Free Borrower of the Night: The First Vicky Bliss Mystery by Elizabeth Peters

me!”
    “There is no need. Sleep, I say.”
    She moved back, pushing us with her, and closed the door. I had a last glimpse of Irma’s face, rigid with terror, and it made me forget what few manners I possess.
    “I’ll sit with the girl, if you won’t,” I said. “She needs reassurance, not mysterious silence.”
    The Gräfin locked the door.
    “I have not had the pleasure of meeting you, young woman, but I assume you are our newest guest, Dr. Bliss. Is your degree in the field of psychiatry?”
    “I don’t have to be a psychiatrist to realize—”
    Tony stepped heavily on my slippered foot, and the old woman went on.
    “My niece’s welfare is my business, I believe. As for your search tonight—I have proved to you that it was not Irma you saw. If you are still curious, gentlemen, I suggest you visit Miss Bliss’s room — if you have not already made yourselves at home there. At the foot of the bed — conveniently placed for visitors — there hangs a certain portrait. And now, if you will excuse me, I need my rest. Good night.”
    “Why, that old—” I began.
    This time it was George who stepped on my foot. He was shorter than Tony, but he weighed more. I yelled.
    “What’s all this about a portrait?” George inquired loudly. The Gräfin ’s footsteps were still audible above. I didn’t care whether she heard me or not.
    “Oh, hell,” I said. “Double hell. Come on, you guys. I’ve got a bottle of Scotch in my suitcase, and I think this is the time to break it out.”
    Shortly thereafter George put down an empty glass and stared owlishly at me and Tony.
    “All right, Doctors. Let’s hear some high-class intellectual rationalizing. What was it we saw tonight?”
    Tony had recovered his cool. There was only one funny thing. He couldn’t look at the portrait. He just couldn’t stand looking at it. Staring firmly at his glass, he said.
    “Either it was the girl, or it was a ghost. If you believe in ghosts — that’s what it was. If you don’t — someone is putting us on.”
    George snorted and poured himself another drink, without waiting to be asked.
    “Is that the academic brain at work? Your alternatives don’t impress me. You think the Gräfin lied about locking that door?”
    “That doesn’t follow. There are any number of possibilities. Maybe she thought she locked it, and didn’t. Maybe someone else unlocked it, and locked it again later. Maybe there’s another door out of the room.”
    “Yeah.” George looked more cheerful. “That’s so. But do you remember what our apparition was wearing?”
    “A light robe,” I said. “White or pale gray, with full sleeves and a gathered yoke.”
    “Well, you saw the girl’s nightgown—God save us. I also saw her dressing gown, or housecoat, or whatever you call it. It was lying across the foot of her bed.”
    “And it, I suppose, was black,” said Tony.
    “Navy blue,” I said. “With small light-colored flowers. Very unflattering, with her coloring…. That doesn’t prove anything. She could have a closetful of long white robes, and she had plenty of time to change.”
    Tony stood up.
    “This is a waste of time. You think that girl was faking. Well, I don’t. Come on, Nolan, let’s be off.”
    George sipped his drink.
    “You two kill me,” he said conversationally. “Why don’t we put our cards on the table?”
    “What cards?” I asked. “You know why we are here and vice versa. If I judge your sneaky character accurately, you probably know by now as much as Tony does. But you don’t know any more than that; and if you did, you wouldn’t tell us. You must be crazy if you think I’m going to give you any information.”
    George reached for the bottle. I moved it away from his hand. Good Scotch is expensive. Unperturbed, he grinned at me.
    “You’re quite a girl. If you find the shrine, I might revise my long-seated hostility toward marriage.”
    “That’s big of you. But my hostility is just as deep-seated, if