Gregor nodded. “Three people who borrowed books from our lending library have since vanished. Each borrowed a title with his handwriting inside. Each was last seen walking past this very door.”
He turned the folder to the final page. A photograph showed the margin of page 127. In that same surgical script: “Lena. Your next chapter ends in the basement. Come alone. Bring no alibi.” hammett krimibuchhandlung
The owner, a man named Gregor who looked like Sam Spade’s cranky uncle, stood behind the counter. He had a face that had read too many first editions and a voice like gravel rolling downhill. Gregor nodded
The basement was a catacomb of remainders and unsold stock. Dust motes floated like false clues. At the far end, beneath a flickering bulb, sat a single chair. And in the chair, a man in a gray coat, reading aloud from a cheap paperback. Each was last seen walking past this very door
“Case closed. Alibi: fiction.”