by The Web(Lit)
"Everything he does is calculated. I feel like a character in a play. His script. Even this disappearance. Middle of the night, so damned theatrical."
'You think he faked it?"
"Who knows what goes on in that big, bald head? I sympathize with the fact that his life's falling apart, but the logical thing would have been to beef up security and wait until Ben's lawyer arrives.
Instead, he lets the staff go home early and puts his daughter through this."
Rain hit the window so hard it shook the casement.
I ran my finger down another contents page, tossed it.
"Why choose me to play Clue with?"
"He obviously trusts you."
"Lucky me. It makes no sense, Rob. He knows we're leaving.
I told him this afternoon. Unless in his own nutty way he thinks this'll keep us here."
"Maybe that or something else spurred him to action. But he could also be in real trouble. Knew he was in danger and left a message for you because you're the only one he's got left."
"What kind of trouble?"
"Someone could have gotten in here and abducted him."
"Or he fell, like he did in the lab."
"Yes," she said.
"I've noticed he loses his balance a lot. And the absentmindedness. Maybe he's sick, Alex."
"Or just an old man pushing himself too hard."
"Either way, his being out there on a night like this isn't a pleasant thought."
The rain kept sloshing. Spike listened, tense and fascinated.
We finished the magazines. Nothing on Disraeli.
"There are books in your office," she said.
"In back, where the files are."
"But they're not categorized," I said.
"Thousands of volumes, no system. Not too efficient if he's really trying to tell me something."
"Then what about that library off the dining room?" she said.
"The one he told us wouldn't interest us. Maybe he said that because he was hiding something."
"A book on or by Disraeli? What is this, Nancy Drew and Joe Hardy's blind date?"
"Let's at least check. What could it hurt, Alex? All we've got is time."
We went downstairs again. The.hous,e was a scramble of streaks and shadows, hidden angles and blind corners, ripe with charged air.
We passed through the front room and the dining room. The library door was closed but unlocked.
Once inside, I turned on a crystal lamp. Dim light; the salmon moire walls looked brown and the dark furniture muddy.
Very few books. Maybe a hundred volumes housed in the pair of cases.
Unlike the big library, this one was alphabetized: fiction to the left, nonfiction to the right, the former mostly Reader's Digest condensed editions of best-sellers, the latter art books and biographies.
I found the Disraeli quickly: an old British edition of a novel called Tancred. Inside was a rose-pink, lace-edged bookplate that said EX LIBRIS: Barbara Steehoven Moreland. The name inscribed in a calligraphic hand, much more elegant than Moreland's.
I turned hurriedly to page 184.
No distinguishing marks or messages.
Nothing noteworthy about line eighteen or word eighteen or letter eighteen.
Nothing noteworthy about anything in the book.
I read the page again, then a third time, handed it to Robin.
She scanned it and gave it back.
"So maybe "DISK" stands for something else. Could it be something medical?"
Shrugging, I flipped through the book again. No inscriptions anywhere. The pages were yellowed but crisp at the edges, as if never handled.
I put it back, pulled out another volume at random. Gone With the Wind. Then Forever Amber. A couple of Irving Wallaces. All with Barbara Moreland's bookplate.
"Her room," said Robin.
"So he probably thinks of the big one as his. Leaving something there makes more sense it's right behind your office. Maybe he pulled something out and left it for you."
"This isn't exactly strolling weather."
She wagged a finger at me.
"And someone forgot to bring his rain slicker!"
"Unlike the always-prepared Dr. Picker. Wonder if she packed her little gun under that giant condom. I should have insisted on going with her and Pam. Maybe I should go over to the bug zoo and see what the two of them are up to."
"No," she said.
"If Jo is armed, I don't want you out there in the dark. What if she mistakes you for an intruder?"
"Or pretends to."
"You really suspect her?"
"At the very least she's working for Stasher-Layman."
She frowned.
"And Pam's out there with her let's go see if Bill left anything for you."
"Two targets in the dark? Forget it." I buttoned my shirt at the neck and raised the collar.
"You go back and lock yourself in the room, and I'll dash over. I'll circle around from the back and avoid the bug house."
She grabbed my arm.
"No way are you leaving me alone. Waiting for you to return will drive me batty."
"I'" be quick. If I don't find anything in ten minutes, I'll forget about it."
"No."
"You'll get drenched."
We'll get drenched together."
"Let's just forget the whole thing, Rob. If Moreland wanted to send a message, he should have used Western Union."
"Alex, please. You know if I wasn't here, you'd be running to that bungalow."
"I don't know that at all."
"Come on."
"The point is you are here. Let me go in and out or forget about it, Nancy."
"Please, Alex. What if he's in danger and our not helping leads to tragedy?"
"There's already been plenty of tragedy, and what can Disraeli have to do with helping him?"
"I don't know. But like you said, he's got reasons for everything.
He may play games, but they're serious ones. Come on, let's make a quick run for it."
"You'll catch a cold, young lady."
"On the contrary. It's a warm rain think of it as showering together. You always like that."
We were soaked immediately. I held her arm, and rain-blinded and slick-footed, concentrated on staying on the paths.
No worries about the gravel-crunch; the downpour blocked it out.
Vertical swimming; new Olympic event.
The downpour felt oily as it rolled off our skin.
Slow going till I spotted the yellow light over my office door. I stopped, looked around. No one in sight, but an army could have been hiding, and I knew if Moreland was out there it would be nearly impossible to find him before morning.
I glanced toward the insectarium. Lights still off. Pam and Jo hadn't gotten in.
The rain chopped our necks and our backs. Deep-tissue massage. I tapped Robin's shoulder and the two of us made a dash for the bungalow. The door was unlocked, as I'd left it.
I got Robin inside, then myself, and flipped on the weakest light in the room a glass-shaded desk lamp.
Water flooded the hardwood floor. Our clothes clung like leotards and we sounded like squeegees when we moved.
Books and journals on my desk.
Piles of them that hadn't been there this afternoon.
Medical texts. But nothing by or about Disraeli.
No references beginning "DISR."
Then I found it, hefty and blue, on the bottom of the stack.
The Oxford Dictionary of Quotations.
I flipped to page 184. Samples of the wisdom of Benjamin Disraeli.
Line 18:
"Justice is truth in action."
All that for this? The crazy old bastard.
Robin read the quote out loud.
I tried to recall the Auden quote... naked justice, justice is truth.
Wanting me do something to ensure justice?
But what?
Suddenly I felt tired and useless. Droppi
ng a sodden sleeve onto the desk, I started to close the book, then noticed a tiny handwritten arrow on the bottom of page 185.
Pointing to the right.
Instruction to turn the page?
I did.
A notation in Moreland's handwriting parallel to the spine. I rotated the book:
214: 2
That turned out to be the wisdom of Gustave Flaubert.
Two quotations.
One about growing beards, the other demeaning the value of books.
More games... Moreland had been reading Flaubert the day he'd shown me the office. L'Education sentiment ale In the original French. Sorry, Dr. Bill, I took Latin in high school... tapping the book, I felt something hard under the right hand leaf.
Ten pages down. Wedged into the spine and taped to the paper.
A key. Brass, shiny new.
I removed it. Underneath was another handwritten inscription, the letters so tiny I could barely make them out:
Thank you for persisting.
Gustave's girl will be assisting.
"Gustave's girl?" said Robin.
"Gustave Flaubert," I said.
"The girl who comes to my mind is Madame Bovary. I told Bill I'd read the book years ago."
"Meaning what?"
"I thought Madame Bovary was married to a doctor, got bored, had affairs, ruined her life, ate poison, and died."
"A doctor's wife? Barbara? Is he trying to tell us she committed suicide?"
"He told me she drowned, but maybe. But why bring that up, now?"
"Could that be what he feels guilty about?"
"Sure, but it still doesn't make sense, making such a big deal about that now."
I tried to reel the book's plot through my mind.
Then the truth came at me nastily and unexpectedly, like a drunk driver.
"No, not his wife," I said. I shut the book.
Stomach turning.
"What is it, Alex?"
"Another Emma," I said, 'is going to help us. A girl with eight legs."
33. "Something hidden near her cage?" said Robin.
"Or in it?"
O'He may have hidden it in the bug zoo to keep it from Jo.
She claimed to be queasy about bugs, and this afternoon I told him my suspicions of her."
"She's there right now."
"Holding the ladder for Pam. Be interesting to see if she actually goes in."
"What could he be hiding?"
"Something to do with either the murders or Stasher-Layman's plan. Ben's arrest made him realize things are bad and he has to play whatever cards he's got."
The door opened suddenly and Jo and Pam sloshed in. I closed the book of quotations and tried to look casual. Dropped the shiny key into my pocket as the two women wiped the water from their eyes.
Pam shook her head despondently.
Jo fixed her gaze on me and shut the door.
"What are you folks doing out?" wanted to help," said Robin.
"Started looking around the grounds, but it got to be too much so we ducked in. Any luck at the insectarium?"
Pam shook her head miserably.
Jo scanned the room.
"The windows are bolted shut and layered with wire mesh. I managed to break the glass with the flashlight, but the wire wouldn't bend, so all I could do was shine it around and look in as best I could. Far as I could see, he's not there."
"He didn't answer my shouts," said Pam. We got a pretty good look."
"Can't break the door, either," said Jo. Three locks, plate steel and the hinges are inside."
She removed her hat. Rain had gotten underneath and her hair was limp.
"I'm going back out," said Pam.
"Reconsider," Jo told her.
"Even if he is out there, with this kind of limited visibility, I don't see how you'd spot him."
"I don't care."
As she rushed for the door, Jo stared at me.
"What about you?"
"We'll stay here for a while, then return to the house. Let us know if you find him."
Pam left. Jo put her hat back on.
"Are you armed?" I said.
"Excuse me?"
"Are you carrying your gun?"
She smiled.
"No. Weather like this, it could flood. Why? Think I need protection?"
"Anyone could be out there. The hostility down in the village. the rain'll probably keep people away, but who knows? We're all pretty vulnerable traipsing around."
"So?" said Jo.
"So we need to be careful."
"Fine, I'll be careful." She threw the door open and was gone.
I opened the door a crack and watched as she melted into the downpour.
"Why'd you do that?" said Robin when I closed it.
"To let her know I was on to her. Maybe it'll prevent her from trying something, maybe not."
We stood there, then I cracked the door again and looked outside. Nothing, no one. For what that was worth.
"Now what?" said Robin.
"Now we either go back to our room and wait till daylight or you go back and wait and I use the key and see what Gustave's girl can do for us."
She shook her head.
"Third option: we both go visit Emma."
"Not again."
"I'm the one who had the pet tarantula."
That's some qualification."
"What's yours?"
"I'm nuts."
She touched my arm.
"Think about it, Alex: where would you rather I be? With you, or alone with Jo next door? There's no reason for her to think we have any way of getting in there.
It's the last place she'll look for us, especially if she really is bug-phobic."
"Nancy," I said.
"Nancy, Nancy, Nancy."
"Am I wrong? He's a strange old man, Alex, but in a crazy way he's left a logical trail. Maybe we should see the rest of it, Mr. Hardy:
I checked again twice. Waited. Checked again. Finally we snuck out.
Staying out of the path-lights as much as we could, we took a tortuously slow, route to the big building. Stopping several times to make sure we weren't being followed.
The rain kept battering us. I was so wet I forgot about it.
There, finally.
The three new locks were dead bolts.
The key fit all of them.
One final look around.
I pushed the steel door and we slipped in.
It closed on total darkness the windowless anteroom.
Safe to turn on the light.
The space was exactly as I recalled: empty, the white tiles spotless.
And dry.
No one had entered recently.
We squeezed out our clothes. I shut off the lights and pushed open the door to the main room.
Cold metal handrails.
Robin's hand even colder.
A softer darkness in the zoo, speckled by pale-blue dots in some of the aquariums.
Muted moonlight struggled through the two windows Jo and Pam had broken. Each was dead center of the long walls, the glass punched out but the wire mesh remaining. Water shot through on both sides, making a whooshing noise, hitting the sill, and running down to the concrete floor, collecting in shiny blots.
Something else shiny window shards, sharp and ragged as ice chips.
We waited, giving our eyes time to adjust.
The same rotten produce odor. Peat moss, overrripe fruit.
Steps down. Thirteen, Moreland had said.
I took in the central aisle, rows of tables on each side, the work space at the far end where he concocted insect delicacies.
