Teen shook her head. “I wouldn’t think so. Why? Is he another reporter?”
I smiled again. “Sounds like it.”
“Do you want to see our Sheehan’s?” my new friend said.
“Is it in the green room?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Seems only fair.”
Teen stood up, straightened herself, and led the way. I followed.
CHAPTER 11
T he green room was exactly that: green rug, green drapes, and dark green wallpaper. With a light thread of green running through it. Wooden carrels ran down one side of the room. Each had a banker’s lamp, gold plated with a green glass shade. Interspersed among the carrels were leather reading chairs, green, of course, with silver studs stitched down the sides and along the armrests.
Floor-to-ceiling stacks ran down the other side of the room and contained, presumably, the collected wisdom of Chicago’s history. I walked down one of the aisles and pulled out a file on the Eastland Steamer. In 1915 it capsized on the Chicago River, found the bottom in fewer than three minutes, and killed 844. I slid that bit of tragedy back onto its shelf and moved over to the Chicago Fire.
The volunteer had left to find the curator. That’s what she called her boss: curator. I figured, Hell with the curator. If he really wanted to curate, he’d be here. Ten minutes later, I had the first set of files on the fire open when someone stepped across my light. I turned.
“The curator, I presume.”
He gave me a once-over like only a man who kept files for a living could. The badge on his lapel read lawrence randolph. Like it or not, the curator now had a name.
“Why would you want to do any original research?” he said.
“It’s a calling. You know, like the phone call you get in your head when you’re supposed to become a priest.”
Randolph just stared.
“Didn’t go to Catholic school, huh?” I said.
“The material here is extremely fragile. Delicate. And some of it, highly sensitive.”
“That’s what I want. The highly sensitive part.”
Randolph had a head that could have passed for a thumb had it not been for the ears. He plucked a pair of spectacles off the bridge of what he most likely called a nose and began to polish.
“I really don’t see this working,” he said.
“It’s about a murder.”
It usually does the trick. Most likely does the trick. In this case, definitely did the trick. The glasses went back on the nose and the flat expanse of face drew down just the slightest hue of pink.
“A real murder?”
“Sure.” I flipped out my ID. “I lied to your assistant. I’m actually a private investigator. Working a case. Dead guy’s name was Allen Bryant. Did a lot of research on the fire. Maybe you heard of him?”
Randolph shook his head.
“Not your century, huh?”
Another shake of the head.
“Okay. Anyway, this book popped up. Sheehan’s History of the Chicago Fire.”
“Timothy Sheehan?” Randolph scuttled down an aisle. Rows of books towered on either side. I scuttled after him.
“The definitive work on the fire,” he said, and stopped before a particularly imposing shelf. “Move out of the way.”
I barely had time before a ladder, set into a metal track on the floor, came whirring down the aisle. Randolph had summoned it via a button built into the framework near my head.
“Pretty neat there,” I said.
Randolph clambered up the ladder and came down with the tome. It was old and blue with gold lettering on the cover: Sheehan’s History of the Chicago Fire by Timothy Sheehan.
“You got a lot of copies of this?” I asked.
“That’s a first edition.”
“Tell me what’s so special about a first edition?”
“Nothing. Just worth more money.”
The private investigator in me caught the faintest whiff of a motive.
“How much money?” I intrepidly asked.
“Sheehan’s was published in 1886. They offered a very limited first printing.”
The curator flipped open the cover. On the inside was the number 12 embossed in red.
“Each one is numbered. One through twenty.”
“Just twenty of ’em, huh?”
“That’s right. There is at least one other first edition in the Chicago area. Not entirely sure about ownership, but I believe it’s in private hands.”
I didn’t tell Randolph that his private hands were now dead. Might make him nervous, and I didn’t need that.
“The scarcity of copies,” Randolph said, “obviously makes each first edition worth a considerable amount.”
Randolph talked about money like it was a dirty secret. I figured I’d do the same.
“What’s considerable?” I whispered.
“Two, three hundred dollars.”
My motive suddenly didn’t smell so good.
“You think someone got killed over a first edition of Sheehan’s History of the Chicago Fire?” Randolph said.
“You don’t buy it either.”
“I don’t see why,” he said.
I considered the book, then moved my eyes back to Randolph.
“If you were me, what would you do?”
The curator looked at the book. Then he looked at me. “I’d read it.”
So that’s what I did. I was on page fifty when Randolph was there again. At my shoulder. The smell of fine and dusty typeface was heavy upon him. Or maybe it was just booze.
“You been drinking?” I said.
Randolph blinked.
“I just got to the part about the watchman,” I said.
Two blinks. I took that as a good sign and continued.
“Mathias Shafer, age forty. He’s sitting up in the city’s watchtower on the night of the fire. Sees a bit of smoke. Rings down to the boy. Let’s see…”
I consulted my Sheehan’s.
“Boy by the name of Billy Brown. Stop me if you already know all this. Billy is down in the business part of the tower. The part where all the alarms are. He’s got his girl down there. Playing the guitar for her and-well, you can figure out the rest.”
Randolph took off his bifocals and wiped them down.
“That’s right, you got it,” I said. “Billy pulls the wrong alarm and continues with the wooing. That’s what they called it back then. Wooing. Same deal, just a better name. Anyway, a half hour or so goes by and Shaffer notices the bit of smoke is now a lot of smoke and a bit of fire. He calls down to Billy again. Tells him he pulled the wrong alarm. Billy zips himself up and says, No worries, boss, I’ll get right to it. Except he doesn’t get right to it. Another
