The Burglar in the Library - By Lawrence Block Page 0,43

draw attention anywhere else,” I said. “It would be least conspicuous in its usual position, on the couch where he’d found it. Even if he knew there was blood on it, he was better off leaving it there. His hope was that no one would be looking for blood, that the death would get a cursory inspection by the police, that the autopsy would be perfunctory and incomplete, and that Rathburn’s death would go into the books as an accident.

“If that happened,” I went on, “he was home free. If not, there’d be more of Rathburn’s blood to contend with than a stain on the pillow and a drop or two on the camel. A good forensic investigation would turn up blood drops all over the place, probably enough to establish just where Rathburn was sitting when the blow was struck.”

Some of the women seemed to draw in their shoulders, as if to avoid contact with all this blood that was allegedly all around them.

“In fact,” I said, “we probably ought to leave the room and seal it until the police get here. No one’s touching anything, and that’s good, but we shouldn’t even be here. This is a crime scene.”

“Quite right,” Colonel Blount-Buller said, “although I don’t know that the local police will treat a crime scene quite as Scotland Yard might. But you’re correct all the same, sir. Experienced in these matters, are you? Served with the police, I shouldn’t wonder.”

“Not exactly,” I said.

“Not a private detective, I don’t suppose?”

I shook my head. “I’m a big reader,” I said, “and I read a lot of mysteries. And I watch a lot of TV. You know, locked-room cases? Impossible crimes? English-country-house murders?”

“Poirot and all that,” the colonel said.

“That’s the idea.”

“Never would have guessed it was quite so instructive,” he said. “Blood spatters, pinpoint hemorrhages, direction the blow was struck—you certainly seem to know what you’re about, Rhodenbarr.”

I was preening a little, I have to admit. It’s hard to avoid when someone with that kind of accent gives you that kind of compliment. I was busy enjoying the feeling when the good colonel went on to ask me just what it was I did for a living.

“As a matter of fact,” I said, “I’m out of work at the moment. My job was eliminated. Corporate downsizing, at least that’s what they call it. Getting more work out of fewer people is what it amounts to, and it’s a hell of a thing when you’re the victim of it.”

“Had some of that in the British army,” he said, “after we lost India.” His face darkened. “Might have put a better face on it if they’d called it downsizing. What did you do for the ungrateful swine before they cut you loose?”

“He’s a burglar,” Millicent Savage said.

All conversation stopped. I managed a laugh, and what a hollow ring it had in that huge room. “I was joking with the child last night,” I said. “I’m afraid she’s taken it seriously.”

“You say it’s a joke,” said the little horror, “but I think it’s true. I think you really are a burglar, Bernie.”

“Millicent,” Leona Savage said, “go to your room.”

“But Mommy, I—”

“Millicent!”

“It’s all right,” I said. “I’m sure she didn’t mean any harm. At any rate there’s no harm done, and—”

I stopped. Nigel Eglantine had come back to the room, a frown darkening his brow.

“I’m sure it’s the snow,” he said.

We looked at him.

“The phone,” he explained. “The line is dead. I’m sure it must be the snow.”

CHAPTER

Thirteen

What we needed to do, Nigel Eglantine insisted, was remain calm. He said this over and over, as if the words were a mantra designed to ward off panic, and with only partial success.

Carolyn rescued him. “Look, Nigel,” she said, “there’s good news and bad news, right?”

“Good news and bad news? There is?”

“There always is,” she assured him. “Suppose you start off by giving us the bad news.”

“The bad news,” he said.

“Like the phones are out, and whatever else goes with it.”

“Ah,” he said. “The bad news. Well, the phone service is definitely not on at the moment. I’m sure that’s a result of the storm. Bad weather often knocks out our telephones. In the spring and fall the phones are often out after severe electrical storms, and in the winter a bad snowstorm can do it.”

“Nothing about that in the brochure,” Miss Hardesty murmured to Miss Dinmont.

“But the good news,” he said, brightening, “is that we’re never without phone service for very long. I’d say that