“You wrote it in the book you autographed for her.”

He snorted. “I never gave her a book. She already had one, she quoted it back at me endlessly, and I certainly never signed or inscribed a book for her. But the line itself is one I used to say rather often.” He took a breath. “Back to the Paddington. I sat around and I sipped, and that’s about all I did.”

“And you came to my store.”

“Yes. Alice turned up, and I recognized her even if she didn’t see through my disguise. And I followed her down here, and I found myself fascinated by your involvement in the process. You were a dealer in antiquarian books, but you also seemed to be something else. A burglar, as it turned out.”

“Well,” I said.

“And then other people kept coming to the shop, each of them with his own interest in the letters. So I kept coming, fascinated, wondering what would happen. You agreed to steal the letters, didn’t you? For Alice?”

“For you,” I said. “So that they could be returned to you.”

“That was her story. And did she say I would pay you?”

“She said you didn’t have much money.”

“God, that’s the truth, and the Hotel Paddington’s getting most of it. So what were you going to get out of it?”

“Nothing,” I said.

“Nothing? You were going to do it out of the goodness of your heart?”

“Well, see,” I said, “I figured I owed you something. You wrote Nobody’s Baby, and that book changed my life.”

“Henry,” I said. “Henry, I may have an idea.”

“About the letters? About getting hold of them?”

“I have some ideas about that, but this is something else. I thought-”

“About Anthea’s murder? And this other murder, the one that happened at your apartment?”

“More ideas,” I allowed, “but what I thought-”

“About the rubies you mentioned? I still don’t understand how the rubies fit into the whole thing.”

“Neither do I, exactly, though I have an idea or two. But this is a little different. It’s more about you being broke, and about a person being entitled to a decent return on his efforts. And I guess what it’s mostly about is the whole notion of what does and doesn’t constitute invasion of privacy.”

“Oh.”

“So let me run it by you,” I said, “and you tell me what you think…”

CHAPTER Nineteen

Ray Kirschmann scratched his head. “I dunno,” he said. “Them’s the famous letters people are gettin’ killed right an’ left over? They don’t look like much to me. He a fag?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You sure? ’cause what kind of regular guy writes all his letters on purple paper? If that ain’t fag stationery I don’t know what is.” He picked up a sheet. “Half the time he don’t even fill more than half the page, you notice that? And the typing’s terrible. Crossouts all over the place. A police officer turns in a report lookin’ like this, believe me, he’s gonna hear about it.”

“Well,” I said.

“An’ look at this, will you? He can’t spell for shit, an’ what he says don’t make sense. ‘In high dudgeon, Gully.’”

“What’s wrong with that, Ray?”

“He spelled ‘dungeon’ wrong. It don’t have a d in it, at least it didn’t last time I looked, an’ he left the n out. And dungeons ain’t high in the first place, Bern. They’re down in the basement.”

“I guess you’re not impressed.”

“I’m impressed that somebody’s gonna pay decent money for this crap,” he said. “That impresses me a whole lot. An’ I’ll be impressed six ways from Sunday if you wind up sortin’ out these two murders an’ I get to close the case. I don’t see how you’re gonna do it.”

“Maybe I’m not.”

“Maybe you’re not,” he agreed, “but you got some record for pullin’ rabbits outta hats. Just comin’ up with these is pretty good rabbit-pullin’. You gave me a phone number, I checked the reverse directory an’ gave you the address, an’ the next thing you know you got a stack of purple letters in your hand. I bet you just rang the doorbell an’ asked for them, didn’t you?”

“I said I was working my way through college. When you say that, people do what they can to help out.”

“Yeah, you oughta be sellin’ magazine subscriptions. But you keep pullin’ those rabbits, so I gotta give you the benefit of the doubt, whether it’s reasonable or not. An’ when it’s over,” he said, flicking the stack of purple paper, “when it’s over, me an’ you can cut the cake, an’ that’s right down the middle.”

“Even Steven.”

“Same as always. So I’ll put the rest of it together for you, Bern. If you come up with a murderer, that’s gravy. If you don’t, then all we wind up with is money. An’ what’s so bad about that?”

“Here you go,” Carolyn said. “All done. What do you think?”

“Looks good to me,” I said, “and I can’t thank you enough.”

“No,” she said, “as a matter of fact, you can’t. Not nearly enough. Although it was almost fun, in a sort of harebrained way. ‘The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.’ What’s the point of that sentence, anyway? Besides the fact that it’s got all twenty-six letters.”

“I think that’s it.”

“It’s also something of a slur on dogs, and I certainly never heard of it happening in real life. Foxes generally get the hell away from dogs as fast as they can. They don’t waste time on gymnastics. Unless the fox was rabid.”

“‘The rabid brown fox jumped over the lazy dog.’”

“I think I did it that way once, as a matter of fact. And there’s another twenty-six-letter one, something about packing my bag with six liquor jugs, but that was a subject I wanted to avoid altogether. Anyway, Bern, I hope you’re happy.”

“Pleased,” I said. “I won’t be happy until this is over.”

It was the day after my heart-to-heart with that little old claymaker with the silver beard, and I was in the bookstore, although I hadn’t bought or sold any books to speak of. I kept busy by training my cat, throwing crumpled-up balls of purple paper. I’m not sure cats can distinguish colors, or if they care. He pounced on them as eagerly as he ever had on white ones.

He’d gone far to his right for one when the phone rang. I picked it up and said, “Barnegat Books,” and a voice I recognized said, “Bernie.”

“Oh, hi, Alice. How was the trip to Charlottesville?”

“Uneventful,” she said, and I could believe it. “Bernie, I just got some very disturbing news.”

“Oh?”

“The file of correspondence,” she said. “It was incomplete.”

“There was a letter missing?”

“Half the file was missing, if my information is correct. I thought I had the whole thing, and I only had half of it.”

“The half you shredded and burned.”

“Yes, that’s right. The other half…God, this is crazy.”

“I’ll say.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Nothing. You know, I wondered about the letters. I didn’t have a chance to tell you yesterday, but…”

“But what?”

“Well, it just so happens I found a whole batch of letters. Typed, and on purple paper.”

“You found them?”

“Uh-huh. See, there was a disturbance in my apartment the other night.”

“I think I read something about that.”

“In the Charlottesville paper? I’m surprised they covered it.”

“Bernie-”

“A woman was killed,” I went on, and crumpled a sheet of purple paper. “When I heard about it, the first thing I thought was that it was you.”

“Me?”

“But then you called, and you can imagine how relieved I was to hear your voice. I’m relieved right now, as far as that goes.”

“Bernie…”

“And I can hear you clear as a bell,” I said. “It’s a great connection. You’d think you were right here in the city.”

“Bernie, these letters you found…”

“When I got back to my apartment-”

“You found them at your apartment?”

“No, if they’d been there the cops would have hauled them off, along with the dead woman and her purse and whatever else she had with her. But they missed one thing, a scrap of paper with my address written on it in a feminine handwriting.”