"Block, Lawrence - collection - The Collected Mystery Stories - 03 - Bernie Rhodenbarr - The Burglar Who Smelled Smoke - with Lynne Wood (b)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Block Lawrence)

"But I was with you! Karl was with us at lunch. Then he went into the library and I showed you to the guest room."

"You showed me, all right."

"And we were together," she said, lowering her eyes modestly. "It shames me to say it with my husband tragically dead, but we were in bed together until almost six o'clock, when we came down here to discover the body. You can testify to that, can't you, Bernie?"

"I can swear we went to bed together," I said, "And I can swear that I was there until six, unless I went sleepwalking. But I was out cold, Eva."

"So was I."

"I don't think so," I said. "You stayed away from the coffee, saying how it kept you awake. Well, it sure didn't keep me awake. I think there was something in it to make me sleep, and that's why you didn't want any. I think there was more of the same in the pot you gave Karl to bring in here with him, so he'd be dozing peacefully while you set off the halon. You waited until I was asleep, went outside with a mirror and a magnifier, heated the sensor and set off the gas, and then came back to bed. The halon would do its work in minutes, and without warning even if Karl wasn't sleeping all that soundly. Halon's odorless and colorless, and the air-cleaning system would whisk it all away in less than an hour. But I think there'll be traces in his system, along with traces of the same sedative they'll find in the residue in both the coffee pots. And I think that'll be enough to put you away."

Crittenden thought so, too.

When I got back to the city there was a message on the machine to call Nizar Gulbenkian. It was late, but it sounded urgent.

"Bad news," I told him. "I had the book just about sold. Then he locked himself in his library to commune with the ghosts of Rex Stout and Franklin Delano Roosevelt, and next thing he knew they were all hanging out together."

"You don't mean he died?"

"His wife killed him," I said, and I went on to tell him the whole story. "So that's the bad news, though it's not as bad for us as it is for the Bellermanns. I've got the book back, and I'm sure I can find a customer for it."

"Ah," he said. "Well, Bernie, I'm sorry about Bellermann. He was a true bookman."

"He was that, all right."

"But otherwise your bad news is good news."

"It is?"

"Yes. Because I changed my mind about the book."

"You don't want to sell it?"

"I can't sell it," he said. "It would be like tearing out my soul. And now, thank God, I don't have to sell it."

"Oh?"

"More good news," he said. "A business transaction, a long shot with a handsome return. I won't bore you with the details, but the outcome was very good indeed. If you'd been successful in selling the book, I'd now be begging you to buy it back."

"I see."

"Bernie," he said, I'm a collector, as passionate about the pursuit as poor Bellermann. I don't ever want to sell. I want to add to my holdings." He let out a sigh, clearly pleased at the prospect. "So I'll want the book back. But of course I'll pay you your commission all the same."

"I couldn't accept it."

"So you had all that work for nothing?"

"Not exactly," I said.