“Who would Julian be?”
“Julian Iverson. A fellow bibliophile with a sometimes inappropriate sense of humor.”
“You told him about the theft?”
“I needed a sympathetic ear, and there’s none in this household.”
“So you don’t consider him a possible suspect?”
“Julian? My God, no. He’s a collector, yes, but his tastes in literature differ greatly from mine. Fine bindings and children’s books are his specialty. He has no interest in or knowledge of detective fiction.”
“Would he know how valuable the missing titles are?”
“He would, but he’s an old friend.”
“Wealthy? Half a million dollars is a lot of money.”
“His net worth is around four million,” Pollexfen said. “Believe me, he’s not the person responsible for this outrage.”
“Have you told anyone else about the theft? Anyone outside this house?”
“Great Western, of course. My attorneys. A dozen or so other collectors and high-end booksellers-to alert them to be on the lookout for the missing titles. If anyone tries to sell the Falcon or any of the others to a reputable source, I’ll be notified immediately.”
“The operative word being ‘reputable.’ There must be collectors and sellers who’d buy prized items no questions asked.”
“Too damn many,” Pollexfen said. “That’s my greatest fear. That one or all of these treasures will simply disappear into private hands.”
“You mentioned your brother-in-law. Why do you think he might be responsible?”
“He has the scruples of a Washington lobbyist. Always in need of money for his schemes and his women and doesn’t care how he gets it.”
“What does he do for a living?”
Pollexfen laughed cynically. “He calls himself a promoter, but what he is, is a leech and a gigolo. He talks people into financing his get-rich-quick schemes. No doubt his various lady friends do the same behind their husbands’ backs.”
“But he doesn’t get any from you.”
“There was a time when I was foolish enough to fall for his line, but that time is long past.”
“The two of you don’t get along, then.”
“Hardly. Jeremy can’t stand me any more than I can stand him. He would steal the gold fillings out of my teeth if he thought he could get away with it.”
“If that’s the way it is, why do you let him live here?”
“Oh, I’ve come close to throwing him out half a dozen times. I would have, long ago, if it weren’t for my wife.”
“You mean she asked you not to?”
“On the contrary. She doesn’t get along with Jeremy either.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s a complicated situation. You might say we feed off our dislike for one another.”
That didn’t sound too healthy to me. More to it than that? None of my business unless it had a bearing on my investigation, and too soon to press Pollexfen about it in any case.
I asked him, “Did you confront your brother-in-law about the theft?”
“If you mean did I accuse him, no, not without evidence. I did suggest that if I found out he was guilty, he would pay dearly for it. He laughed in my face.”
“Does he know anything about rare books?”
“Very little, so far as I’m aware.”
“Then how would he know which ones to steal? And where to sell them?”
“It wouldn’t be difficult to find out. The Internet, booksellers, other collectors-the information is available to anyone who cares to do a little research.”
I went across to the windows, drew the drapes aside on both. Barred. Sashes locked down tight.
“The drapes are always closed,” Pollexfen offered. “Sunlight fades dust jacket backstrips. Even natural light will cause fading to some colors.”
“I know. I have a similar arrangement in my home.”
“Ah, yes. Pulp magazine spines fade, too, of course.”
“I take it the door and windows are the only ways in and out of this room.”
“Certainly. Were you thinking of secret panels or hidden nooks?”
“No. Asking questions, covering all the bases.”
“Thorough man. I like that.”
I went to examine the door locks. They were the kind that could be keyed from both sides, so Pollexfen could seal himself inside when he didn’t want to be disturbed. No scratches or marks on them or anywhere on the door and jamb to indicate that they might have been forced.
As I started over to the desk, light reflecting off the barrels of the mounted shotgun caught my eye. Pollexfen took my upward glance as a sign of interest in the weapon. “A beauty, isn’t it?” he said. “Nineteen twenty-six Parker GHE, twelve-gauge. Twenty-eight-inch uncut barrels, dual triggers, pistol grip stock, loads two-and-a-half- inch shells.”
I didn’t say anything. I’m not big on guns, even though-or maybe because-I own one and have had occasion to use it more than once.
“Inherited from my father,” Pollexfen said. “We used to go hunting together-birds, mostly. Angelina and I did, too, when we were first married. She’s a very good shot for a woman.”
I had no comment on that, either.
“My only other hobby, hunting,” he said. “Until a few years ago. Too old and arthritic now to tramp around the countryside.”
Another pass. The hunter gene was left out of me; I like blood sports even less than guns. I gave my attention to the desk. Computer, telephone, a stack of what appeared to be auction catalogs, a pile of unused Mylar jacket protectors. The books stacked there, some with dust wrappers, some without, were apparently new acquisitions, awaiting shelving-not that there was much room left for them on any of the shelves.
“You do all the book buying yourself?” I asked.
“All the ordering, yes. Mainly from auction catalogs, a handful of antiquarian dealers, and through trades with other collectors. I used to haunt secondhand bookshops until the Internet put so many out of business.”
“You handle the payments as well?”
“No, Brenda does that, unless a large bank transfer is necessary.”
“So she has some knowledge of the collecting market.”
“Some. But as I told you, she is completely trustworthy.”
I did some more prowling, looking at the rows of books. The shelves were all solid, the books on them loosely arranged so as to make for easy removal of any volume. I couldn’t help looking at authors and titles along the way. Many more were familiar, including several who had contributed to pulp magazines as well as written novels: Leigh Brackett. Fredric Brown. Agatha Christie. John Dickson Carr. George Harmon Coxe. Norbert Davis. Erle Stanley Gardner. Ross Macdonald. John D. MacDonald. Frederick Nebel. Ellery Queen. Dorothy Sayers. Mickey Spillane. Rex Stout. Cornell Woolrich. Complete or near complete runs, evidently, of the works of these writers and hundreds more.
I asked, “Has anyone in this household, or any visitor, ever been in the library when you weren’t here? For any reason?”
“No, never. I don’t allow it.”
“And you have the only key?”
“Yes. Which I keep in my possession at all times.”
“Even while you sleep?”
“I put the key ring on my nightstand. And I’m a light sleeper. No one could have slipped in or out of the bedroom with it.”
“While you shower or bathe, then.”
