The Burglar in the Library by Lawrence Block Page A

shoes,” she said, “I’ll admit it, but it was still an incredible meal. Can you believe it? The coffee’s good. I meant to order tea, because everybody knows the English can’t make a decent cup of coffee. But this is great. How do you explain that, Bern?”
    “Maybe they didn’t come straight here from England,” I suggested. “Maybe they stopped off in Seattle.”
    “That must be it,” she said, and wiped hermouth with her napkin. “Look at me, Bern. A couple of pops and a decent meal and I think I died and went to heaven. I’ll tell you something. I like it here. I’m glad we came.”

CHAPTER
Six
    A fter dinner we drifted from room to room, getting our bearings on the first floor of Cuttleford House. There was, God knows, an awful lot of it, and one room just sort of led to another. We started out in a sort of sitting room called the East Parlour, and I might have taken it for the library if I hadn’t already seen the Great Library in the brochure. The parlor had floor-to-ceiling bookshelves on either side of the fireplace. The other walls sported memorabilia—crossed spears, West African ceremonial masks, and the stuffed head of one of those crossword-puzzle animals. An oryx, say.
    There were more books on a breakfront, braced by a pair of bronze Abraham-Lincoln-seated-and-looking-pensive bookends, and there were revolving bookcases flanking the floral-patterned sofa.
    “There are books all over the place,” Carolyn murmured. “You saw the bookcase in our room, didn’t you?”
    “Uh-huh. It reminded me of my bargain table.”
    “No Big Sleep, huh?”
    “Just a large yawn. Mostly late-model paperbacks. Last year’s best-sellers. The kind of book you take along to a resort and leave behind when you go home.”
    “If you managed to finish it.”
    “Or even if you didn’t,” I said.
    We broke off to get into conversation with Colonel Edward Blount-Buller, a florid-faced gentleman in moleskin trousers and a tweed Norfolk jacket. We’d been introduced to him in the bar before dinner, and he’d evidently lingered there amidst the single-malt Scotches. Now he was moved to discourse upon the inherent nobility of the hunting trophy on the opposite wall.
    “It’s the horns, don’t you know.” We must have looked puzzled. “The horns, the horns,” he said. “The long graceful tapering horns. What would he be without them, eh?” He held up a finger, its knuckle knobby with arthritis. “I’ll tell you,” he said. “Be a bloody nanny goat.”
    “I’d rather be a live nanny goat,” Carolyn said, “than have some jerk shoot me and stick my head on his wall.”
    “Ah,” he said. “Well, you’re a woman, eh?”
    “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    “No slight intended, I assure you. But the gentler sex has a more practical nature, takes short views. Better to munch grass and give milk than to take a bullet, eh?”
    “If those are the choices,” she said, “I wouldn’t have to spend a long time thinking it over.”
    “Without his horns,” the colonel said, “our springbok would have gone on grazing until agemade him easy prey to a lion or a dog pack. He’d have left his bones bleaching in the hot African sun. The world would have long since forgotten him.” He gestured at the mounted head. “Instead he lives on,” he announced, “countless years past his ordinary lifespan. It’s immortality of a sort, wot? Not quite the sort you or I might choose, but quite the best available to him.”
    “A springbok,” I said.
    “And a fine one, sir, wouldn’t you say?”
    “You’re sure it’s not an oryx?”
    “Hardly that.”
    “Or an ibex,” I suggested. “Or an okapi, or even a gnu.”
    “Fine beasts, all of them,” he said. “But our friend here is a springbok. You have my assurance of that.”
     
    In the Sitting Room, the walls were given over to framed Ape and Spy caricatures from the old Vanity Fair, with not a single stuffed head to be seen. There were books,