“What do you think?” He crouched down next to me. “I couldn’t very well let you come out here alone and get yourself killed, now could I?”
I felt my heart beating all over my body. I was having a hard time catching my breath. But I was thrilled to see Henry.
“I just got to thinking that I’d probably be the one asked to give the eulogy at your funeral,” he said, “and since I hate public speaking, I thought I’d rather be with you if the unthinkable happened.”
I wanted to smile. Then I got to thinking about the funeral reference and it made me kind of nervous.
“So, have you seen anything?” he asked.
“Not yet. But it’s hard to watch all of the doors at the same time. I might have missed something.”
“Maybe we should split up,” he said. “What do you think?”
It was a good idea. It made perfect sense. So why did I not want to do it? The answer was simple. I was nervous, and I wasn’t proud of it.
“We could, I guess,” I said. “Or we could just stick together and check each entrance one by one.”
Henry was tough—a lot tougher than me. It wouldn’t have bothered him in the least to split up. But sometimes, and I can’t explain why, there is this unspoken language between friends. It was almost as if he knew exactly what I was thinking. And it probably was the reason why the two of us had been inseparable for years.
“You know, why don’t we do that,” he said. “Why don’t we stick together. Like they always say: there’s strength in numbers.”
And so we began our rounds . . . once . . . twice . . . three times. We would walk up to each door and tug on it just to make sure that the building was secure. We made it a point to stay as close to the outer walls as possible and to duck behind whatever shrubs were available in order to stay hidden. After we had circled the property at least a half-dozen times, we sat down to rest.
“How long are we gonna keep doing this?” Henry asked.
“I don’t know. Are you getting tired?”
“I’m not tired. I’m just not sure this guy is ever gonna show up,” he said.
I didn’t know what to do. It was probably getting close to two o’clock. I was starting to believe that Henry was right. This guy apparently wasn’t coming. And my theory was all wrong. I guess I should have listened to Eugene. It served me right for thinking that I knew more than the expert. It was, however, kind of nice to be a member of a surveillance team and to be part of the action. And if we ended up packing up and going home, I was doubtful that I would ever tell anyone that we were here. I wouldn’t want to admit that my strategy was flawed.
“Let’s check the doors one more time,” I said. “If he still hasn’t shown after that, then I suppose we can head home.”
“I know you don’t want to hear it,” Henry said, “but this guy may have gone to one of the bookstores like Eugene figured and may very well be in custody by now.”
“I’d be fine with that,” I said. “I just want the guy caught. Although I was positive he’d show up here.”
Since we were facing the loading dock, we began there. It was secure. Then we worked our way to the east side of the building. Again the door was locked. We crept to the front of the building, the most unlikely place for a break-in because of the lighting. And as we had expected, there was no one in sight.
“One more door and we’re done,” Henry said. “Then we have to make it home without being nabbed for a curfew violation. I don’t want to even think about having to explain that one to my parents.”
As we approached the employee entrance on the west side of the building, I felt this tightness in my chest. I sensed that something just wasn’t right. The closer we got, the more uneasy I felt.
“Hey, that door doesn’t look like it’s shut all the way,” Henry said. We ran up to it. The door was slightly ajar, and there were scratches on the lock. When we tugged at the handle, it opened. “Pay dirt!” he said. “Looks like you were right, partner.”
I nodded nervously. Flashlights in hand, we entered the building. It was dark. Really dark. In the past few years, ever since I had discovered the Sam Solomon mystery series, I had spent untold hours at the library. But since we were now in a restricted area, accessible only to employees, I wasn’t exactly sure where we were. We followed a long hallway until we reached another set of doors.
“This way?” Henry said.
“Why not.” We flipped off our flashlights as we opened a heavy steel door. If our suspect was out there, we didn’t want him to know we were here. When we didn’t see or hear anything, we turned them back on and proceeded. We found ourselves in the main part of the library. I knew exactly where we were. We hadn’t gone more than a few feet when we heard footsteps. We hit the floor. Flashlights off. There was a reddish glow on Henry’s face from the overhead exit sign. He looked concerned. The footsteps seemed to be coming from the hallway we had just passed through. We could hear the doorknob turning. We huddled together up against the nearest wall. The door opened slowly and we could see someone holding a light of some kind, a colored light. It didn’t appear to be a flashlight. We held our breaths and prayed we weren’t detected. The figure moved closer and closer, and then we felt something. . . .
“Ahhhhhh . . .”
CHAPTER 22
The Fur Real Caper
Henry and I jumped up and ran in opposite directions. With flashlights tucked in our pockets, we were running blindly. And so it wasn’t a surprise when we each came to a screeching and crashing halt—me into a table and Henry into a floor-to-ceiling bookcase. Each of us, afraid to speak and now in a prone position, reached for our flashlights and flipped them on. As soon as I saw the glow from Henry’s flashlight, I aimed mine in his direction. We gave each other a thumbs-up and began to scan the area, looking for our uninvited guest.
It didn’t take long to locate the intruder. We spotted him crouching behind a wastebasket. Now on all fours, I began to crawl toward our prey. I could tell from the glow of Henry’s flashlight that he was also moving in for the kill. Right at that moment, I wasn’t quite sure if what we were doing was the smartest thing. We had no idea who or what was waiting for us. I stopped in my tracks. I wondered if we should just get up and run for our lives, or should we see this through? Part of me wanted to hightail it out of there, but the other part of me—the part who claimed to be a disciple of Sam Solomon—had to continue on. Why come this far, I thought, only to back out now?
I could see that Henry was only about twenty feet from the figure. And then all at once, he climbed to his feet, darted forward, and ducked down behind a cart of books. He was now close enough to get a good look. He lifted his head and peeked out over the cart. Then he aimed his flashlight at the wastebasket.
“Oh no. You’ve got to be kidding me,” he said.
The intruder . . . the mystery man . . . the uninvited guest . . . the person who had scared us half to death . . . just happened to be one Scarlett Alexander. She stood up, sighed, and folded her arms. I couldn’t tell if she was relieved or furious. I soon found out that it was a little of both.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
She marched in my direction, shaking her finger at me the entire time. “What am I doing here? What am I doing here?” She was beside herself. “Because you don’t go out alone. Because you don’t go out alone . . . at night. And because you don’t go out alone . . . at night . . . and place yourself in a dangerous situation. Did anyone ever tell you that? You have no business here. None of us do.”
“So what do you expect us to do?” Henry said.
“You two are going to help me find my cell phone so we can get out of here. I dropped it when I tripped over you guys.”
“So that was the colored light you were carrying,” Henry said. “I should have known you wouldn’t be smart enough to bring a real flashlight.”
But before Scarlett could fire off a volley, we spotted a light . . . a moving light. It was all the way across the main floor on the other side of the library between two shelves of books. We all dropped to the floor.
“That must be him,” Henry said.
“I guarantee that’s him,” I said. “He’s in the exact spot where they keep all of the Sam Solomon books.”
“Let’s just get out of here,” Scarlett whispered.
“Are you nuts?” I said. “That’s the reason why we’re here. We can’t turn back now.”
Scarlett seemed frightened. She shuffled a few feet in my direction, which was perfectly fine with me.
“Listen, I’m not crazy,” I said. “I don’t want to be a dead hero. Why don’t we just try and get a look at this guy? Then we can go find Scarlett’s phone, call the police, and get the heck out of here.”
“I don’t like it,” she said.
“Then you can just wait here for us,” Henry replied.
Scarlett grabbed my arm. “Don’t you dare leave me here alone.”
I motioned for the others to follow me. We slowly made our way across the main floor and over to where the mystery books were kept. We stopped just a few yards short of our subject.
“This is close enough,” Scarlett said.
“We just gotta get a good look at him,” I said. “Then we’ll take off. No need to confront him.”
I rose from a crouched position ever so slowly, shuffled over, and peeked around the end of a bookshelf. In the dark, I could barely make out a figure. It appeared to be a male, dressed head to toe, in black. He slid out a book and then set his flashlight down on one of the shelves. The light, now facing him, illuminated his face just enough for me to see his features. He had a long face . . . with a goatee . . . and sunken cheeks . . . he was maybe about fifty years old. His hair was salt and pepper. I made a mental image of the suspect. I was sure that I could either pick him out of a lineup or help a police artist create a composite sketch. My work was done here. I lowered myself back to a crouch and snuck back to where the others were waiting.
“Did you get a look at him?” Henry whispered.
I nodded and then pointed to the door we had come from. “Time to go.” But before we were able to make our way across the main floor and out of the building, something unexpected happened. And I can only blame Mother Nature. I noticed that Scarlett’s mouth had started to open . . . but not to speak. She was about to sneeze. Her spring allergies were about to expose us. I couldn’t let that happen, but what could I do? Right at that moment, without thinking, just as she was about to sneeze, I reached over and squeezed her nose, trying to suppress the sneeze. But what I managed to do was far worse. The petite sneeze that she might have produced had been transformed into a monster that came directly out of her mouth. It was the most hideous sound you could have imagined . . . and one of the loudest I had ever heard.
Scarlett looked up at me in horror. But that was the least of our problems. The suspect immediately came running down the aisle, spotted us on the floor, and pointed his flashlight directly at us.
“Who are you? What are you doing here?” he said.
My partners glanced in my direction. Apparently this question was for me. “We’re just messing around. That’s all.” I stood up and smiled sheepishly. “We’d better get going, gang. Sorry to have bothered you.”
“Well, you’re about to be real sorry,” he said. “I can’t afford to have anybody recognize me.”
“We won’t say anything,” Scarlett said. “We promise.”
“Oh, I know that,” he said. The perp stuck his hand into his pocket as if he were hiding a gun.
I doubted if he really had one, but we couldn’t take a chance.
“Okay, start walking,” he said.
“Where?” Henry asked.
The burglar surveyed the area. “Over there,” he said, pointing to a stairway that went to the library basement.
I led my friends in the direction of the stairs. I thought about where we might be headed. If he took us downstairs, it could be a good thing. That was the spot where I had spent countless hours in the past couple of years curled up with any number of Sam Solomon novels. I knew every inch of the library basement. As we approached the stairwell, he motioned with his flashlight for us to head down.
Good. When we reached the lower level, he flipped on the light switch. We were staring at a room filled with stacks of books along with a small reading alcove with a couch and a table and chairs. That was my hideaway when I wanted to be alone with the world’s greatest literary detective.
“Stay right there and don’t move,” the man said as he checked out each corner of the room. When he reappeared a moment later, he nodded in the direction of the far wall.
I knew exactly where we were headed. We walked, in single file, toward a door marked LIBRARY ARCHIVES. This was where they housed the rarest and most expensive volumes—ones that weren’t available for public consumption. Our captor slipped by us and tried the door. It was locked—naturally. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a handful of small tools, and selected one. He slipped one end of it into the lock, moved it around for a few seconds, and then, just like that, turned the knob and opened the door. Our friend was the proud owner of a set of burglary tools. I was actually familiar with these. They were similar to the ones that Rupert Olsen had given to Sherman to break into pet stores a couple of months back when all the exotic birds had been stolen.
The man waved us into the room, followed us in, turned on the lights, and pulled the door closed behind him. The first thing he did was to walk over to one of the air vents. He jiggled the metal cover and then popped it off. He did the same with another vent on the opposite wall.
“Say hello to your new home, or should I say tomb,” he said.
I didn’t like the way he had phrased that. By the looks on my partners’ faces, I could tell that we shared the same sentiment. I wasn’t sure what this character had planned for us, but whatever it was, I was confident that I would be able to figure out a way to get us out of it. I had done so in the past when our lives dangled in the balance, and this was no different. My goal, for the time being, was to engage our suspect in conversation. I would either try to convince him to let us go or at least learn enough about him to share with police after we escaped.
“Why are you doing this?” I said.
“Don’t worry about it, kid. Your timing was bad. Let’s leave it at that.”
“I think I know what’s going on here,” I said.
He chuckled. “Oh, really? Well, why don’t you enlighten me?”
“Here’s how I see it,” I said. “For whatever reason, good or bad, you have this thing for Sam Solomon.”
The look on his face suggested that I had hit a nerve.
“You listen to the dramas on Monday nights. You identify some important word or phrase from the program, you look for a double meaning, then you find a business associated with that word and burglarize it early the next morning. Am I close?”
The man smiled, pulled out a chair, sat down, and put his feet on a table. He began applauding.
“Well done, my pudgy friend. I’m impressed,” he said.
“And if you have any thoughts of trying to shut us up,” Henry said, “then you should know that a professional private detective, as well as the police, know all about it.”
He grinned. “Wonderful. I couldn’t be happier. I want people to know where my inspiration comes from. I want them to know that Sam Solomon is behind all of it.”
“Have you got some kind of beef with Sam Solomon?” I asked. “Does it have anything to do with the business cards you leave at every job—the ones with the SS circled?”
The man pulled a similar card from his pocket and tossed it on the table. “You mean this? It appears my little plan is working beautifully.”
Scarlett took a step in the direction of the suspect. “Who are you, and what exactly do you want anyway?”
He stood and bowed at the waist. “My name is Jonathan Wentworth. So pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Wentworth. Wentworth. Where had I heard that name before? It didn’t take me long to figure it out.
“Are you any relation to Peter Wentworth, the actor who played Sam Solomon in the radio show?”
“Peter Wentworth was my grandfather,” he said.
Now I was even more confused. “I don’t get it,” I said. “What do you have against Sam Solomon? He made your grandfather a star.”
The man slammed his fist down on the table. “Sam Solomon killed my grandfather. And now I’m going to kill Sam Solomon.”
I had heard a lot of wild things in my twelve short years on this planet, but never anything quite this bizarre.
“Sam Solomon is a fictional character,” Scarlett said. “How can you possibly kill him?”
“And how could Sam have killed a real person?” Henry asked. “It makes no sense.”
The suspect stared forward. He wasn’t even looking at us any longer. “When my grandfather was cast in the role of Sam Solomon, he was thrilled. This was the break of a lifetime. And as the show got more popular, so did he. The producers talked him into signing a long-term contract . . . and that was the beginning of the end.”
I glanced at the others. This guy was scary. It was as if he was in some sort of a trance.
“My grandfather was a simple man. He didn’t believe in lawyers or agents. He conducted business with a handshake and a signature. But what he didn’t know is that he had signed an exclusive contract that prevented him from accepting any other acting jobs while he played Sam Solomon. Well, that was the kiss of death. No one does that anymore. It’s a career killer.”
“I don’t get it,” Scarlett said. “If he was working steadily and getting a nice paycheck, what difference did it make?”
The Copycat Caper Page 20
