The Burglar in the Library - By Lawrence Block Page 0,75
wooden chair where her friend had hung the clothes he’d been wearing the night before. It was empty. She got dressed herself and went out into the hallway again, where she saw Bettina Colibri a few doors down fitting a key into a lock.
“Have you seen Bernie?” she demanded.
“Bernie? Your uh friend?”
“Yeah, my uh friend. Bernie Rhodenbarr. Have you seen him?”
“I haven’t seen anybody,” the woman said. “I’m just on my way down to breakfast now. If there’s actually going to be breakfast, in the absence of the cook.”
“I don’t care about breakfast,” Carolyn said. “I’m just worried about Bernie.”
“Why, for heaven’s sake?”
“Why? Because he’s my best friend in the world, that’s why.”
“And friendship is a wonderful thing,” Mrs. Colibri said, “but what possible cause have you to worry? If he’s not in your room he’s very likely gone downstairs himself.”
“I hope you’re right.”
She hurried downstairs, and her state of mind was evident, because everyone she met asked her if something was the matter. “I’m trying to find Bernie,” she told them all. “I don’t know where he is and I’m worried.”
Downstairs, she made her way from room to room. Bernie Rhodenbarr was nowhere to be found. She checked the Breakfast Room, the Morning Room, the Great Library, the various parlors. She inquired of everyone she encountered.
No one mentioned having seen Bernie Rhodenbarr, not since the previous evening. No one had any idea where he might be.
“Maybe he got the hell out,” Dakin Littlefield suggested. “Which is what my wife and I are planning to do as soon as our breakfast has had time to settle. That’s what I told him I was planning yesterday, and maybe it gave him an idea.”
“He wouldn’t do that,” Carolyn insisted. “And he certainly wouldn’t leave without saying anything to me.”
“Well, you know him better than I do,” Littlefield said, with the sort of smirk on his face that suggested she didn’t really know Rhodenbarr well at all.
A more systematic search of the downstairs, wth others lending a hand, was no more successful. Colonel Blount-Buller was clearly troubled by Rhodenbarr’s disappearance, although his temperament was such that he showed far less agitation than Carolyn Kaiser. “You’re quite right,” he told her. “Rhodenbarr’s a level-headed chap. It’s not like him to disappear this way, without a word anyone.”
“I’m afraid,” Carolyn said.
“In the ordinary course of things,” Blount-Buller said, “there’d be no reason to suspect foul play. But in the present circumstances, with three suspicious deaths already—”
“Oh, no,” she cried. “Not Bernie!”
“He’s so alive,” Lettice Littlefield said. “I can’t imagine him being—”
“Don’t say it,” Carolyn begged her.
Lettice left her sentence unfinished. Millicent Savage, wearing bib overalls and rabbit slippers, finished the sentence for her. “Dead,” she said.
Everyone looked at her.
“I told him he might be the next to die,” the child said, her lower lip trembling. “I don’t know why I said it. It just came into my mind and I said it without thinking about it. And now it’s come true!”
It hadn’t necessarily come true, people rushed to tell her, and even if it had it wasn’t her fault. Millicent looked unconvinced.
There was more than a little confusion in the ranks. Nigel Eglantine snatched up the telephone and poked at its buttons, as if in the hope that the severed wires had somehow knitted themselves back together during the night. Carolyn somehow got hold of the colonel and asked him if he could do something, and he took command, silencing the throng with an elaborate clearing of his throat, then summarizing the situation for them.
There were, he told them, insofar as Bernie Rhodenbarr was concerned, two possibilities. One, Rhodenbarr had quit the premises and gone home, without a word to his faithful companion or anyone else. Two, Rhodenbarr was somewhere in the house or on the grounds, but was deaf to the present hue and cry because he was in a deep sleep, or drugged and/or tied up, or…
“Or dead,” said Millicent Savage.
The thing to do, the colonel said, was muster everyone into a great body and give the house a systematic room-by-room search. Cissy Eglantine produced a master key that afforded entry to each of the second-floor bedrooms, including Young George’s Room, earlier occupied by the late Jonathan Rathburn.
“This was the son of a bitch who started the whole thing,” Dakin Littlefield remarked from the doorway to Young George’s Room. His wife, Lettice, objected that Rathburn was a victim, that he had been killed. “Serves him right,” Littlefield told her. “Look what he started.