“I got you something,” Eliot beamed as Rollie entered their room after dinner.
“You did? That’s nice of you.”
Eliot held something behind his back. “Guess.”
“Is it something for school?”
“No. Well . . . kind of. Actually, no.”
“Okay. . . . Is it something for fun?”
“Um . . . you could use it for fun, but not really, so no.”
“Your clues are confusing.” Rollie crossed his arms.
“Give up? Because once you give up I win. That’s the rule.”
“Sure, I give up.”
Eliot held out a sealed jar of orange marmalade. “Here. I noticed you were sad about losing your other one. Plus I really need marmalade on my toast.”
Rollie was about to ask why Eliot did not buy himself a jar, but he knew he should say something different. “Thank you, Eliot. That’s really kind of you.”
“What are friends for?” Eliot shrugged.
Smiling, Rollie agreed. “Yeah, you’re a nice friend.”
Eliot’s face lit up. “I’m glad you’ve noticed.”
* * * *
Rollie turned the doorknob. He paused, gripping the knob in his sweaty palm before opening the door.
Squeak, the door warned quietly.
He stepped into the room and glanced around quickly. The library was cold and dark. Rollie was glad that his black shirt had long sleeves. A pale glow from the street lamp outside illuminated one corner of the library as the light seeped through the one good window. The other window that had been broken was still covered with a board. Rollie stood in the center of the library, pondering his hiding place.
The library did not lend him any good hiding places. There was a decent hiding spot between the armchairs and end table, but that was too near the window. Rollie figured the burglar would enter through a window like before. The only other hiding places were in between the bookcases where Rollie could easily fit. The bookcases were the burglar’s targets, but Rollie had no other choice. He crouched between the bookcases closest to the door to be near his escape in case he was discovered. From here he could see the windows and the bookcase that opened with his marmalade jar. That bookcase would be the burglar’s first stop. Snug in his hiding place, Rollie tried to calm his breathing.
Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale.
As much as he tried, he could not slow his racing heartbeat or the insistent flutter in his stomach. He patted his moist palms on his black pants, then wrapped his arms around his knees and hugged them. The last he checked, Eliot’s clock read twelve-ten. Rollie guessed it had to be around twelve-twenty now. He hoped the burglar would not be too late . . . if he was coming at all . . .
As the minutes crawled by, Rollie’s thoughts trickled into each other, and lead him through a mind maze. He could not allow himself to fall asleep, so he let his mind wander. Often he retraced his thoughts to exercise his deductive reasoning skills because Holmes argued that the ability to reason backwards was invaluable to solving a case. When Rollie retraced his thoughts, he laughed at the way they linked together.
They linked like a chain . . . just like the chain securing a black box to a lamppost down the road from his house. Last winter, he and Cecily had discovered it, and had thought it was the strangest mystery to their neighborhood in a long time. When they asked Mr. Wilson about it, he told them the lamppost had broken, and the contents of that box temporarily kept the lamp operating. Rollie and Cecily had been quite disappointed. It had appeared to be very intriguing, but turned out to be very boring.
In the same way, someone had appeared to be one thing, but had turned out to be a thief who stole Rollie’s jar. It had to be someone here at school who noticed his marmalade jar, which meant it was someone appearing to be someone different. A chill prickled up Rollie’s spine.
He glanced over at the boarded up window. The first burglar had broken the window to get into the library, which meant the burglar was not someone in the school. So the thief who broke in and the thief who stole his jar were not the same person. Maybe they were working together. Or maybe the two thieves were the same person, and he or she had broken the window to make it seem like the work of an outsider.
As much as he wanted to see who the burglar was, he was hesitant to know the truth. He shook his head clear of thoughts. Being a detective meant finding the truth . . . at all costs . . .
Squeak.
Rollie’s ears perked up, his heartbeat escalated, and his breathing quickened. He squinted through the gloom at the windows—nothing there. His eyes darted towards the door—it was open!
So far Rollie’s assumptions held true that the burglar was someone in the school. Rollie did not recognize the person’s face, for it was hidden in shadow beneath a cap. But he did recognize the adult’s clothing— his heart nearly stopped. The flutter hardened into a pit in his stomach.
Along with the cap, the intruder wore a dreary coat with an upturned collar. From the glow of the street lamp, Rollie could see a red cravat around his neck.
“By the way, the fun thing about a disguise like that one is that you can be any type of worker and loafer.”
As his face heated, Rollie remembered the words of his beloved teacher. As much as he wished it to be untrue, the truth fleshed out before him: the burglar was Mr. Chad in his loafer disguise.
Rollie watched him cross the room to the bookcase numbered three. The thief clutched a marmalade jar with a little tag, and Rollie knew it was his. The loafer fit the marmalade jar in the bookcase’s hole, turned the jar, and opened the bookcase. A beam from a flashlight flicked on. With this light, Rollie could see the contents of the secret bookcases. Shelves and shelves of Sherlock Holmes books lined the interior. The thief grabbed one book and thumbed through it. Unsatisfied, he slid it back into place and grabbed another one. After a few looks through a few books, the burglar found the one he wanted.
When the thief shined his light on the book, Rollie recognized it and almost gasped aloud.
It was his Holmes book. There was no mistaking the distinctive green cover and worn pages.
The burglar tucked the book under his arm.
Click, he pushed the bookcase closed and headed for the door.
He stopped.
He turned.
He stared in Rollie’s direction.
Rollie froze.
The burglar turned back to the door and slunk out of the library.
Rollie could not move. He huddled in his hiding place. He wanted to let his thoughts wander, but they would not; they focused on one thing:
Mr. Chad the burglar.
He felt stunned at the truth he had just witnessed. Why did it have to be Mr. Chad, his favorite teacher? How could it be Mr. Chad, such a fun and likeable person? How could he steal Rollie’s jar? And why had he taken Rollie’s Sherlock Holmes book?
There was no way he could know about the telegram Rollie was hiding in his book . . . could he?
Rollie hated that his book—a hiding place for his secret, and a gift from Auntie Ei—was now in the hands of an enemy.
Rollie clenched his hands into fists.
Auntie Ei had given him the marmalade jar. What did Auntie Ei really know? As much as Rollie wanted to funnel blame on his great-aunt, he knew in his heart he had to face the real culprit: his teacher.
With a shaky breath, Rollie stumbled to his feet and quitted the library. He wearily climbed the three flights of stairs back to his floor. With each heavy step, his mind tossed between two choices: turn in Mr. Chad, or ignore the situation and wait for someone else to catch him. Surely Scotland Yard or Headmaster Yardsly would solve the mystery if Rollie could. Rollie did not think he had the strength to report Mr. Chad. Tears stung his eyes as he thought about no more classes with Mr. Chad. Headmaster Yardsly would hire another teacher for the class who would not be as fun—he just knew it.
It was not only the fun that made Mr. Chad his favorite teacher. Mr. Chad had recognized Rollie’s detecting skills and had complimented him, saying he had noticed what a fine detective Rollie would make. Had that been a lie too? Rollie had never felt betrayed before.
It hurt.
He crept into bed, pulled the covers up to his chin, and closed his eyes. At first he could not fall asleep. Besides worrying over what to do about Mr. Chad, he worried about his Holmes book and the telegram hidden inside it. He had to get his book back as soon as possible . . .
. . . which meant turning in Mr. Chad.
But right now he couldn’t fathom doing that.
Eventually the night’s events took toll on him, and he finally drifted off to sleep.
He did not dream.