He did not, however, have to be a particularly light sleeper to be brought abruptly from the arms of Morpheus by the racket that woke him at two o’clock that morning. It seemed to him at first that someone was simultaneously attempting to destroy the front door with an ax or something similar, while someone else was trying to break through either a wall or the floor itself, using a chair as a battering ram. There were also assorted sounds of other breakage of one sort or another.
He was out of his bed in a flash, not pausing for a robe, and was down the steps in an instant, pressing the light switch that controlled the illumination for both the lower hallway and the library. A moment later Harold, not a light sleeper himself, but by the same token also not deaf, joined him, yawning. The scene that greeted the two might have been humorous at another time, resembling as it did one of those comedy vaudeville acts involving inept carpenters that end with the stage set a shambles, but at the moment it looked to Clarence anything but funny. It appeared to him to be highly suspicious.
William Carruthers, fully dressed at that hour, as were his confederates, had apparently fallen over an arm chair in the Stygian darkness, while Timothy Briggs, trying to open the outer door in the dark, had been stumbled over by Clifford Simpson. In stumbling, Simpson had apparently struck his head on the portal and then collapsed over a table, sending it flying; while Briggs’s small but hard head, after bouncing off the floor, had apparently been driven into a cane chair, upending it. In the commotion their bags had escaped them, flying through the air, and had contributed their share to the holocaust in the form of untabled lamps and upended footstools.
Clarence glared. “All right!” he said darkly. “What’s this all about?”
Billy-Boy managed to struggle to his feet. He tugged his clothing straight and tried to face Clarence with an air of dignity, marred somewhat by his necktie’s being halfway around his neck, and with having lost a shoe in his fall, which gave him the attitude of a captain standing on the sloping deck of a sinking ship, addressing the crew.
“Sir,” Carruthers said formally, “you informed us last evening in no uncertain manner, that we were no longer welcome in your household. We, sir, have been raised with proper respect for decent standards; we, sir, do not remain where we are not wanted. We were in the process of removing ourselves from the premises, when we had the misfortune to awaken you. If you will return to your sleep with our apologies, we will take our departure again, trying to do it a bit more quietly this time.”
“Aw, gee, pops,” Harold said in a disappointed tone. He had interpreted enough of Carruthers’ statement to understand that when the three old men had inadvertently awakened him, they had been in the process of doing a bunk without saying good-by. “You gave me your word you wouldn’t try to escape—”
“My dear Harold,” Carruthers said in a kindly tone, “one can hardly call being instructed to leave and never darken a napkin again quite the same thing as escaping.” He picked up his bag; both Briggs and Simpson also retrieved theirs. Carruthers bowed slightly at the waist. “And now, gentlemen, if you’ll excuse us—”
“Wait a second! Wait a second!” Clarence’s eyes narrowed; he studied the three of them with growing suspicion. “Hold it right there! Last night you three characters were begging to stay at any price, as if this was a boardinghouse, or a free-lunch counter. You did everything but tie yourselves to the kitchen table, or lock yourselves in the john! And now you want to bust out of here at two in the morning just like that? Who do you think you clowns are kidding?”
Carruthers drew himself up. “Kidding, sir?”
“Kidding!” Clarence said flatly. “Hal, search them!”
Carruthers tried to draw himself even further up and merely came to his tiptoes. He lowered himself in the interests of stability.
“Sir, I consider that an insult! To suggest that we would transgress your hospitality and remove any of your personal possessions after the kindness we have been fortunate enough to receive in this menage! Although in the interests of honesty I must say that those kindnesses came at the hands of Harold, and not yourself. Still, the principle remains, I am afraid. I consider your charge, sir, as calumny!”
“Yes. Well,” Clarence said evenly, not greatly impressed by Carruthers’ theatrics, “I’m suggesting that possibly you aren’t taking any of my personal possessions, since I’ve got the key to the liquor cupboard, and I sleep with my wallet under the pillow; but I happen to be responsible for this house and everything in it. It’s in the lease, and they have an inventory, and I have enough grief without getting in a hassle with some English lawyer when the time comes for me and Harold to split from here. So, Hal, shake them down.”
Harold sighed but moved over to Carruthers. “Gee, I’m sorry, pops,” he said apologetically.
“That’s perfectly all right,” Carruthers said. “It’s the only way to still the suspicions of your friend.” He put his feet apart and leaned with the palms of his hands against the wall, looking back over his shoulder. “Is this the proper drill? The correct stance?”
“That’s fine.”
“Good. Just be a bit careful in the stomach area, if you don’t mind,” Carruthers suggested. “Ticklish, you know.”
“I know. Me, too,” Harold said. He patted the pockets, ran a hand down the legs, and stepped back. “Pops is clean. And if shorty or skinny had so much as a matchbox on them, it would show, Clare.”
“True. Then it must be in their bags,” Clarence said shortly, and began by kneeling down and opening Carruthers’ old-fashioned valise. His search did not take long; a moment’s fumbling within and he looked up triumphantly. “What’s this?” he asked sardonically, and withdrew an oddly shaped package wrapped in a soiled shirt. “Celluloid collars? Button shoes?”
“Hey! Take your hands off that! Be careful how you handle it!” Briggs said suddenly, as if unaware of the contradiction in his statement, and quite as if the words had been forced from him without his will.
“Careful? Believe me I’ll be careful!” Clarence said, and slowly unwrapped the package, squatting on his heels. The scroll came into view; Clarence looked up with a smile, but it was not the sort of smile to bring cheer to those viewing it. “This must have grown here like a mushroom, maybe from the dark and the dirty socks,” he said with an attempt at humor, “because it sure God wasn’t there when I went through this suitcase the night you got here, fatso!” He frowned. “And I’ll admit no rolled-up piece of parchment is on the inventory, just dishes, glasses, books, furniture, and garbage like that.”
He came to his feet and began circling the library, prepared to move on to the next room and then on to the one after that until the mystery of the scroll was resolved; but he felt it unnecessary when he spotted the gap in the uniformity of the bookshelves. He considered it and nodded his head. The three old men stood like criminals about to be exposed, as Clarence turned to give them a big wink before returning his attention to the gap facing him.
“Well, well!” he said and moved closer to stand on tiptoe to peer into the niche. The marks in the dust were all too apparent, indicating where the parchment had rested, hidden from all eyes for so many generations, behind Briggs’s apparently unappreciated — or at least unread — book. Clarence nodded again in complete satisfaction as the puzzle was solved. “So that’s where it came from, eh? Back of some piece of junk one of you clowns was lucky enough to pull out, eh?”