I went about my work. I had to remind myself not to steal-old habits die hard-but the situation was urgent enough to keep me pretty well focused on the business at hand. I made sure I stayed a floor away from the rest of them, and I ducked out of sight when I heard someone on the stairs. When they were all on the ground floor I had a quick look at the servants’ quarters up above. A little later, when I looked out the window and saw them heading down the path toward the fallen bridge, I seized the moment and made a foray into a couple of rooms on the ground floor.
I came out of the Eglantine apartment knowing I wasn’t going to have much more time. It was cold out, and they’d been in too much of a hurry to bundle up, so they’d want to get back inside the house as soon as possible. I was counting on it, as a matter of fact; the more uncomfortable they were out there, the less time they’d waste on a good look at the late Bernard Grimes Rhodenbarr.
But I wanted a look at those lawn chairs.
The voices had been too muffled earlier for me to tell what had excited them, though I suspected it might be the lawn chairs out behind the house. Was there a fresh corpse on one of those chairs? And, if so, whose was it?
I found my way to the sunroom. Through its windows I saw the three chairs, and I could tell I wasn’t the only one who’d noticed. The snow was tamped down all around them, and the snow-covered sheets that shrouded them had been removed.
But, alas, they’d been replaced. They weren’t covered with snow now, but they still hid the chairs’ contents from view.
Three bodies. I could tell that much, given a good look in decent light. But who was the latest victim?
All I had to do was go out and have a look. But I could already hear them on their way back to the house, all talking at once, their voices a discordant blur. By the time I got out the door and ran over to the chairs and had a look-
No time.
I raced for the stairs.
Back in Young George’s Room, which I found myself regarding less and less as Jonathan Rathburn’s and more and more as my own, I sat on the edge of the bed and tried to figure out what to do next. I had a pad of paper in front of me and I had drawn a rough diagram, with a lot of circles and X’s and arrows. It was supposed to represent how the sequence of killings had taken place, and a look at my handiwork suggested that the killer must have been a geometry teacher. No one else could have made sense of it.
When I wasn’t looking at the diagram or off into space, I was checking my watch. Sooner or later I was going to have to leave my comfy little hiding place and show my face in the world, or at least in the more populated regions of Cuttleford House. I’d bought some time by faking my own death, and I’d spent some of it to good effect in my room-by-room tour of the place. Now I had all the data I was likely to get, and I had things figured out.
Well, almost figured out.
Sort of.
And now it seemed to me that timing was critical. I didn’t want to make my move too early, nor did I want to leave it too late. After breakfast, say, but before they’d all scattered to different parts of the house. And certainly before anyone could take it into his head to leave.
Tricky.
So I kept glancing at my watch, and an ineffectual gesture it was, since I couldn’t have told you what time I was waiting for it to be. And then, just sitting there like that, it became evident to me that I wasn’t going to be able to allow myself the relative luxury of waiting until it was time to leave.
I needed to go to the bathroom.
Well, it happens, for God’s sake. It never happens in Agatha Christie’s books, and I can’t recall it ever posing a problem for an earthy guy like Philip Marlowe, either, but that’s not a whole lot of consolation when the necessity arises.
It had arisen before, you’re probably thinking, and I dealt with it, if not elegantly, at least effectively. Couldn’t I just do again as I did before? And, preferably, without talking about it?
Believe me, I’d just as soon not talk about it. And, not to put too fine a point on it, let me just state that the function I needed to perform was different in kind from the previous instance, and that the shoe-and-window number simply would not do at all.
I’ve thought about this since, and it seems to me that one’s behavior in such a situation varies with the direness of one’s circumstances. If I’d been hiding from the Nazis in war-torn Belgium, say, I’d have fouled my nest and learned to live with it. But I just wasn’t that desperate. I didn’t know who might be lurking in the hallway outside my door, but I could be fairly sure it wasn’t the Gestapo.
I eased the door open a crack and took a look-see. I couldn’t spot anybody, and the only sounds of human activity I could make out were a floor away. I opened the door a little farther and scanned the long hall. I caught a trace of movement out of the corner of my eye, and that might have inspired more in the way of reconnaissance at a less urgent moment, but I couldn’t wait. I rushed down the hall to the bathroom, darted inside, and, well, let’s for God’s sake draw the curtain on the next several moments, shall we?
Thanks. I feel better already.
I’d closed the bedroom door when I left it, but of course I hadn’t wasted time locking it, so I didn’t have to waste time unlocking it on my return. I slipped inside, heaved a great sigh, and slid the bolt across. Then I sat down once again on the edge of the bed and tried to remember what I’d been thinking about before Nature had called.
Timing, that was part of it. And some 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.