The Burglar in the Library - By Lawrence Block Page 0,104

lawn,” I said. Maybe it’s Mr. Pettisham, full of apologies for having been delayed. Maybe it’s Ed McMahon, Littlefield, to tell you you’ve won the Publishers Clearing House sweepstakes. You’ll be a rich man even if you have to give the bonds back. My God, man, it’s your lucky day.”

He just stared at me. He didn’t say a word, and neither did anybody else. We were still silent when the front door opened and a group of men trooped through the hall and found their way to the library.

Their leader, the only one not wearing a uniform, was a big fellow in a gorgeous gray suit that looked as though it had been custom-tailored for someone else.

“Well, here we all are,” he said, casting his eyes around the room. “It’s Mrs. Rhodenbarr’s son Bernard, and it looks like you went and rounded up the usual suspects. You got the right to remain silent, all of youse, but I wouldn’t advise it, because the sooner we get this sorted out the sooner we can all get home. And the sooner the better as far as I’m concerned, because I never seen so much snow in my life.”

“My God,” Carolyn said, “it’s Ray Kirschmann, and I’m actually glad to see him. I never thought I’d live to see the day.”

But she had, and she’d live to see others, which was more than you could say for Dakin Littlefield. He gave a little cry of abject despair, then stuck the business end of the gun in his cruel mouth and pulled the trigger.

The big problem with automatics, or so they tell me, is that they’re apt to jam. This one didn’t.

CHAPTER

Twenty-eight

Four days later I was perched on a stool behind the counter at Barnegat Books, unwrapping a killer sandwich from the Russian deli around the corner. They use a particularly crinkly waxed paper, except I don’t suppose it’s actually waxed, I suppose it must be some sort of miracle polymer laminate designed to wreak havoc with generations yet unborn. Whatever it is, it’s noisier than the D train, and crumpling it never fails to get Raffles’s attention. He perked up, I feinted left and threw to the right, and he refused to be faked out, pouncing like a champion.

“I thought the layoff might hurt him,” I told Carolyn, “but he’s not the least bit rusty. I’ll tell you, though, he’s glad to be back.”

“He’s not the only one, Bern.”

“You said it. I suppose the country makes a nice change, but I’m a city boy at heart. I’d rather be on a bench in Bryant Park with life going on all around me. Give me the subway at rush hour, a couple of fire engines with their sirens wide open…”

“I know what you mean, Bern. The simple pleasures.”

“Well, you know what Sydney Smith said about the country. He said he thought of it as a sort of a healthy grave.”

“All that fresh air, Bern. If you’re not used to it…”

“Exactly. It was starting to get to me. But all I really needed was a couple of days at home and I’m my old self again. Working in the bookstore, playing with my cat.”

“Same here. Washing dogs all day, then going home and watching my cats wash themselves.” She grinned. “And going out at night for a few pops and the chance of an adventure.”

“An adventure?”

“Last night,” she said, “I got a heavy dose of spring fever, because that’s what it is, spring, even if they haven’t got the word yet up in the Berkshires. So I went for a walk, and where did I wind up but the Cubby Hole?”

“What a surprise.”

“Well, I got smart feet, Bern. They took me there all by themselves, and—” She broke it off at the tinkle of tiny bells over the door, announcing a visitor. “Later, Bern,” she said. “It’ll keep. Look who’s here.”

I looked up, and there she was, the Widow Littlefield. I hadn’t expected her to be wearing black, and she wasn’t, looking quite spiffy instead in a dove-gray suit with a nipped-in waist. Her blouse was white, and her bow tie, floppy and feminine, was the bright red of arterial blood.

“Bernie,” she said. “It’s so nice to see you. And there’s your sweet little cat.” She caught sight of Carolyn and her face darkened. “Perhaps this isn’t a good time.”

“It’s a perfectly fine time,” I said. “You’re looking well, Lettice.”

“Thank you, Bernie.”

“You remember Carolyn.”

“Your wife,” she said. “Except she’s not your wife. It’s very confusing.