The Burglar in the Library - By Lawrence Block Page 0,34
instead.”
“I know. Don’t you love the way it sways?”
“No,” I said. “But there’s still never been a Mr. Cuttleford, bridge or no bridge, and…what are you laughing about?”
“I made it all up!”
“You did?”
“Oh, not about the ghost,” she said. “I know there’s a ghost, but nobody knows who it is or what he’s doing here. I made up all that part.”
“You got the initials right. Frederick Cuttleford and Ferdinand Cathcart.”
“I got that from Carolyn.”
“Huh?”
“I met her in the hall earlier,” she said, “and I guess she’s scared of ghosts, so I told her the ghost at this house was a friendly ghost.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t say his name was Casper.”
“I said his name was Colin,” she said, “because I like the name, and it goes nicely with Cuttleford, don’t you think? And she said she thought the man who built Cuttleford House was named Frederick, so when I told you the story—”
“You improved it.”
“Just to make it a better story. Anyway, that’s why I’m awake. How about you?”
“I was reading,” I said, “and I lost track of the time.”
“I bet you were looking for something to steal.”
Time to nip this in the bud. “You know,” I said, “it made a nice joke, Millicent, but it’s beginning to get a little tiresome. I was just kidding about being a burglar.”
“You were?”
“Uh-huh.”
“What are you really?”
“Well, I’m out of work at the moment,” I said. “I’m hoping something will turn up soon. In the meantime, I’ve sort of been helping Carolyn out at the Poodle Factory. What’s so funny?”
She had both hands over her mouth, smothering a laugh. “The Poodle Factory,” she sputtered. “A factory where they make poodles!”
“It’s just the name of her salon.”
“And you work there.”
“That’s right.”
“Just to help her out.”
Kids. Why on earth do people have them? “And to pass the time,” I said.
“And you’re not really a burglar.”
“Of course not.”
“And you don’t break into houses and steal things.”
“Gosh, no,” I said. “I’d be scared, for one thing. And it wouldn’t be right to take things that didn’t belong to me.”
She thought this over. Then she said, “You know how I made up the part about Frederick Cuttleford? Well, I think you made that up.”
“About being a burglar.”
“About not being a burglar,” she said. “You know what? I don’t believe you. I think you’re a burglar after all, no matter what you say.” And she flashed me a demonic smile and darted around the corner.
CHAPTER
Eleven
The library, when I finally got to it, was dark. Someone had drawn the curtains and switched off the lights. I stood at the threshold, trying to determine the most natural way to go in there and get the book. I had packed a narrowbeam pocket flashlight, but I’d left it in my room (or our room, or Aunt Augusta’s, as you prefer). I could have gone upstairs to fetch it, but I’d had enough trouble already trying to find my way back to the library. I didn’t want to have to look for it again.
Besides, there was something impossibly furtive about skulking around with a flashlight. One transformed oneself into a bumbling burglar out of the Sunday comics, the sort always portrayed wearing a domino mask and carrying a burlap sack of swag over his shoulder.
Why bother? I was a paying guest at Cuttleford House, fully entitled to be there. In the absence of a posted curfew, I had every right to make use of the Great Library at any hour of the day. There was, in short, no need to skulk. I could stride manfully in, bold as any base metal, switch on all the lamps I wanted, mount the library steps, fetch the book I wanted, and take it back to my room. Moreover, I could do all of that without committing the merest infraction of the house rules, let alone the criminal code. I wouldn’t even risk arousing suspicion. I was a guest, I wanted something to read before going to sleep, and where better to find the book of my choice than the library?
I would have to be on my way back to New York with the book tucked away in my luggage before I’d have done anything that could provoke so much as a raised eyebrow.
Still, there were precautions to be taken. Somewhere down the line, when the book went under the hammer at Christie’s or Sotheby’s, say, the volume’s provenance would best be established by citing the Lester Harding Ross memoir, and anyone else could do as I had