Think of a Number

“Your ruby slippers?”

“My God, they didn’t tell you a blessed thing, did they?” Wellstone began taking deep breaths as though he might be trying to ward off some kind of fit. Then he closed his eyes. When he reopened them, he seemed reconciled to the ineptitude of the police and spoke to Gurney in the voice of an elementary-school teacher.

“My ruby slippers, which are worth a great deal of money, were stolen from Emerald Cottage. Although I have no proof, I have no doubt they were stolen by the last guest who occupied it.”

“This Emerald Cottage is part of this establishment?”

“Of course it is. The entire property is called ‘The Laurels,’ for obvious reasons. There are three buildings-the main house in which we stand, plus two cottages: Emerald Cottage and Honeybee Cottage. The decor of Emerald Cottage is based on The Wizard of Oz-the greatest film ever made.” A glint in his eyes seemed to dare Gurney to disagree. “The focal point of the decor was a remarkable reproduction pair of Dorothy’s magic slippers. I discovered this morning that they were missing.”

“And you reported this to…?”

“To you people, obviously, because here you are.”

“You called the Peony police department?”

“Well, I certainly didn’t call the Chicago police department.”

“We have two separate problems here, Mr. Wellstone. The Peony police will no doubt get back to you regarding the theft. That’s not why I’m here. I’m investigating a different matter, and I need to ask you some questions. A state police detective who came by the other day was told-by a Mr. Plumstone, I believe-that three nights ago you had a pair of bird-watchers as guests here-a man and his mother.”

“That’s the one!”

“What one?”

“The one who stole my ruby slippers!”

“The bird-watcher stole your slippers?”

“The bird-watcher, the burglar, the pilfering little bastard-yes, him!”

“And the reason this was not mentioned to the detective from the state police…?”

“It wasn’t mentioned because it wasn’t known. I told you I only discovered the theft this morning.”

“So you weren’t in the cottage since the man and his mother checked out?”

“‘Checked out’ is a rather too-formal way of saying it. They simply departed at some point during the day. They’d paid in advance, so there was no need, you see, for any ‘checking-out’ procedure. We strive for a certain civilized informality here, which of course makes the betrayal of our trust all the more galling.” Talking about it had brought Wellstone close to gagging on the gall.

“Was it normal to wait so long before…?”

“Before making up a room? Normal at this time of year. November is our slowest month. The next booking for Emerald Cottage is Christmas week.”

“The BCI man didn’t go through the cottage?”

“BCI man?”

“The detective who was here two days ago was from the Bureau of Criminal Investigation.”

“Ah. Well, he spoke to Mr. Plumstone, not to me.”

“Who exactly is Mr. Plumstone?”

“That’s an awfully good question. That’s a question I’ve been asking myself.” He said this with an arch bitterness, then shook his head. “I’m sorry, I mustn’t let extraneous emotional issues intrude into official police business. Paul Plumstone is my business partner. We are joint owners of The Laurels. At least we are partners as of this moment.”

“I see,” said Gurney. “Getting back to my question-did the BCI man go through the cottage?”

“Why would he? I mean, he was apparently here about that ghastly business up the mountain at the institute, wanting to know if we’d seen any suspicious characters lurking about. Paul-Mr. Plumstone-told him that we hadn’t, and the detective left.”

“He didn’t press you for any specific information on your guests?”

“The bird-watchers? No, of course not.”

“Of course not?”

“The mother was a semi-invalid, and the son, although he turned out to be a thief, was hardly a mayhem-and- carnage sort of person.”

“What sort of person would you say he was?”

“I would have said he was on the frail side. Definitely on the frail side. Shy.”

“Would you say he was gay?”

Wellstone looked thoughtful. “Interesting question. I’m almost always sure, one way or the other, but in this case I’m not. I got the impression that he wanted to give me the impression he was gay. But that doesn’t make much sense, does it?”

Not unless the whole persona was an act, thought Gurney. “Other than frail and shy, how else would you describe him?”

“Larcenous.”

“I mean from a physical point of view.”

Wellstone frowned. “A mustache. Tinted glasses.”

“Tinted?”

“Like sunglasses, dark enough so you couldn’t really see his eyes-I hate talking to someone when I can’t see their eyes, don’t you?-but light enough so he could wear them indoors.”

“Anything else?”

“Woolly hat-one of those Peruvian things pulled down around his face-scarf, bulky coat.”

“How did you get the impression he was frail?”

Wellstone’s frown tightened into a kind of consternation. “His voice? His manner? You know, I’m not really sure. All I remember seeing-actually seeing-was a big puffy coat and hat, sunglasses, and a mustache.” His eyes widened with sudden umbrage. “Do you think it was a disguise?”

Sunglasses and a mustache? To Gurney it sounded more like a parody of a disguise. But even that little extra twist could fit the weirdness of the pattern. Or was he over-thinking it? Either way, if it was a disguise, it was an effective one, leaving them with no useful physical description. “Can you recall anything else about him? Anything at all?”

“Obsessed with our little feathered friends. Had an enormous pair of binoculars-looked like those infrared things you see commandos in the movies creeping around with. Left his mother in the cottage and spent all his time in the woods, searching for grosbeaks-rose-breasted grosbeaks.”

“He told you that?”

“Oh, yes.”

“That’s surprising.”

“Why?”

“There aren’t any rose-breasted grosbeaks in the Catskills in the winter.”

“But he even said… That lying bastard!”

“He even said what?”

“The morning before he left, he came into the main house, and he couldn’t stop raving about the damn grosbeaks. He kept repeating over and over that he had seen four rose-breasted grosbeaks. Four rose-breasted grosbeaks, he kept saying, as though I were doubting him.”

“Maybe he wanted to be sure you’d remember,” said Gurney, half to himself.

“But you’re telling me he couldn’t have seen them, because there aren’t any to be seen. Why would he want me to remember something that didn’t happen?”

“Good question, sir. May I take a quick look at the cottage now?”

From the sitting room, Wellstone led him through an equally Victorian dining room, full of ornate oak chairs and mirrors, out a side door onto a pathway whose spotless cream-colored pavers, while not exactly the yellow brick road of Oz, did bring it to mind. The path ended at a storybook cottage covered with English ivy, bright green despite the season.

Wellstone unlocked the door, swung it open, and stood to the side. Instead of entering, Gurney looked in from