Gibson.
“Did your grandfather own a first edition set of this Na poleonic expedition?”
“Yes, he did, Mr. Chapman,” Hunt said. “But my father gave that to the library-oh, I’d say twenty years ago or more. Our curator-and the accountants-will have a record of that gift.”
“Bea,” Mike said, standing up and rapping on the trestle table with his fisted hand. “So where’s the atlas? Let’s have a look.”
“We can locate it for you, certainly. And pull it,” Jill said. “Why do you ask?”
“That’s the volume in which Prince Albert found his copy of the map. Maybe Jasper was playing on that fact, if he was such a prankster. This panel we just found,” Mike said, sweeping his arm over the trestle table, “was nested inside the Audubon folio, which used to belong to Grandpa Hunt. Maybe the killer was looking for places the map might have been concealed by the old man as one of his tricks, in another one of his books. Was that his brand of eccentricity?”
Talbot Hunt nodded. “Grandpapa wanted to keep my father on a leash, never assuming he would inherit everything without working at it.”
“Wouldn’t an atlas be part of the collection in this very room?” Mike asked.
“You want to know how things disappear, Mr. Chapman?” Hunt said, almost bellowing. “Certainly there are maps and atlases in here. But there are more maps in the general stacks, and yet again others in the various rare-book rooms. We’ve got one collection in the building-the Spencer-that’s just about rare bindings. The curator there doesn’t give a damn if he’s got roadways or rodents between the covers-it’s all about the leather and decoration on the outside of the books. If there’s even a drawing of a tobacco leaf-say, in a depiction of the Virginia colony-in one of the cartouches, then that map might be housed in the Arents Collection. The maps are spread out everywhere throughout the library.”
“Why isn’t the Hunt Collection all in one room, like most of the others?” I asked.
“Because the library didn’t have enough space to maintain it that way by the time his gift was made,” Hunt went on. “The Audubons, for example, and the Egyptian expedition volumes-well, he agreed to the library’s plan to let them reside where its curators deemed they were most appropriate.”
“So where are these particular books?” Mike asked.
Jill Gibson spoke more calmly. “At the time of Napoleon’s travels, Egypt was considered part of the Orient. So they’re in our Orientalia section-Asian and Middle Eastern.”
“You see what I mean, Chapman? They run these great libraries like a shell game,” Hunt said, walking to the far side of the room. “I can’t tell you how many millions we’ve given to these people over the years. I’ve got every damn right to pull the plug and demand an accounting immediately.”
“Surely the card catalogs have-” I started to say.
“They tell us nothing, Ms. Cooper,” Hunt said. “Maps are rarely mentioned in library catalogs, and those within the atlases aren’t ever individually described. Take a razor to a page and it’s hard to prove what was ever there. They’re unmoored, maps. Unmoored and generally ignored. Not like books at all.”
Jill looked at her watch. “Perhaps some of the curators have arrived. I can call and have someone bring us the Egyptian atlas.”
“I don’t think you understand the plan,” Mike said. “There are cops at every door of this place by now. No one is touching any of these books unless we’re along for the ride. And no one’s entering the building until the crime scene detectives have been over every inch of this place.”
“That could take days. You can’t close the public library.”
“Faster than you can say Dewey decimal system, lady,” Mike said, tapping me on the shoulder. “Coop, call Battaglia. Tell him to get on the horn with the commissioner. The pair of them can shut this mother down in a minute.”
“I’ll wait in Jill’s office, then,” Talbot Hunt said.
“Mercer, why don’t you escort Mr. Hunt to the nearest exit?”
“These are
“That’s not so,” Jill said. “You’ve got no personal claim to any of the things your grandfather gave to us.”
“Don’t embarrass yourself, Mr. Hunt,” Mike said, pointing at the neatly embroidered letters-TH-on Hunt’s shirt, just visible below the sleeve of his jacket. “I don’t have monogrammed handcuffs. You wouldn’t want to be photographed when I eject you wearing metal bracelets.”
“I’ll hold you personally responsible, Detective,” Hunt said, turning his back to us.
“For what?”
Hunt’s freshly polished loafers snapped like gunshots on the bare floor as he stomped toward the exit of the map room. He was furious, but couldn’t express a reason that made any sense. “For the loss of…of…of any valuable property that should have been rightfully restored to me.”
“Shoulda, woulda, coulda. You didn’t even know the frigging map existed for most of your life,” Mike said as Mercer followed after Hunt. “Tell me the real story about it, why don’t you? Or sue me. Maybe you actually need all the savings I got in my piggy bank.”
“Would you mind telling us where you spent the evening last night?” I asked as Hunt pulled open the door.
“I wasn’t in Bryant Park, Ms. Cooper. I’m not a baseball aficionado.”
“Strikes me as a much more sporting type, Blondie, doesn’t he?” Mike said, sneering at Hunt. “Cold-blooded and calculating. Fox hunting, deer shooting, and all those genteel upper-class pastimes where you kill things for the fun of it.”
“Tina Barr isn’t worth anything to me dead, Mr. Chapman,” Talbot Hunt said, glancing back over his shoulder. “You ought to talk to my sister, Minerva. There’s a girl who knows how to hold a grudge.”
TWENTY-ONE
Bea Dutton and Jill Gibson sat together at the farthest table from the reference desk, staring off in different directions, like two schoolkids in detention. I had used the landline to call Paul Battaglia, to tell him the latest developments and get his help with Commissioner Scully.
Mercer returned within minutes. “You’re growing quite a crowd outside, Mike.”
“Front steps?”
“The employees come in through the service entrance on Fortieth Street. Seems like most of them hadn’t heard any news reports about the body in the park.”
“Is the detail in place?”
“Yeah. Chief of d’s has everything covered. A fresh Crime Scene crew is unloading now. They should be in the lobby in five.”
Mike walked to where Bea and Jill were sitting. “Bea, I’m going to have a uniformed cop sitting here with you for the day. Just to make sure no one gets past the door and tries to come in.”
She smiled at him wanly. “You mean just so I don’t start doing my own treasure hunt, don’t you?”
“A little of both.”
“I’ve got an appointment-some engineers from the city due at eleven.”
“Why?”
“There’s a problem under the old Penn Station railroad tunnels. They need a footprint-a vertical search-before there’s any structural damage. It sounds pretty urgent.”
“What can you do for them?”
Bea Dutton explained. “I can search the particular property or plot of land back before the time of the Civil War, when maps of the city were created for insurance companies. You can see exactly what structures existed at any location over time, and what the topographical conditions are. There was flooding in the sub-basement of the Empire State Building last spring-”
“Flooding from what?” Mike asked.
“There’s a stream that cuts through the southwest quadrant of the building, way underground. It shows on the old maps, before midtown was built up. Because of all the snow last winter, the stream swelled with the spring
