It was darker in this little room than in the nave. There was a baptismal font in the middle, a cushioned bench or two along the walls. Helen and I looked silently at each other. I couldn’t read her expression, except that it seemed to hold as much alertness and defiance as fear. Without words or gestures, we moved cautiously behind the font, and Helen put a hand on it to steady herself. After another minute, I couldn’t stay still any longer; I handed her the papers and went back to the keyhole. Looking carefully through it, I could see the librarian moving past a column. He did resemble a weasel, his pointed face thrust forward, glancing around at all the pews. He turned in my direction, and I drew back a little. He seemed to study the door to our hiding place, and even took a step or two toward it, then stepped away again. Suddenly a lavender sweater moved into my field of view. It was one of the altar ladies. I could hear her voice, muffled. “Can I help you?” she said kindly.
“Well, I’m looking for someone.” The librarian had a sharp, whistling voice, too loud for a sanctuary. “I-did you see a young lady come in here, in a black suit? Dark hair?”
“Why, yes.” The kind woman looked around, too. “There was someone by that description here a little while ago. She was with a young man, sitting in the back pews. But she’s certainly not here now.”
The weasel swiveled this way and that. “Couldn’t she be hiding in one of those rooms?” He wasn’t subtle, that was clear.
“Hiding?” The lavender lady turned our way, too. “I’m sure there’s no one hiding in our church. Wouldn’t you like me to call the priest? Do you need some help?”
The librarian backed away. “Oh, no, no,” he said. “I must have made a mistake.”
“Would you like some of our literature?”
“Oh, no.” He backed down the aisle. “No, thank you.” I saw him peer around again, and then he passed out of my range of vision. There was a heavy click, a thump-the front door closing behind him. I gave Helen a nod and she sighed noiseless relief, but we waited a few more minutes there, glancing at each other over the font. Helen looked down first, her brow furrowed. I knew she must be wondering how on earth she’d gotten into such a situation and what it really meant. The top of her hair was glossy, ebony-she was hatless again today.
“He’s looking for you,” I said in a low voice.
“Maybe he is looking for you.” She indicated the envelope I held.
“I have a strange idea,” I said slowly. “Maybe he knows where Rossi is.”
She frowned again. “None of this makes much sense anyway, so why not?” she muttered.
“I can’t let you go back to the library. Or your rooms. He’ll be looking for you in both places.”
“Let me?” she echoed ominously.
“Miss Rossi, please. Do you want to be the next disappearance?”
She was silent. “So how do you plan to protect me?” Her voice held a mocking note, and I thought of her strange childhood, her original flight to Hungary in her mother’s womb, the political savvy that had allowed her to travel to the other side of the world for academic revenge. If her story were all true, of course.
“I have an idea,” I said slowly. “I know this is going to sound-undignified, but I would feel better if you would humor me about it. We can take some-charms-with us from the church here -” She raised her eyebrows. “We’ll find something-candles or crucifixes or something-and buy some garlic on the way home-I mean to my apartment -” The eyebrows went up further. “I mean, if you would consent to accompany me-and you could-I may have to leave for a trip tomorrow, but you could -”
“Sleep on the sofa?” She had her gloves on again and now she folded her arms. I felt myself flushing.
“I can’t let you go back to your rooms knowing you might be pursued-or to the library, of course. And we have more to discuss, I think. I’d like to know what you think your mother -”
“We can discuss that right here, right now,” she said-coldly, I thought. “As for the librarian, I doubt he would be able to follow me to my room, unless -” Did she have a sort of dimple on one side of her stern chin, or was that sarcasm? “Unless he can turn himself into a bat already. You see, our matron doesn’t allow vampires in our rooms. Or men, for that matter. Besides, I’m hoping he will follow me back to the library.”
“Hoping?” I was startled.
“I knew he wouldn’t talk with us here, not in the church. He is probably waiting outside for us. I have a bone to pick with him”-that extraordinary English again-“because he is trying to interfere with my library privileges, and you believe he has information for you about my-Professor Rossi. Why not let him follow me? We can discuss my mother on the way.” I must have looked more than doubtful, because she suddenly laughed, her teeth white and even. “He is not going to jump on you in broad daylight, Paul.”
Chapter 21
There was no sign of the librarian outside the church. We strolled toward the library-my heart was thumping hard, although Helen looked cool-with twin crucifixes from the church vestibule in our pockets (“Take one, leave a quarter”). To my disappointment, Helen did not mention her mother. I had the sense that she was merely cooperating temporarily with my madness, that she was going to vanish once we reached the library, but she surprised me again. “He is back there,” she said quietly about two blocks from the church. “I saw him when we turned the corner. Do not look behind you.” I stifled an exclamation and we walked on. “I am going to go into the upper stacks in the library,” she said. “How about the seventh floor? That is the first really quiet area. Do not go up there with me. He is more likely to follow me if I’m alone than to follow you-you are stronger.”
“You are absolutely not going to do that,” I murmured. “Getting information about Rossi is my problem.”
“Getting information about Rossi is precisely my problem,” she muttered back. “Please do not think that I am doing you a favor, Mr. Dutch Merchants.”
I glanced sidelong at her. I was getting used to her harsh humor, I realized, and something about the curve of her cheek next to that long straight nose looked almost playful, amused. “All right. But I’ll be right behind him, and if you get into trouble I’ll be up there in a split second to help you.”
At the library doors we parted with a show of cordiality. “Good luck with your research, Mr. Dutch,” Helen said, shaking my hand in her gloved one.
“And you with yours, Miss -”
“Shh,” she said and walked off. I retreated into the card-catalog stands and pulled out a drawer at random to make myself look busy: “Ben-Hurto Benedictine.” With my head bent over it, I could still see the circulation desk; Helen was getting a permission slip to enter the stacks, her form tall and slim in the black coat, her back turned decisively on the long nave of the library. Then I saw the librarian creeping along the other side of the nave, keeping close to the other half of the card catalog. He had reached “H” by the time Helen moved toward the door of the stacks. I knew that door intimately, went through it almost daily, and never before had it yawned with meaning for me as it did now. It stayed propped open during the day, but a guard nearby checked entrance slips. In a moment, Helen’s dark figure had vanished up the iron stairs. The librarian lingered for a minute at “G,” then groped for something in his jacket pocket-he must have special library identification, I realized-flashed a card, and disappeared.
I hurried to the circulation desk. “I’d like to use the stacks, please,” I said to the woman on duty. I’d never seen her before-she was very slow-and it seemed to me her round little hands fumbled for an eternity with the yellow slips before she could give me one. At last I made it through the doorway and put a cautious foot on the stairway, looking up. On each floor you could see up one level through the metal steps, but no farther. No sign of the librarian above me, no sound.