The Burglar in the Library by Lawrence Block Page B

though, filling a three-tiered set of glassed-in shelves and propped between a pair of sailing-ship bookends.
    I had a quick look at the books while Carolyn leafed through a year-old copy of Town & Country. When I dropped into the chair next to hers she closed the magazine and looked at me.
    “Better books,” I said. “Hardcover fiction, most of it between fifty and eighty years old. Some mysteries, all by authors that nobody reads nowadays. A lot of general fiction. James T. Farrell, one of the books in his Danny O’Neill tetralogy. And Mammonart, by Upton Sinclair.”
    “Are they valuable, Bern?”
    “They’re both important writers,” I said, “but they’re not very actively collected. And of course the dust jackets are long gone.”
    “What do you mean, ‘long gone’? For all you know they were there until five minutes ago.”
    “You’re right,” I said. “I jumped to a conclusion, based on the fact that all but two or three of the books in the case are missing their jackets.”
    “Then it’s a good thing they’re inside, Bern. In this weather, they’d freeze their flyleaves off.” She pointed at the window. “Still coming down,” she said.
    “So it is.”
    “You hardly looked at those books, Bernie. You just scanned each shelf for a couple of seconds, and you knew what was there and what wasn’t.”
    “Well, I’m in the business,” I said. “When you look at books day in and day out, you develop a knack.”
    “Makes sense, Bern. I’m the same way with dogs.”
    “And it’s easier,” I said, “when you know what you’re looking for. There’s just one book I’m looking for, so I don’t have to take a careful inventory of everything else. As soon as I know I’m not looking at Raymond Chandler, I can go on and look at something else.”
    “Like a springbok,” she said. “If that’s what it was.”
    “What else could it be?”
    “You named a whole lot of other things, Bern. You didn’t want it to be a springbok. How’d you learn so much about African antelopes?”
    “All I know about them I learned from crossword puzzles,” I said, “and that’s why I didn’t think it was a springbok. It’s nine letters long, for God’s sake. When’s the last time you saw a springbok in a crossword puzzle?”
    “You should have pointed that out to the colonel. Don’t you love the way he talks? I guess that’s what you call a pukka sahib accent.”
    “I guess so.”
    “If he were any more English,” she said, “he couldn’t talk at all. This is great, Bern. It’s not just that Cuttleford House is something straight out of an English mystery. The guests could have stepped right out of the pages themselves. The colonel’s perfect in that respect. He could be Jane Marple’s neighbor, recently retired to St. Mary Mead after a career shooting people in India.”
    “People and springboks,” I said.
    “And those two women we met in the Sewing Room. Miss Dinmont and Miss Hardesty. The frail Miss Dinmont and the outgoing Miss Hardesty.”
    “If you say so,” I said. “I couldn’t keep them straight.”
    “Neither could God, Bern.”
    “Huh?”
    “Keep them straight.”
    “Oh. You figure they’re gay?”
    “If this were an English mystery,” she said, “instead of life itself, I’d go along with the pretense that Miss Dinmont is a wealthy invalid and Miss Hardesty is her companion, and that’s all there is to the relationship.” She frowned. “Of course, in the last chapter it would turn out that the wheelchair’s just a prop, and Miss Dinmont would be capableof leaping around like a gazelle, or one of those other animals you got from the crossword puzzle. That’s because in the books things are never quite what they appear to be. In real life, things tend to be exactly what they appear to be.”
    “And they appear to be lesbians?”
    “Well, it doesn’t take x-ray vision, does it? Hardesty’s your typical backslapping butch, and Dinmont’s one of those