“I apologize for being a few minutes delayed,” Professor Enches announced as he hurried into the classroom. His long legs took him to the front in barely six strides. “The disturbing events of last night had me detained. I will say no more. Tardiness is a form of poor etiquette. However, if it is due to imperative detective work, it is somewhat justified. If you are ever tardy due to a case, be sure to express that to your client, and apologize sincerely. Proceed to present the fruit of your tardiness, so they can see its justification. Understand?”
The students had learned it was unnecessary to answer his questions, which were frequently rhetorical. Expecting no answer, Professor Enches found his pipe in his pocket, scratched a match on his matchbook, and lit the pipe. After a few puffs, he nodded in satisfaction, then stared at his students for a few moments: a ritual he practiced every class period.
Remembering Mr. Crenshaw’s second letter in his pocket, Rollie raised his hand.
Professor Enches puffed on his pipe and nodded at Rollie, indicating permission to speak.
“I have another letter for you.”
Professor Enches coughed, took two strides over to Rollie, and took the letter from his outstretched hand. “Thank you, lad. Please see me after class.” He stuffed the envelope into his outer coat pocket and returned to the front. “Students, today we will discuss correct etiquette when interviewing a client of the opposite gender. If you are a male, then a client of the opposite gender would be a female, and vice versa. Now let’s suppose that a client enters your office and . . .”
Please see me after class . . .
Those words pounded in Rollie’s ears. Was he in trouble? For delivering Mr. Crenshaw’s letters? Surely not! Rollie wished Professor Enches’ lecture would hurry by, but of course it did not. Rollie found that whenever he anticipated something time slowed, making the wait unbearable. Yet whenever he reached that anticipated moment time sped up, ending the excitement too soon.
Class ended, students headed to lunch, and Rollie waited for Professor Enches. Cecily raised her eyebrows at Rollie, wondering what could be the matter this time. She ducked out the door. The professor stepped up to Rollie.
“Lad, I thank you for delivering Mr. Crenshaw’s and my correspondences. It’s very good of you.” Enches gave a little nod. “However, it is poor etiquette to interrupt class to deliver those letters to me in front of your peers. Besides, we don’t want to give the surprise party away, right?”
Rollie nodded. “Right, sir.”
“Of course not. Would you drop the letters on my desk before class commences?”
“Yes, sir, if that’s what you’d like.”
Professor Enches puffed and nodded. “Good lad. Dismissed.”
* * * *
Students filled the tables on the roof to eat their lunches and chat with their friends. Most conversations revolved around the attempted burglary. Rollie smiled gratefully at Cecily as he slid into a seat she had saved for him.
“In trouble again? That’s not like you,” Cecily commented between bites of her sandwich.
Rollie leaned in and whispered. “It was about Mr. Crenshaw’s letters. It was nothing.” He unwrapped his sandwich and unscrewed his milk bottle cap.
Wesley Livingston, the fourth-year rugby and fencing team captain, slid onto the bench across from Rollie. He flashed a smile of perfect teeth. “Rollie, right? You should join our rugby game after lunch.”
Rollie grinned. “Thanks, but I’ve got some work to do.” He took a sip of milk. “Could you help me by answering a few questions?”
Wesley laughed. “Sure, detective.”
“Did you bring a Sherlock Holmes book as your favorite book for orientation?”
Wesley nodded as he chewed his sandwich.
Rollie continued, “And you put your book in the Rearranging Library?”
More nodding and chewing from Wesley.
“Have you found your book yet?”
Wesley shook his head. “You’d think after nearly four years I’d have cracked that library.”
“Have you?” Eliot piped up, turning to Rollie.
“No, but I want to.”
Eliot looked relieved.
“How many students are enrolled here?” Rollie asked.
Wesley said, “There are eighty—twenty per grade every year.”
Rollie chewed thoughtfully. “Do you know any students who didn’t bring a Sherlock Holmes book?”
Wesley took a swig of milk. “Now that I think about it, no.”
“Interesting.”
Cecily giggled. “Rollie, there’s nothing interesting about that. It’s no surprise that students would bring a Sherlock Holmes book to Sherlock Academy. Even if they didn’t read much Holmes, any smart student would bring one anyway. Everyone wants to fit in.”
Cecily was right about that. What Rollie found interesting was that there could be eighty Sherlock Holmes books in the library. He jumped to his feet, stuffing the last of his sandwich into his mouth and draining the last of his milk.
“Where are you going?” Cecily questioned.
“I’ve got some work to catch up on.”
Eliot pointed an accusing finger at him. “I told you that you should get your work done in the mornings. It’s the best time.”
Rollie rolled his brown eyes. “See you later. Thanks, Wesley.”
“Sure thing, detective!” Wesley called.
“Wait up!” Cecily chased after him.
They darted across the roof before anyone else could follow them, and skipped down four floors to the library. As they paused in the doorway to catch their breath, they spotted Mr. Notch bumbling down the hall toward them. His arms grappled with his briefcase, papers, and mug of pencils as usual.
“Hello, Mr. Notch,” Rollie and Cecily chimed in unison.
Mr. Notch stumbled to a halt, not seeing his students until he nearly bumped into them. “Oh, hello, hello. Rollin, is it? Cecily, eh? Thank goodness I remembered. I try so hard to remember names. How are you today?”
“Fine, thank you,” Cecily answered.
“Just thought we’d take a try at the Rearranging Library,” said Rollie.
“Did you now? Good, good. Would you like a hint?”
Rollie’s eyes brightened. “We sure would!”
“Of course you would. Who wouldn’t want a hint? Keep one thing in mind: things are not what they seem on the outside.” He attempted to tap his nose to gesture smartness, but found he had no free hands. He almost dropped his pencil mug in the attempt. “Oh! Never mind, I’m sure you get the idea. I’m off to class.”
“What time is it?” Rollie asked with a hint of panic.
“Don’t worry. You still have twenty minutes. I try to get to class early so I don’t have to come in juggling all this.” He smiled, blinked behind his ultra-thick glasses, and staggered down the hall toward the staircase.
Rollie and Cecily stepped into the library and pulled the lamp chain. They decided to work from each end of the room and meet in the middle. Rollie hurried to the far left bookcase. He had to stand on his tiptoes to see the top shelves. As he worked down the books, he got quicker at reading the titles. Within a few minutes, he reached the bottom shelf and finished checking that bookcase. He moved on to the second bookcase. Racing his eyes and fingers, he finished checking four bookcases before the bell rang. He met Cecily in the middle, and plopped down on the floor between two shelves.
“Well?” he asked her as he rested his head against the wall.
Cecily sat cross-legged on the floor next to him. “No Sherlock Holmes books. So weird! Even if no one else submitted a Holmes book there should at least be two—mine and yours!”
Rollie sighed. A mystery burrowed in his mind: there were no Sherlock Holmes books on any of the eight bookcases. Where were all the students’ books? The students had placed their books on shelves, watched them get shuffled around, and lost sight of them. Obviously, they had lost sight of them because—
“They disappeared.” Rollie shook his head in bewilderment.
“How could eighty books disappear?” wondered Cecily.
“Did someone take them?” Rollie said.
“What for? And what—” Cecily stopped mid-sentence.
“Huh?” Rollie followed her gaze up to the side of the bookcase he was leaning against. “Is that a hole?”
Rollie and Cecily scrambled to their feet. Rollie peered into a hole in the side of the bookcase on his left. It was not too deep or too large a hole. Gingerly, he stuck his hand in the hole, feeling the width and height and depth. He felt a raised shape sticking out from the backing. He traced it with his fingers. It felt like the number eight. He retrieved his hand and studied the side of the opposite bookcase on his right. Another similar hole. He fingered the inside—a seven, he guessed.
“What are these holes for?” Cecily stuck her hand into one of them.
Rollie did not answer her, for his brain was steaming ahead with an idea. The holes were a little bigger than an empty toilet paper roll. Smaller than a paint can. More like the size of . . .
“A jar!” he exclaimed.
Cecily whirled around to face him. “What are you talking about?”
“These holes are about the size of a jar, right?” he replied.
Cecily looked confused. “I guess.”
Ring! Ring!
Lunch recess ended. Rollie groaned, but stuck his hand in one more hole in another bookcase—a six. Bouncing with excitement, he sprinted out the library, forgetting to turn off the lamp. He took the stairs two at a time, Cecily at his heels. Panting, they rushed into class and took their seats. Rollie glanced at Mr. Notch’s desk: no teacher, no briefcase or papers, and no pencil mug.
At that moment, Mr. Notch burst into the room, his arms still full of everything he had carried earlier. As he passed Rollie, he grinned sheepishly.
“There’s always something!”