Neal Rafferty New Orleans Mystery #1: The Killing Circle (A Neal Rafferty New Orleans Mystery) by Chris Wiltz Page B

colors. There were a few still lifes. I examined the portrait closest to me. The face was in movement, its lines contorted and flowing into the background as if it were looking out from a pool of running water. The amused expression identified it as André. Scrawled in large black letters in the lower right corner was the signature Lise.
    “A tribute by a talented young woman, wouldn't you say? Please make yourself comfortable in my study. I'll be with you momentarily.” He gestured at a half-opened door and took off to the rear of the house.
    In the middle of the study a Tensor lamp lit up an overstuffed leather chair. The rest of the room was darkened by towering brown bookshelves. My eyes were adjusting to the change when I got the feeling I was being observed. I locked my eyes with a giant frog sitting on top of a writing table under a shuttered window. His ruby eyes bulged in their sockets at me. All over the book-lined room, from every vantage point, on top of the shelves, the books, peering out from a potted palm, scattered on the floor, frogs glistened and winked. There must have been a hundred of them, all peering straight at me as if my entrance had alerted their danger signals. A little one perched on an ottoman even had his head dipped in my direction to get a better view. Under this scrutiny, I eased back in a Morris chair, also in the middle of the room, and turned on the floor lamp next to it. André had been reading. The book lay open on a side table next to the leather chair. There was a ring of water where his glass had been. I leaned over to see the title of the book. It was called States of Consciousness.
    André came in carrying a bottle of Hennessey and two snifters. “I hope my friends have kept you amused.”
    “Don't you know it's rude to stare at people that way?”
    He chuckled. “I don't suppose anyone's ever bothered to tell them.” He poured the cognac and handed me one.
    “Since you seem to know why I'm here, André, why don't you tell me about it.”
    He asked seriously, “About what?” but his amusement returned before he finished the question.
    “About Garber.”
    “I know he's dead, but, then, I imagine you know that, too.”
    “Then maybe you know that your name was plastered all over his memo sheet. Have any idea why?” He lit a cigarette, looking at me over the flame. “Let me guess, André. These deductions are hard, but I think I've got it. You must be the mysterious ‘prospective buyer;’ the one interested in the Blake books.”
    “How clever of you.”
    “Yeah, I'm real ingenious. Why those particular books, André?”
    “I'm a great admirer of William Blake's. I like books in general.” He gazed fondly around the room. “I like owning them for the sake of owning them. That's actually a rather common obsession. You see, Rafferty, I'm not unsympathetic to your plight. I'm trying to help you with the more difficult deductions.”
    “Gee, thanks, André. That's real chipper of you. Why the Blake books? I ask again at the risk of being accused of senile repetition.”
    “Honestly, Rafferty, I'm not trying to be crafty. I repeat, at the same risk, I admire Blake. I admire all of the English poets of that period. My shelves contain collections of Wordsworth, Byron, Shelley, Keats, Landor. But they sadly lack any good collection of Blake. Do I make myself clear?”
    “Did your collections of Wordsworth, Byron, Shelley, Keats, and whoever all cost ninety thousand dollars?”
    He smiled and stuck his cigarette into the corner of it.
    “Were you trying to ruffle Fleming with the offer?”
    “No, no, Rafferty. You're off the track now. The offer was made without Fleming's knowledge of who was making it. The offer was made directly to Garber and with explicit instructions that he should not tell Fleming who was making it.”
    “Why the mystery?”
    “Why not? I enjoy a good mystery. Anyway, if Fleming had been interested in selling, why should he care who was doing the