’m still young.”

She giggled. “I believe you,” she said, “because you say funny things. I don’t think a murderer would say funny things, do you?”

“No,” I said, “and neither would a ghost.”

She thought that over, shrugged. “Anyway,” she said, “it turned out you were dead after all. Somebody stabbed you and threw your body off the cliff. I wasn’t supposed to look, but I did.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“Well? Did it look convincing?”

“I didn’t get a very good look,” she said. “I guess it looked like a body, and somebody recognized the clothes. But you know what I kept thinking about?”