“The misty Miss Christie?”
“Uh-huh. Snow falling, and nobody here but us chickens? This could turn out to be a cross between The Mousetrap and Ten Little Indians. All that’s missing is a body in the library.”
“There’s going to be something else missing in the library,” I said. “Something by Raymond Chandler.”
Her eyes widened. “You think somebody’s going to swipe it?”
“Uh-huh. In an hour or so, when the house settles down and most of the people in it are asleep.”
“You’re the one who’s gonna swipe it.”
“Good thinking, Carolyn.”
“But I thought you wanted to leave it for the time being, Bern. You explained it all on the way to the bar, how it would be safer to leave it where it was until the last minute. What changed your mind?”
“Nothing.”
“Huh?”
“This is the last minute,” I said, “or at least you could call it the penultimate minute. Or the eleventh hour, anyway.”
“What are you talking about, Bern?”
“In the morning,” I said, “the faithful Orris will blow the snow off the path and shovel the snow off the bridge and plow the snow out of the driveway, and, just as soon as he’s done all that, you and I are going to get the hell out of here.”
“We are?”
“If there’s a God in heaven.”
We had reached Aunt Augusta’s Room, and not a moment too soon. Carolyn put her hands on her hips, cocked her head, and stared at me. I pushed the door open-we’d left it ajar, for the cat’s benefit-and motioned her inside, then followed her in and drew the door shut.
She said, “Why, Bern? Hey, was it something I did?”
“What did you do?”
“I had that last drink, and I saw the look you gave me when I let him fill my glass again. I’m a little bit snockered, I admit it, but-”
“But a centipede can’t walk on ninety-nine legs,” I said. “No, that’s not it, and if I gave you a nasty look it was unintentional. The nasty look wasn’t for you.”
“Who was it for?”
“That asshole.”
“Nigel? I thought you liked him.”
“I like him fine.”
“I mean he’s sort of pompous about the Glen Drumnawhatsit, but-”
“That’s not pomposity,” I said. “That’s reverence, and the Drumnadrochit deserves it. He’s not the asshole.”
“The colonel’s the asshole? What did he say that was assholeish? I must have missed it.”
“The colonel’s good company. I miss a word here and there because certain consonants get stuck in his clenched teeth, but I can usually get the gist of what he’s saying. No, I like the colonel. Dakin Littlefield’s the asshole.”
“He is?”
“You said it.”
“Actually, you said it, Bern. But what did he do? He just got here. He hardly opened his mouth.”
“It’s a cruel mouth, Carolyn. Open or shut.”
“It is? I didn’t notice. Bern, we don’t know a thing about him except that he’s from New York. Is that it? Do you know him from the city?”
“No.”
“I never even heard of him myself. I’d remember the name, it’s distinctive enough. Dakin Littlefield. Hey, Dakin, what’s shakin’? Dakin, Dakin, where’s the bacon?”
“He ought to get a haircut,” I said.
“Are you serious, Bern? His hair’s a little shaggy, but it’s not even shoulder length. I think it’s attractive like that.”
“Fine,” I said. “Go share a bed with him.”
“I’d rather share a bed with her,” she said. “That’s why I hardly noticed him, because I was busy noticing her. She’s stunning, don’t you think?”
“She’s all right.”
“Great face, fantastic shape when she took off her coat. Damn shame she’s straight.”
“What makes you so sure she’s straight?”
“Are you kidding, Bern? She’s here with her husband.”
“How do you know he’s her husband?”
“Huh? They’re Mr. and Mrs. Littlefield, Bern. Remember?”
“So? We’re Mr. and Mrs. Rhodenbarr, according to everybody here at Cuttlefish House.”
“Cuttleford House, Bern.”
“Whatever. Everybody thinks we’re the Rhodenbarrs, that nice couple, she’s a canine stylist and he’s a burglar. Does that make us married? Does it make you straight?”
“It makes me confused,” she said. “Are you telling me they’re not married?”
“No,” I said. “They’re married, all right.”
“Well, that’s a relief. I’ll sleep a lot easier knowing they’re not living in sin. But what makes you so sure?”
“They’re newlyweds,” I said. “It sticks out all over them.”
“It does? I didn’t even notice.”
“I did. They got married today.”
She looked at me. “Did they say something that I missed?”
“No.”
“Then how can you tell? Has she got rice in her hair?”
“Not that I noticed. What was that?”
“What was what?”
“That pathetic scratching noise.”
“It’s the best he can do,” she said, “without claws.” She opened the door and Raffles walked in, looking as confused as everybody else. He walked over to a chair, hopped up on it, turned around in a slow circle, hopped down again, and left the room.
“I wonder what’s on his mind,” I said.
“Don’t change the subject, Bern. Why don’t you like Dakin, and how come you’re so sure he’s married to her, and-”
“Don’t say ‘her,’” I said. “It’s impolite.”
“It is?”
“Of course it is. She’s got a name.”
“Most people do, Bern, but I didn’t happen to catch it.”
“Neither did I.”
There was a pause. “Bernie,” she said slowly, “I know it tasted great and everything, but I think maybe there’s something in that Drums-Along-the-Drocket that doesn’t agree with you.”
“It’s called alcohol,” I said, “and it couldn’t agree with me more. Here’s what I’ll do, Carolyn. I’ll tell you Mrs. Littlefield’s first name, and all at once everything will be clear to you.”
“It will?”
“Absolutely.”
“What difference does it make what her name is?”
“Believe me, it makes a difference.”
“But you just said you didn’t catch her name either.”
“True.”
“Then how can you tell it to me?”
“Because I know it.”
“How can you possibly…oh, God, don’t tell me.”
“Well, all right, if you’re sure, but-”
“No!”
“No?”
“Tell me her name, Bernie. No, wait a minute, don’t tell me! Is it what I think it is?”
“That depends on what you think it is.”
“I don’t want to say,” she said, “because if it isn’t, and even if it is, and…Bernie, I don’t know how we got into this conversation, but we have to get out of it fast. Tell me her name. Just blurt it out, will you?”
“I’ll give you a hint,” I said. “It’s not Romaine.”
“Oh, God, Bern. I bet it’s not Curly Endive either.”
“It’s not.”
“ Bern, spit it out, huh?”
“Lettice,” I said.
“Oh, shit. You’re kidding, right? You’re not kidding. Ohmigod.”
CHAPTER Nine
The bookshelves in the Great Library of Cuttleford House extended all the way to the twelve-foot ceiling. One couldn’t be expected to reach the uppermost shelves without standing on the shoulders of giants; in their absence, one of the several owners of the property had thoughtfully provided a set of library steps.
This article of furniture was made of mahogany and fitted with casters so it could be rolled to where it was needed. It consisted of a freestanding (and freewheeling) staircase of five steps. It had been the designer’s conceit to give it the form of a spiral staircase, and the steps were accordingly triangular, tapering from a width of four or five inches at their outer edge to no width at all at the center.
I was poised on the fourth step, one hand clutching a shelf for balance, the other hand reaching out for The Big Sleep, when I heard my name called.