The Burglar in the Library (8 page)

“That’s how it starts, Bern.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Perfectly nice people, some of them slightly wacky, but all of them well-bred and well-spoken. Some of them may not be what they seem, and a couple of them have a dark secret in their past, and they’re isolated somewhere, and somebody gets killed. And then somebody says, ‘Oh, it must have been some passing tramp who did it, because otherwise it would have to have been one of us, and that’s plainly impossible because we’re all such nice people.’ But guess what, Bern?”

“It’s really one of them?”

“Every last time. And it’s not the butler, either.”

“Well, that part’s right,” I said, “because that’s where Cuttleford’s imitation of an English country house begins to break down. There’s no butler.”

“That doesn’t mean there won’t be a murder.”

“Sure it does,” I said. I closed the Mr. and Mrs. North mystery—hardcover, no dust jacket, spine shaky, some pages dog-eared—and put it back where I’d found it. “I haven’t got time for a murder, not to commit and not to solve. I’m tired. I want to turn in soon and sleep until the snow melts.”

“You can’t sleep, Bern.”

“Want to bet?”

“Even if you want to,” she said. “Remember? You’re going to be up all night. You’ve got a book to find.”

“That’s what you think.”

“You’re giving up? Well, I’m disappointed, but I can’t honestly say I blame you. It’d be like looking for a needle in a haystack, except it wouldn’t.”

“I see what you mean.”

“You do?”

“No.”

“Well, it’s the opposite of a needle in a haystack, isn’t it? It’s more like a needle in a needle stack. Not just any needle, but one particular needle in the midst of all the others.”

“A needlestack,” I said thoughtfully. “I don’t think I’ve ever come across one.”

“So? When’s the last time you saw a haystack?”

“I’m sure I wrote it down,” I said, “but I don’t have my notebook with me. What’s the point?”

“The point is every room is crawling with books, and the library alone has more volumes than you’ve got in your store, including the back room. So it may be an easy place to find something to read, but it’s an impossible place to find
something specific, even if it’s there to start with, which it probably isn’t.” She took a deep breath. “So I can understand why you’re abandoning the hunt.”

“Is that what I’m doing?”

“What else? I said you’ve got a book to find, and you said, ‘That’s what you think.’”

“Right.”

“Meaning you’re not going to bother looking.”

“Meaning I don’t have to look.”

She looked at me.

“Meaning I already found it,” I said. “So why shouldn’t I treat myself to a good night’s sleep?”

“The top shelf,” I said. “You see the section closest to the wall?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, it’s the section immediately to the right of it. See the one I mean?”

“I think so,” she whispered. “I don’t want to look directly at it.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want to arouse suspicion, Bern.”

“We’re in a library,” I said, as indeed we were, having gone there directly from the Morning Room. “Looking at books is a natural occupation in a room like this. And it’s a lot less suspicious to stare right at them than it is to glance furtively.”

“Is that what I was doing? Glancing furtively?”

“Well, it looked furtive to me. I don’t think it made any impression on anybody else because nobody else noticed.”

Not that we were alone. The two guests we’d seen earlier were gone. The intense man with long
dark hair who’d been writing letters (or ransom notes, or working out the square root of minus two, for all I knew) was nowhere to be seen, and the older woman (whom Gordon Wolpert had identified as a Mrs. Colibri, a widow of undetermined origin) had gone off as well, leaving
The Eustace Diamonds
on the table next to the couch. But two others had taken their place. Leona Savage, Millicent’s mother, was reading a Bruce Chatwin travel book and periodically consulting the globe, and a very fat man who’d been introduced to us earlier as Rufus Quilp was dozing in an armchair, with a book open on his ample lap.

“All right,” Carolyn said. “The top row of shelves, the second section in from the fireplace wall. I’m looking right at it, Bern.”

“What do you see?”

“Books.”

“Four or five books in from the left-hand edge of that section,” I said, “there’s an oversize volume,
The Conrad Argosy.
See it?”

“I see a thick book that’s a lot taller than the others. I can’t read the title from here. Can you?”

“No, but I recognize the book. I’ve had copies in the store. Now to the right of it there are three dark books, and then one with a sort of yellow cover, and next to
that
one—”

“Next to the one with the yellow cover?”

“Right. Just to the right of the yellow book is one in a dust jacket, and you probably can’t read that title from here, and neither can I. But it’s
The Big Sleep.
”

“By Raymond Chandler.”

“That’s the guy.”

“And you can’t read the words on the spine, but you can recognize it anyway?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Is it a first edition, Bern? Is it inscribed? Can you tell that from here, too?”

“I don’t have magical powers,” I said. “What I do have is eyes that look at books all day long. I can identify hundreds of books, maybe thousands, on the basis of a quick glimpse from the other side of the room. I probably haven’t read it and I may not know the first thing about the contents, but I can tell you the title and author and who published it.”

“Who published
The Big Sleep?
”

“Knopf in the U.S. and Hamish Hamilton in England. That’s the Knopf edition over there. Otherwise I wouldn’t have spotted it, because I don’t know what the British edition looks like. And it most likely would have been a copy of the American edition that Chandler brought east to give to Hammett.”

“He brought it for George Harmon Coxe, Bern. Remember? He gave it to Hammett on a whim.”

“At the time it was on a whim,” I said. “Now it’s on a shelf. We’re looking at it.”

“‘Here’s looking at you, Chandler.’”

“It’s a genuine piece of American literary history,” I said. “And we tracked it down, and there it is.”

“Assuming that’s the right copy.”

“A first of
The Big Sleep
’s a rare book to begin with. If they’ve got any copy at all, it’s pretty sure to be the one Chandler gave to Hammett. It’s not like
Anthony Adverse,
with at least one copy in
any old collection of books.” I drew a breath. “That’s the Hammett copy on the shelf. The Hammett association copy. When they write about it—no, that’s ridiculous.”

“What is?”

“I was thinking it might go down in bibliographic literature as ‘the Rhodenbarr copy.’ Silly, huh?”

“I don’t think it’s silly.”

“You don’t? Well, it won’t happen. Be nice, though.” I got to my feet. “Come on,” I said. “I’ll buy you a drink, and then I’m about ready to turn in. What’s the matter?”

“You’re just gonna leave it there?”

“I’m not going to wheel the library steps over there and climb up them in the middle of the night. Not with other people in the room.”

“Why not? You told me it was okay to look at the book. It’s a library, you said. It’s natural to look at books in a library. Well, it’s every bit as natural to take them off the shelf and start reading. Where does it say look but don’t touch?”

I shook my head. “Later. It’s not going anywhere.”

L
et’s say you had this old tweed jacket.

It’s a fine old jacket, woven of wool from the thick fleeces of Highland sheep, crafted in a croft or crofted in a craft, something like that. If you look closely enough you’ll find threads of every color of the rainbow, with more hues and shades and tints and tones than in the biggest box of crayons Crayola ever made.

You bought it years ago, and even when it was new it looked old. Now it has leather patches on the elbows and leather piping on the cuffs, and by this time the leather itself is worn. And the pockets bulge from all the things you’ve stuffed into them over the years. And you’ve worn that jacket for long moonlit walks on the moors and spirited rambles in the fells. You’ve worn it on horseback, and your high-spirited dog has marked it with his muddy paws. It’s been rained on, and dampened by the mist. It’s soaked up the smoke from campfires in the open and peat fires in thatched cot
tages. And there’s sweat in it, too, honest human sweat. And human joy and human grief—and, if you look closely enough, you’ll be able to distinguish more hues and shades and tints and tones of emotion than there are crayons in the biggest box Crayola ever made.

And it’s soaked up music, too, the haunting screel of the bagpipes and the reedy piping of a tin flute, from glen to glen and o’er the mountainside. Toss in the lilt of an old ballad heard in a public house and stir in the murmur of a lullaby sung to a child. It’s all there, all absorbed by osmosis into the very warp and woof of the tweed.

Now you take that jacket and transmute it by some subtle alchemy involving a copper kettle and a copper coil. You distill the very essence of that jacket into a cask of liquid, and you age that liquid in a charred oaken barrel for longer than the lifetimes of the Old and Young Pretenders combined.

Then you pour it into a glass, and what you’ve got is Glen Drumnadrochit.

“Glen Drumnadrochit,” Carolyn said, echoing our host, Nigel Eglantine, who’d pronounced its name even as he poured it. “What do you think, Bernie?”

“Not bad,” I said.

“You want to make a ceremony of it,” Nigel said, “in order to get the full experience.” He picked up his own glass, a small brandy snifter like the ones he’d filled for us, and held it to the light. “First the color,” he said, and we copied his actions, holding our glasses to the light and dutifully noting the color. It was, I should report, generally
Scotch-colored, though definitely on the dark side of the Scotch spectrum.

“Next is bouquet,” he announced, and held the glass so that it was cupped in his palm, moving his hand in a little circle and roiling the strong waters within the glass. Then he breathed in its aroma, and soon we were doing the same.

“And now taste. While holding a sip in the mouth, draw in breath through the nose. It strengthens and deepens the flavor.” Indeed it did. “And, finally, aftertaste,” he said, and tipped up his glass, and drank deep of the precious nectar. Ever a quick study, I copied his every action.

“I might have a little more of this one,” I said, setting down an empty glass. “Color, bouquet, taste, and aftertaste. I want to make sure I’ve got the drill down pat.”

He beamed. “Rather special, wouldn’t you say? The Drumnadrochit.”

“It’s remarkable,” I said, and topped up my glass.

We’d found him in the bar, where his role was more that of host than bartender. The bar at Cuttleford House ran on the honor system; you poured your own drink and made a note of it in the leather-bound ledger kept for that purpose. There seemed to me to be an inherent danger in the system; as the evening wore on, wouldn’t one become increasingly apt to forget to make an entry?

“Shocking weather,” he said, as I nursed the second wee snifter of Glen Drumnadrochit. “It’s still snowing, you know.”

“I was watching out the window,” Carolyn said. “It’s really beautiful.”

“Quite so. If all one has to do is look at it, it’s rather an admirable display of nature’s majesty and all that.” Color, bouquet, and flavor—and down the hatch, even as he reached for the bottle to top up his glass. He was putting it away at a good clip, was Nigel Eglantine, for all the ritual he made of appreciating it. There is, I suppose, a thin line between the connoisseur and the common drunk, even as there is a similarly fine distinction to be drawn between the gourmet and the glutton. Nigel wasn’t slurring his words or tripping over his shoelaces, nor was he telling the same story over and over. He seemed perfectly fine to me.

Still, the night was young.

“I couldn’t say how many times Orris has been out already,” he said. “Clearing the path with the snowblower, then shoveling snow from the footbridge and plowing the drive clear out to the road. I told him not to bother again until morning. No point.” He looked up. “Ah, good evening, Colonel.”

“Evening,” said Colonel Blount-Buller, who had just joined us. He made himself a drink and noted the act in the leather-bound ledger, a ritual he went through daily for half the year. “A long winter, eh? Snow’s got some depth to it, Eglantine. Good job you’ve got Orris. Had another couple due, didn’t you? Did they ever get here?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Littlefield.” Color, bouquet, flavor. “I rather doubt we’ll be seeing them, Colonel. I just hope they’re not stuck in a snowbank somewhere. Much better if they’ve had the good sense to turn around and go home.” He turned to me. “They’re New Yorkers as well, Mr. Rhodenbarr. Don’t suppose you know them?”

“It’s a big city,” I said.

“Too big for my taste,” the colonel said. “Bad as London. That the bell, Eglantine?”

“I don’t think…
there,
I heard it just then.” He set his glass on the bar and hurried off to answer the doorbell.

“Good chap,” the colonel said. “They run a tight ship, Eglantine and his wife. Not an easy thing, making a go of a place like this.”

“It must be a lot of work,” Carolyn said.

“You’re working all the time,” Colonel Blount-Buller said. “Man thinks he’s done for the day, relaxes with a drink, and the bloody doorbell rings. Far cry from a soldier’s life, where you’re either fighting off wogs or fighting off boredom. Hard to say which is worse, yet when you add it all up there’s no better life for a man.”

Carolyn asked a question that drew him out a little bit, and he waxed eloquent in his reply. Then Eglantine returned with two new people, still wrapped in their overcoats and alternately rubbing their hands together and stamping their boots to get the last of the snow off.

“Mr. and Mrs. Dakin Littlefield,” Nigel announced. “Of whom we’d quite despaired, and in whose safe arrival we rejoice. And these are the Rhodenbarrs, Mr. and Mrs. Rhodenbarr, and this is Colonel Blount-Buller. And before anything else I’m going to insist that you both have a drink. That’s our first order of business, getting the chill out of your bones.”

While he was at it, Nigel set about filling everyone else’s glass as well. He was pouring yet another unblended malt whisky, and he announced its name
and pedigree, but I didn’t pay close attention, nor did I let him add any to my glass. I still had a little of the Drumnadrochit left, and felt it might as well stay unblended. Anyway, I’d had enough to drink, so I reached out a hand and covered my glass.

“Mrs. Rhodenbarr?”

“Well…”

“You know what they say,” Dakin Littlefield put in. “A bird can’t fly on one wing.”

Mrs. Rhodenbarr indeed. One wing indeed. I thought of alternative analogies that might better fit the circumstances. A dog can’t walk on three legs, or an ant on five, or a spider on seven. But I kept my mouth shut and took a good look at the Littlefields as they got out of their heavy coats and into the spirit of things.

She was a honey blonde, medium height, with a pretty face and a pleasing figure, and in the ordinary course of things I would have done most of my looking at her, but instead he got the lion’s share of my attention. He was tall, with wavy dark hair worn long; he looked as though he might at any moment sit down at the piano and play something mournful. Prominent brows shaded his dark eyes. He had a hawk nose and an aggressive chin, and he had a cruel mouth. I’d seen that phrase in books and always wondered what a cruel mouth looked like, and now I knew. His narrow lips seemed poised somewhere between a pout and a sneer. You took one look at his mouth and you wanted to give him a smack in it, because you somehow knew you were dealing with a real son of a bitch.

“Past my bedtime,” I said abruptly, just as the
colonel had paused for dramatic effect in a reminiscence of the old days in Peshawar. “Carolyn?”

She took a moment to knock back the rest of her drink, then said good night all around. We found the staircase and climbed it, and at the top she paused for breath, then asked if I remembered the way to Aunt Agatha’s Room. “Aunt Augusta,” I said.

“What did I say, Bern?”

“Agatha.”

“I did? I meant Augusta. Though it’s not hard to figure out where I got Agatha from, is it?”

“The misty Miss Christie?”

“Uh-huh. Snow falling, and nobody here but us chickens? This could turn out to be a cross between
The Mousetrap
and
Ten Little Indians.
All that’s missing is a body in the library.”

“There’s going to be something else missing in the library,” I said. “Something by Raymond Chandler.”

Her eyes widened. “You think somebody’s going to swipe it?”

“Uh-huh. In an hour or so, when the house settles down and most of the people in it are asleep.”

“You’re the one who’s gonna swipe it.”

“Good thinking, Carolyn.”

“But I thought you wanted to leave it for the time being, Bern. You explained it all on the way to the bar, how it would be safer to leave it where it was until the last minute. What changed your mind?”

“Nothing.”

“Huh?”

“This is the last minute,” I said, “or at least you could call it the penultimate minute. Or the eleventh hour, anyway.”

“What are you talking about, Bern?”

“In the morning,” I said, “the faithful Orris will blow the snow off the path and shovel the snow off the bridge and plow the snow out of the driveway, and, just as soon as he’s done all that, you and I are going to get the hell out of here.”

“We are?”

“If there’s a God in heaven.”

We had reached Aunt Augusta’s Room, and not a moment too soon. Carolyn put her hands on her hips, cocked her head, and stared at me. I pushed the door open—we’d left it ajar, for the cat’s benefit—and motioned her inside, then followed her in and drew the door shut.

She said, “Why, Bern? Hey, was it something I did?”

“What did you do?”

“I had that last drink, and I saw the look you gave me when I let him fill my glass again. I’m a little bit snockered, I admit it, but—”

“But a centipede can’t walk on ninety-nine legs,” I said. “No, that’s not it, and if I gave you a nasty look it was unintentional. The nasty look wasn’t for you.”

“Who was it for?”

“That asshole.”

“Nigel? I thought you liked him.”

“I like him fine.”

“I mean he’s sort of pompous about the Glen Drumnawhatsit, but—”

“That’s not pomposity,” I said. “That’s rever
ence, and the Drumnadrochit deserves it. He’s not the asshole.”

“The colonel’s the asshole? What did he say that was assholeish? I must have missed it.”

“The colonel’s good company. I miss a word here and there because certain consonants get stuck in his clenched teeth, but I can usually get the gist of what he’s saying. No, I like the colonel. Dakin Littlefield’s the asshole.”

“He is?”

“You said it.”

“Actually, you said it, Bern. But what did he do? He just got here. He hardly opened his mouth.”

“It’s a cruel mouth, Carolyn. Open or shut.”

“It is? I didn’t notice. Bern, we don’t know a thing about him except that he’s from New York. Is that it? Do you know him from the city?”

“No.”

“I never even heard of him myself. I’d remember the name, it’s distinctive enough. Dakin Littlefield. Hey, Dakin, what’s shakin’? Dakin, Dakin, where’s the bacon?”

“He ought to get a haircut,” I said.

“Are you serious, Bern? His hair’s a little shaggy, but it’s not even shoulder length. I think it’s attractive like that.”

“Fine,” I said. “Go share a bed with him.”

“I’d rather share a bed with her,” she said. “That’s why I hardly noticed him, because I was busy noticing her. She’s stunning, don’t you think?”

“She’s all right.”

“Great face, fantastic shape when she took off her coat. Damn shame she’s straight.”

“What makes you so sure she’s straight?”

“Are you kidding, Bern? She’s here with her husband.”

“How do you know he’s her husband?”

“Huh? They’re Mr. and Mrs. Littlefield, Bern. Remember?”

“So? We’re Mr. and Mrs. Rhodenbarr, according to everybody here at Cuttlefish House.”

“Cuttleford House, Bern.”

“Whatever. Everybody thinks we’re the Rhodenbarrs, that nice couple, she’s a canine stylist and he’s a burglar. Does that make us married? Does it make you straight?”

“It makes me confused,” she said. “Are you telling me they’re not married?”

“No,” I said. “They’re married, all right.”

“Well, that’s a relief. I’ll sleep a lot easier knowing they’re not living in sin. But what makes you so sure?”

“They’re newlyweds,” I said. “It sticks out all over them.”

“It does? I didn’t even notice.”

“I did. They got married today.”

She looked at me. “Did they say something that I missed?”

“No.”

“Then how can you tell? Has she got rice in her hair?”

“Not that I noticed. What was that?”

“What was what?”

“That pathetic scratching noise.”

“It’s the best he can do,” she said, “without claws.” She opened the door and Raffles walked in, looking as confused as everybody else. He
walked over to a chair, hopped up on it, turned around in a slow circle, hopped down again, and left the room.

“I wonder what’s on his mind,” I said.

“Don’t change the subject, Bern. Why don’t you like Dakin, and how come you’re so sure he’s married to her, and—”