of the details about the string of murders. A thought came along and I frowned at it, trying to pin it down and think it through. I was getting somewhere in the old ratiocination process, it seemed to me, and then Raffles brushed against my ankle and began purring, and my train of thought was shunted off on a sidetrack.
I patted my lap, a clear invitation for him to spring up, but he didn’t seem to notice. His purring picked up in volume, and he was really busy rubbing his head against my ankles, which meant either that he was damned glad to see me or that his ear itched and this was the best way he could think of to scratch it.
Of course, I thought, the two possibilities were not mutually exclusive. He could have an itching ear and still entertain a feeling of abiding affection for the chap who kept him in Meow Mix. For my part, I was pleased to discover that I was glad to see him. So I reached down and scooped him up and plopped him down on my lap, where he continued to purr up a storm.
“Good old Raffles,” I said aloud, and gave him a scratch behind the ear. “Didn’t see much of you last night. How’d you get through the hours?”
He didn’t answer, but then he never does. But I went on looking at him and petting him, and another far more unsettling question came to me.
How the hell did he get in the room?
He would have had to come in while I was in the john down the hall. Because he certainly hadn’t been in the room before then, and here he was, big as life.
But how did he do it?
Simple—he followed me home. He was in the hallway when I finished up in the bathroom. I hadn’t noticed him because I wasn’t looking at the floor when I scanned the area, being on the lookout for a taller specimen.
Could he have done that? Scooted in right behind me without my noticing?
No, I decided. I would have noticed.
He couldn’t have managed it when I first eased the door open a crack, either, or when I let myself out. And then I’d closed the door.
Could I have unwittingly left it slightly ajar? If so, he could have come on in. But it had definitely been closed when I came back. He wouldn’t have closed it, let alone slammed it with enough force to make it click shut.
Why was I making so much of this? The steps were clear. A—I leave the room, thinking I’ve closed the door but failing to engage the latch. B—Raffles, finding the door ajar, enters. C—An air current closes the door again, and makes a better job of it than I had done. D—I return, find the door closed, which is how I incorrectly believe I’ve left it. E—I enter, close the door, fasten the bolt, and am subsequently bewildered to find myself with a cat on my lap.
I decided it was possible. Not too probable, however. Then I remembered the old dictum about ruling out everything that was strictly impossible. If you did that, whatever possibility remained, however improbable, had to be the truth.
Had I ruled out every other possibility?
A chill came over me, along with an awareness of a possibility I had not ruled out, because I hadn’t thought of it. I took a deep breath and let it out, and I sent my eyes on as much of a tour of the room as they could manage without moving my head. And then I said, in what was supposed to be a forceful but low-pitched voice, “Now would be a good time to come out of the closet.”
There was no response, not even from Raffles.
“I mean it,” I said, wondering if I did. “You can come out of the closet now.”
“No I can’t,” came the reply, in a small high-pitched voice. “I’m under the bed.”
And then she giggled, the imp. I stood up. Raffles sprang forward involuntarily when my lap disappeared, landing predictably enough on all four feet and giving me a look. And, even as I had done a while earlier, out from under the bed crawled the improbable person of Millicent Savage.
CHAPTER
Twenty-four
“You’re not a ghost,” she said. “At least I don’t think you are. Are you?”
I considered the question. “No,” I said. “I’m not.”
“Would you tell me if you were?”
“That’s hard to say,” I admitted. “Who knows what a ghost would do?”
“Not