The Burglar in the Library - By Lawrence Block Page 0,96

he tried to make Rathburn’s murder look like an accident, but you proved it wasn’t. So he realized somebody would try to get out and call the cops, and he went and cut the ropes supporting the bridge.”

I shook my head. “No footprints.”

“No footprints?”

“Going to and from the bridge. It was deep and crisp and even out there until Orris slogged through it. You and Lettice got here late last night, Littlefield, and it looked for all the world as though no one had been on the path to or from the bridge since the two of you.”

“That’s true,” Nigel Eglantine said. “That was deep virgin snow that Orris had to walk through, poor lad. I remember noticing the depth of it when he set out, and there were no recent footprints to be seen.”

“Footprints in the snow,” Littlefield said, and shook his head.

“Late the night before last,” I said, “Rathburn was murdered. The murderer—let’s call him A—”

“Why not call him Wolpert?”

“Humor me,” I said. “Anyway, A killed Rathburn, made it look like an accident, ducked out to rip out the phone wires, and then went upstairs to sleep the sleep of the unjust. Enter B.”

“B?”

“Our clever little observer. Did he slip into the library and discover Rathburn’s corpse? Possibly, but I don’t think so. I think he cut the bridge ropes before A murdered Rathburn.”

“Why would he do that?” Leona Savage wondered.

“Because, even before A murdered Rathburn, B realized the stage was set. All the players had arrived at Cuttleford House. Once Lettice and Dakin Littlefield had made it across the bridge, it was time for the bridge to come down.”

Littlefield had been leaning against a bookcase. Now he snapped to attention. “Wait a minute,” he said. “What the hell did our arrival have to do with B and the bridge?”

“Once you were here,” I said, “he wanted to make sure you stayed.”

“Well, it worked,” he said. “I’ve been wanting to haul ass since the moment I got to this godforsaken hellhole.”

“Oh, dear,” Cissie Eglantine said. “We try so to make Cuttleford House a pleasant place for all our guests.”

“There, there,” Nigel said, and patted her hand.

“But he called it a godforsaken hellhole,” she protested. “It’s not, is it?”

“Of course not,” the colonel assured her. “Would I spend half the year in a hellhole? The man’s upset, Cecilia.”

“I know the food’s not all it might be,” Cissie said, “because of what happened to Cook, and the snow’s made things difficult for everyone, and what with poor Orris gone—”

The inevitable cry came from Earlene Cobbett.

“Excuse me,” Rufus Quilp said. The fat man was sitting in an overstuffed armchair, and I’d thought he’d been dozing. But he hadn’t missed a thing. “This is getting interesting,” he said. “A killed Mr. Rathburn. B dropped the bridge in the gully, either shortly before or shortly after Mr. Rathburn’s murder. If after, he may not have known it had taken place.”

“That’s correct.”

“And if before, did he know it was likely to take place? Did B expect A would murder Rathburn?”

“Probably not. He knew the Littlefields had arrived, and he didn’t want anyone else coming or going.”

Littlefield sighed, exasperated, but Rufus Quilp persevered. “So he slipped outside,” he said, “and cut the bridge supports. And, I suppose, made assurance doubly sure by sugaring the snowblower.”

“No,” I said. “He didn’t do that, and why should he? It wouldn’t prevent anyone from coming or going. Anyone else could do as Orris did, and indeed what B had done himself to reach the bridge. It might be slow going, especially as the snow continued to fall, but it wouldn’t be impassable for any of us. Except Miss Dinmont, of course. You’d need a clear path for a wheelchair.”

This upset Miss Dinmont, who required immediate reassurance that the snowblower had not been sabotaged as a deliberate attempt to inconvenience or imperil her. When Miss Dinmont calmed down, Mrs. Colibri wanted to know who’d sugared the snowblower.

“Because it seems entirely gratuitous,” she said. “What effect did it have? It simply inconvenienced us.”

“It inconvenienced Orris,” I said. “The person who poured the sugar in the engine—let’s call her C—”

“Her, Bern?”

“Well, him or her,” I said. “I thought I’d give the male pronoun a rest. C didn’t have the slightest idea that A was going to kill Rathburn, or that B was planning to bring down the bridge. All C knew was that it was snowing to beat the band, and that it would be a good joke on young Orris Cobbett