“But there was a real Latest Victim,” I said. “On one of those lawn chairs out behind the house. There was Jonathan Rathburn and there was the cook, and there was a third victim on a third chair.”
“So?”
“So tell me who it was.”
Light dawned. “You don’t know,” she said. “Everybody thinks you know because everybody thinks you killed him, or at least they did until it turned out that you were dead, too. But you didn’t kill him, even if you don’t happen to be dead yourself, and…”
“Right.”
“So you don’t know.”
“But I will,” I said, “as soon as you tell me.”
She looked at me.
“What’s the matter?”
“I know who got killed,” she said, giving it a sort of singsong cadence, “and you don’t. And you know who the killer is, and I don’t.”
“Time to strike a deal, huh?”
She nodded solemnly.
“Okay,” I said. “You tell me who was on the chair, and I’ll tell you who put him there.”
“‘Him’?”
“You mean it was a woman?”
“Maybe,” she said. “Maybe it was a woman and maybe it was a man. That’s for me to know.”
“And for me to find out,” I finished, “and the way I’ll find out is by you telling me.”
“And then you’ll tell me who did it.”
“Right.”
“Okay,” she said.
“It’s a deal?”
She nodded. “It’s a deal.”
“So?”
“So what?”
“So tell me.”
She frowned. “I think you should go first.”
“Why? Don’t you trust me?”
She didn’t say anything, which was answer enough. I could have gone first, but if she didn’t trust me, why should I trust her? I dug out my wallet, looked for scraps of paper, and wound up drawing out a pair of dollar bills. I gave one of them to Millicent.
“In the space alongside Washington ’s portrait,” I said. “Just print the victim’s name there, and I’ll do the same with the killer’s name.”
“I think it’s against the law to write on money.”
“If they arrest you for it,” I said, “tell them it was my idea. No cheating, now. No writing ‘Mickey Mouse’ to fake me out. Okay?”
“I wouldn’t do that.”
“Sure you would,” I said, “and so would I, but not today. Deal?” She nodded, and I printed the name of my favorite suspect, shielding the action from view with my left hand. When I finished I folded the bill, folded it again, and held it out to the child. With my other hand I took hold of the bill she was offering, similarly folded. Our eyes locked, and she counted to three, and at once we completed the exchange.
I unfolded the bill, looked at what she’d written. I looked at Millicent, and found her looking back at me.
“You’re sure of this?”
She nodded, her eyes enormous. “I thought it was going to be you,” she said, “but it was him instead.”
“Gordon Wolpert. With the tweed jackets and the elbow patches and…”
“That’s him.”
“And he was dead.” I frowned. “Do you suppose it was accidental? Maybe he was overcome with remorse and he pulled up a chair to sit next to the two people he’d killed, and before he knew it he’d fallen asleep and frozen to death.”
She gave me a look. “Anyway,” she said, “there were marks on his neck. They said he’d been strangled.”
“Strangled.
“Did anybody look at his eyes? I wonder if he had pinpoint hemorrhages. But maybe you only get those if somebody smothers you. Wait a minute. Strangled? Maybe he hanged himself. Maybe he was overcome with remorse”-I seemed attached to the phrase-“and he hanged himself from a beam or something, and-”
“And what?”
“And cut himself down and went outside and sat on a lawn chair with a blanket over him. Never mind. Gordon Wolpert, for God’s sake. You’re sure it was him? Of course you’re sure.”
“And you’re sure he was the killer?”
“Well, no,” I said. “I was a few minutes ago. Now I’m not sure of anything.”
I got to my feet, crossed to the chest of drawers, and picked up a book I’d been reading earlier, holding it as though absorbing its essence might somehow empower me. Gordon Wolpert, who I’d somehow managed to convince myself was a multiple murderer, had in turn managed to persuade someone else to murder him.
I opened a drawer, put the book inside. I opened the closet door, got a whiff of Rathburn’s shoes, and closed it again.
“It’s time,” I said.
“Time for what, Bernie?”
“Time for action. You know what Chandler said, don’t you? When things start to slow down, bring in a couple of guys with guns in their hands.”
“Have you got a gun?”
“No,” I said, “and I’m only one man, but it’s high time I found a couple of mean streets to walk down. I want you to go downstairs, Millicent.”
“And leave you and Raffles here?”
“You can take Raffles with you,” I said. “The main thing is I want you to get them all in one room.”
“Which room?”
“The library,” I said. “That’s where it all started. That’s where it should end.”
CHAPTER Twenty-five
They were all in the library.
I don’t know how she managed it, but somehow she’d rounded them all up. They perched on chairs and sofas, stood propped against walls and bookshelves, or huddled in twos and threes to talk, probably wondering why she’d summoned them all there.
Which could have been my opening line. “I suppose you’re wondering why she summoned you all here,” I might very well have said.
But I didn’t. I just walked across the threshold and took note of their reactions.
And they damn well reacted. Their eyes widened, their jaws dropped, and a few of them went a shade or two paler. Miss Dinmont’s hands tightened their grip on the arms of her wheelchair, Mrs. Colibri clutched at a bookcase for support, and Colonel Blount-Buller’s upper lip lost a little of its stiffness. There was a fair amount of gasping, but no one actually said anything, until Lettice Littlefield cried out, “Bernie! Is it really you?”
“In the flesh,” I said, and pinched myself. “See? You’re not dreaming, and I’m not a ghost.”
“But you were-”
“Down at the bottom of the gully, creased with a kris,” I said. “Except I wasn’t, not really. And one reason I burst in on you like this was to see which dog didn’t bark.”
That got some stares of incomprehension. “‘Silver Blaze,’” I explained. “What Holmes found significant was that the dog didn’t bark. Well, if somebody didn’t twitch or gape or go pale at my appearance, it meant he wasn’t surprised. And who would be unsurprised to find me still alive? The person who knew I wasn’t dead. And who would know that better than the man who didn’t kill me?”
“Well said,” the colonel allowed, and a couple of heads nodded their approval of my logic.
Then Leona Savage said, “I didn’t kill you.”
“Huh? No, of course you didn’t, and-”
“I didn’t kill you,” she insisted, “but I was surprised to see you here, because I saw what I took to be you at the bottom of the gully and consequently thought you were dead. I’m not the man who didn’t kill you, but I’m certainly one of the persons who didn’t kill you, and I was surprised nonetheless. It’s a good thing I didn’t have a heart attack.”
“An excellent thing,” I agreed, “and I’m sorry to have shocked you, but-”
“In fact,” she pressed on, “nobody here killed you, because you’re still very much alive. So I don’t see-”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Leona,” Greg Savage said. “You always do that.”
“I always do what?”
“That,” he said, with feeling if not with precision. “You know what he means, or you ought to. Somebody in this room is a killer. He killed Rathburn and Orris and the cook, and most recently he killed Gordon Wolpert. And the rest of us all assumed he’d killed Rhodenbarr here as well. But the killer, whoever he is, knew he hadn’t killed Rhodenbarr.”