way, let me in and deposited me in a front parlor, all without uttering a word. I had just enough time to note that the undraped, floor-to-ceiling windows provided a sweeping view of the Golden Gate Bridge and the Marin headlands, and that the furnishings were expensive modern and the pictures on the walls all hunting and sporting scenes, before Pollexfen himself stumped in.
Stumped is the right word. He wasn’t much older than me, but he moved in a slow, stiff, old man’s way with the aid of a blackthorn cane, as if his joints pained him at every step. Arthritis, probably.
As we got the introductions out of the way, we sized each other up. He seemed to like what he saw; the faint smile he’d come in with widened a little and his eyes, steady on mine, reflected approval. As for me, I reserved judgment. You could see that once he’d been a powerful man, likely an athlete in his youth: an inch or so over six feet, thick-trunked and broad through the shoulders. Time and the afflictions that had invaded his body had taken their toll, as they do on all of us; his color wasn’t good and his breathing had a little whistling catch in it. Still, he projected an aura of intensity and inner strength. His body may not be holding up well to the passing years, but I sensed that his mind was as sharp as ever. Those gray eyes radiated intelligence. Final analysis, based on first impression: a man who would make a staunch friend and a formidable enemy.
“I expect you’d like to see the library first thing,” he said.
“Yes, I would.”
“Follow me, then.” The smile had faded; he was all business now. “I was pleased to hear that we share the collecting gene. Fascinating hobby, isn’t it, the acquisition of old books and magazines.”
“And expensive, these days.”
“Oh, yes. But I’m fortunate-the price of any given book or item of ephemera is not an issue with me. It’s the rarity and availability. Certain titles have eluded me for years. They simply aren’t available, no matter what one is willing to pay for them. Very frustrating. But then, the hunt is everything. If one could acquire everything one wanted, the game would lose some of its pleasure and excitement, don’t you think?”
“I do, yes.”
“Do you have much knowledge of antiquarian detective fiction?”
“A limited amount.”
“But you do have an appreciation.”
“If you’re asking if I’ll appreciate your collection, I’m sure I will.”
“You may just be overwhelmed by it. My collection is one of the finest in the world.” He said that without braggadocio. Just a proud statement of fact.
We went down a wide, tile-floored hallway, the ferrule tip of Pollexfen’s cane making little hollow clicking sounds. Tile-inlaid archways opened at intervals into rooms on both sides. As we approached one of these near the end, I could hear another sound-the clicking of computer keys. Pollexfen turned in there, stepping aside to let me follow. Small office, a brunette in her mid-thirties ensconsed behind a functional gray metal desk. Attractive, but severe-looking, as if she’d never found much to smile about in her life or work.
Pollexfen introduced us. Brenda Koehler, his secretary “and general factotum.” She said through an impersonal smile, “I hope you’re able to find out what happened to the missing books. The theft has everyone baffled.” The words seemed impersonal, too, as if she didn’t really care one way or the other.
“He has excellent credentials,” Pollexfen said to her. “If anyone can get to the bottom of this, I’m sure he’s the man.”
She nodded. “I have the letter to Mr. Phillips ready for you to sign, Mr. Pollexfen.”
“It can wait.” He looked at me, said, “Business matter,” and led me out into the hallway again. “Brenda’s been with me for years. Handles my personal and household affairs. Indispensable.”
“Which means she’s also trustworthy.”
“Absolutely. Even if she knew anything about antiquarian books, which she doesn’t, she isn’t permitted in the library alone.”
“I understand none of the other members of your household is a bibliophile.”
“That’s right. Mrs. Jordan, the housekeeper, has been with me for years. Not even a reader and not overly bright, but above reproach. My wife’s primary interest is in spending money on herself. My brother-in-law’s hobby is making grandiose schemes and cheap women. If anyone in this house devised a way to steal those books, it’s Jeremy Cullrane.”
“Why do you say that?”
“We’ll discuss it after you’ve seen the library.”
At the end of the corridor was a set of double doors of some polished wood that might have been Philippine mahogany. Two locks, both deadbolts. Pollexfen used a key attached to a heavy silver ring to release the locks-the same key, I noticed, for both-and then reached inside to switch on the lights.
It was like walking into an exclusive bookshop, the kind that caters to well-heeled customers. Or a special exhibit in a library or museum. The room seemed to take up most of the back half of the house. It was thickly carpeted in some light blue weave; there were two overstuffed chairs with side tables, two floor lamps, an oak library table, a small desk, a gas-log fireplace with what looked to be an antique double-barreled shotgun mounted above it, and two sets of windows with heavy drapes in the back wall. The rest of it was books. Floor to ceiling on lacquered mahogany shelves. In stacks on the tables and here and there on the carpet. The upper shelves were reachable by one of those rolling library ladders strung on a brass rail that encircled the room.
Most of the volumes had bright dust jackets in Mylar protectors, the rest colorful bindings. That was my second impression of Pollexfen’s library: color, much of it primary color. You were surrounded by it and the effect, enhanced by indirect ceiling light glinting off the Mylar, was almost dazzling.
Pollexfen was watching me and my reaction pleased him. He said, “Didn’t I tell you, you might be overwhelmed?”
“You did and I am. Very impressive.”
“Upwards of fifteen thousand volumes, catalogued and in alphabetical order. My primary interest is detective fiction of the last half of the nineteenth century and the first half of the twentieth. There is also a fair representation of post-1950 authors and titles, to the present day.”
“All different types, I take it.”
“Oh, yes. Sherlockiana. Whodunits, whydunits, howdunits. Hardboiled, police procedurals, spy novels, comic mysteries, category and mainstream thrillers-a sampling of every subgenre. Many are signed and inscribed. Six of those that were stolen are of that rarity.”
“ The Maltese Falcon, Red Harvest, The Big Sleep, Fer-de-Lance, The Postman Always Rings Twice, and The Roman Hat Mystery.”
“Correct. Very good.”
He led me to one section of shelves, pointed to a gap in the row of Hammett titles where the missing books had rested. “The Falcon is the most valuable because it was inscribed to a fellow Black Mask writer and mystery novelist, George Harmon Coxe. I’m sure you know his name.”
I admitted that I’d read quite a few of Coxe’s Flashgun Casey pulp stories.
“It’s one of only two such association copies known,” Pollexfen said, “the other being inscribed to another Black Mask writer, Frederick Nebel. I paid sixty thousand dollars for it twenty years ago. It’s worth three to four times that amount in today’s collecting market. One-of-a-kind volume.”
Some of his collector’s zeal gave way to melancholy as he pointed out the empty places belonging to the Doyle, Christie, Stout, Cain, and Queen titles. “ Red Harvest, Roman Hat, Fer-de-Lance, and Postman were inscribed to private individuals, so they’re not quite as valuable as the Falcon. Nor are the Doyle and Christie. But all are high five-figure items and virtually irreplaceable because of their rarity, the inscriptions and signatures, and the fact that they were all in near fine to fine condition. The 1892 Newnes first edition of The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes is the best copy any dealer or collector of my acquaintance has ever seen. As a collector yourself you can imagine how upset I was to find them missing.”
“According to the insurance company report, you have no idea how they were taken or who took them.”
His mouth quirked wryly. “A man I know suggested the Borrowers.”
“The what?”
“Characters in a series of fantasy novels by Mary Norton. A secret race of tiny folk, descendants of the folkloric Little People, who ‘borrow’ things from humans. When something goes missing from inside your home and you can’t figure out what happened to it, blame the Borrowers. That was Julian’s smart-ass explanation.”
