Lawrence Block - The Burglar in the Library

“What?”

“The crease.”

“The crease? Oh-” I drew a wavy line in the air. “The kris.”

“That’s what I said.”

“I know. What about it?”

“If I stabbed somebody,” she said, “I don’t think I would drag him all the way to the edge of the cliff and push him over. And if he was already standing at the edge I wouldn’t stab him first, I’d just push him in. And if I did stab him for some reason, and then I wanted to throw him in to make it look like he fell, I’d remove the kris and hang it up on the wall again.”

“I guess the kris was overkill.”

“I just kept thinking about it,” Millicent said, “and I started thinking maybe that was you under the bed after all. And then I thought maybe it was a ghost under the bed. Do you ever have times when the more you think about something, the more confusing it gets?”

“Boy, do I ever.”

“After everybody came back to the house, I waited until nobody was paying attention. And I came upstairs and I put my ear to the door of this room and listened real hard.”

“What did you hear?”

“Nothing.”

“Oh.”

“I was too scared to open the door. So I went down the hall to my room and sat in the doorway and watched. I can be very patient.”

“An uncommon trait in one so young.”

“Well, I can. And I was watching when you stuck your head out, and I quick drew back so you wouldn’t see me. But I saw you hurry down the hall to the bathroom.”

“And not a moment too soon,” I recalled.

“I was pretty sure it was you and not a ghost. You know why?”

“Why?”

“Ghosts don’t have to go to the bathroom.”

“Sure they do.”

“They do not.”

“They most certainly do. Haven’t you ever gotten a package in the mail? And when you opened it up, did it have some packing material to keep it from getting broken?”

“So?”

“Little white stuff the size of your thumb,” I said. “You probably were told it was Styrofoam.”

“It is Styrofoam.”

“Nope.”

“Then what is it?”

“Ghost turds.”

I thought that would get a laugh, but all she did was roll her eyes. “ Anyway, ” she said heavily, “Raffles came along while you were in the bathroom, and I figured he would know.”

“If I was a ghost or not.”

“Right. So I grabbed him and brought him with me and came in here. At first we were both under the bed, but when you opened the door he trotted out to see what was going on. Can I ask a question?”

“I don’t see how I could stop you.”

“Why are you pretending to be dead?”

“Because I’m going to trap the killer.”

“Do you know who it is?”

“I think so, yes.”

“Tell me!”

I shook my head. “Not now,” I said. “But there’s something you’ve got to tell me.”

“What? I don’t know anything.”

“You know who the latest victim is.”

“It’s you,” she said, “or at least it’s supposed to be. Down at the bottom of the gully.”

“That’s just smoke and mirrors,” I said.

“Smoke and mirrors?”

“Well, clothes and pillows. It wasn’t really me down there, Millicent, and it wasn’t anybody else, either.”

“I know.”

“But there was a real Latest Victim,” I said. “On one of those lawn chairs out behind the house. There was Jonathan Rathburn and there was the cook, and there was a third victim on a third chair.”

“So?”

“So tell me who it was.”

Light dawned. “You don’t know,” she said. “Everybody thinks you know because everybody thinks you killed him, or at least they did until it turned out that you were dead, too. But you didn’t kill him, even if you don’t happen to be dead yourself, and…”

“Right.”

“So you don’t know.”

“But I will,” I said, “as soon as you tell me.”

She looked at me.

“What’s the matter?”

“I know who got killed,” she said, giving it a sort of singsong cadence, “and you don’t. And you know who the killer is, and I don’t.”

“Time to strike a deal, huh?”

She nodded solemnly.

“Okay,” I said. “You tell me who was on the chair, and I’ll tell you who put him there.”

“‘Him’?”

“You mean it was a woman?”

“Maybe,” she said. “Maybe it was a woman and maybe it was a man. That’s for me to know.”

“And for me to find out,” I finished, “and the way I’ll find out is by you telling me.”

“And then you’ll tell me who did it.”

“Right.”

“Okay,” she said.

“It’s a deal?”

She nodded. “It’s a deal.”

“So?”

“So what?”

“So tell me.”

She frowned. “I think you should go first.”

“Why? Don’t you trust me?”

She didn’t say anything, which was answer enough. I could have gone first, but if she didn’t trust me, why should I trust her? I dug out my wallet, looked for scraps of paper, and wound up drawing out a pair of dollar bills. I gave one of them to Millicent.

“In the space alongside Washington ’s portrait,” I said. “Just print the victim’s name there, and I’ll do the same with the killer’s name.”

“I think it’s against the law to write on money.”

“If they arrest you for it,” I said, “tell them it was my idea. No cheating, now. No writing ‘Mickey Mouse’ to fake me out. Okay?”

“I wouldn’t do that.”

“Sure you would,” I said, “and so would I, but not today. Deal?” She nodded, and I printed the name of my favorite suspect, shielding the action from view with my left hand. When I finished I folded the bill, folded it again, and held it out to the child. With my other hand I took hold of the bill she was offering, similarly folded. Our eyes locked, and she counted to three, and at once we completed the exchange.

I unfolded the bill, looked at what she’d written. I looked at Millicent, and found her looking back at me.

“You’re sure of this?”

She nodded, her eyes enormous. “I thought it was going to be you,” she said, “but it was him instead.”

“Gordon Wolpert. With the tweed jackets and the elbow patches and…”

“That’s him.”

“And he was dead.” I frowned. “Do you suppose it was accidental? Maybe he was overcome with remorse and he pulled up a chair to sit next to the two people he’d killed, and before he knew it he’d fallen asleep and frozen to death.”

She gave me a look. “Anyway,” she said, “there were marks on his neck. They said he’d been strangled.”

“Strangled.

“Did anybody look at his eyes? I wonder if he had pinpoint hemorrhages. But maybe you only get those if somebody smothers you. Wait a minute. Strangled? Maybe he hanged himself. Maybe he was overcome with remorse”-I seemed attached to the phrase-“and he hanged himself from a beam or something, and-”

“And what?”

“And cut himself down and went outside and sat on a lawn chair with a blanket over him. Never mind. Gordon Wolpert, for God’s sake. You’re sure it was him? Of course you’re sure.”

“And you’re sure he was the killer?”

“Well, no,” I said. “I was a few minutes ago. Now I’m not sure of anything.”

I got to my feet, crossed to the chest of drawers, and picked up a book I’d been reading earlier, holding it as though absorbing its essence might somehow empower me. Gordon Wolpert, who I’d somehow managed to convince myself was a multiple murderer, had in turn managed to persuade someone else to murder him.

I opened a drawer, put the book inside. I opened the closet door, got a whiff of Rathburn’s shoes, and closed it again.