binding of blind-stamped calf over wooden boards.”
The front cover was decorated in an elaborate fleur-de-lis pattern with a leafy border, gilt flowers, and gryphons adding to its striking appearance.
“Only thirty-three copies of this work survived,” Bea said. “And before the Second World War, this library owned a pair.”
“The gift of Jasper Hunt?” I asked.
“At the time, yes, it was. He decided to take one of these atlases back. Long before my time, mind you, but no one here ever saw it again, though I’ll bet Jill will still include it on the list of our acquistions she gives you tonight.”
“Sure, rather than agitate-or challenge-any of the Hunt heirs,” Mike said. “Why are you looking for this version?”
“Because it might have been exactly the kind of idea that would have amused our eccentric friend Jasper Hunt Jr.,” Bea said. “Remember-no use of the word ‘America’ appeared in any cartography until the 1507 map. It certainly never entered into anything Ptolemaic. But with the development of the press and the incorporation of all the new explorations of the period, the Strassburg Ptolemy of 1513 was the first book to print a solo map of America. Only America. The first map devoted uniquely to this continent.”
Bea was turning pages in the great volume with painstaking care as she talked.
“A fitting place for Jasper to hide the panel from our map that depicts America,” Mike said.
“Yes, but I think I’m striking out,” she said, separating and flattening the pages as she went.
“There is a second copy of this book though,” I said. “It never surfaced again?”
“Only in rumors,” Bea said. “And then from the mouth of Eddy Forbes.”
“How reliable was he at gossip?”
“Almost as good as he was at stealing,” she said. “In the 1940s, the deals between collectors were a lot different than they are today. With the Internet, we can all keep track of books and maps-who’s got something to sell and who’s in line to buy. Back then, there was much more discretion, many more one-on-one interactions, and lots of secrecy.”
“What did Eddy tell you?” Mike asked.
“His story was that after the war, Jasper Hunt sold the second Strassburg atlas to Lord Wardington. He was always unhappy when the library didn’t treat his bequests like they were their most important gifts of the year. He represented to the buyer, of course, that he had the title free and clear.” Bea pushed the glasses to the top of her head. “It didn’t take long for Wardington, who was a real gent, to learn the truth. He returned the map to Hunt at once to let him make amends with the library.”
“But Hunt never did that,” Mike said.
“Much to my regret,” Bea said. “Now, I had this conversation well before Eddy got in trouble.”
“You mean before he got caught for all the trouble he’d been causing.”
“Right again, Mike.” Bea closed the large book and rested her hand on its lid. “Eddy told me that when Lord Wardington returned the book to Jasper Hunt, the old boy kept it for a while-he had no intention of ever letting it collect dust in our stacks again. Eventually, he gave the book to his granddaughter, Minerva.”
“I’m only the messenger, Detective. That’s what Eddy said, and he knew Minerva Hunt-they’d had some dealings with each other. Why wouldn’t I believe him? None of this had any significance until you found that panel under the water tank yesterday. Till you told me this map-which I wasn’t even certain existed-might be connected to the murder of Tina Barr.”
Mike was circling the table now, punching his right fist into the palm of his left hand.
“We’ve got to get to Eddy Forbes, Coop. You talk to the feds on Monday,” Mike said. “What else did he tell you, Bea?”
“Of course, my angle was selfish, too. I asked about the map because I wanted to get it back from the family. Have it here, where it belonged,” the librarian said. “Eddy told me that for most of her life, Minerva had kept the atlas in her father’s library. She had no use for it, and no real idea of its value. Then, shortly before his arrest, Eddy Forbes reintroduced her to Alger Herrick, who offered to pay her dearly for the atlas, not withstanding its clouded provenance.”
“For a reason?”
“Herrick’s collection is heavy on Ptolemy,” Bea said. “He’s got the most important library of maps in private hands, now that Lord Wardington is gone.”
“Yes, he told us about his Bologna Ptolemy,” I said. “But Herrick also said Minerva dabbled in maps. Why wouldn’t she have wanted to hold on to it?”
“If you ask me, you’re making too much of the fact that Alger Herrick was after that book. It’s much more like the rivalry between the Red Sox and the Yankees,” Bea said. “Herrick’s a Ptolemy guy. He’s been trying to corner the market on all the great editions of that work.”
“And Minerva?” I asked.
“Strictly Mercator,” Bea said, handing the book back to Mike to reshelve.
“Sorry? I don’t get what you mean.”
“Mercator was one of the greatest sixteenth-century geographers, Alex. Mercator maps? Every schoolkid knows them.”
“Sure,” I said, recalling the famous images of the cylindrical projection maps, with parallels and meridians and perpendicular chartings all neatly aligned.
“Gerardus Mercator. His maps were designed for marine navigation, so that sailors could use a straight line to determine their position at sea, even without instruments.”
“What’s it called when sailors do that?” I asked.
Mike brushed back his hair and answered. “Dead reckoning.”
Bea Dutton wagged her finger at Mike. “That’s just what Eddy Forbes said about that girl. Back then, I thought he was joking. He said she was total Mercator all the way.”
“What did he mean?” I asked.
“If Minerva Hunt is doing the reckoning,” he used to say, “anyone who gets in the way of the straight line between her and whatever she’s after, the odds are they’ll be dead. That’s what he meant by dead reckoning.”
FORTY
By nine o’clock, curators and cops had been returning to the map division room in rolling waves, like eager kids gathering clues on a scavenger hunt.
Bea was in charge of examining each volume they found in hopes of coming across a panel of the missing map, but none of the rare books and atlases yielded any treasure. Jill Gibson sat glumly in a corner of the room, checking her master list against the items that had been retrieved, noting those that were reported to be missing from their proper places.
“I’m so hungry, I’m losing it,” Mike said.
“There are some places in the neighborhood,” Bea said. “We could take a walk.”
“No time for that. Coop, you got enough cash for about eight pizzas to feed these guys?”
I dug into my pants pocket and handed him my money.
“We can’t eat in here, Mike,” Bea said. “You can lock me up before I let you get food into this room.”
“Deal.” He signaled to one of the rookies. “Send your partner for as many pies as this will buy. Anything but anchovies. Get me some tarps from the Crime Scene wagon. Set them up on the ground at the receiving dock.”
Mike turned to Bea. “A little brisk for an al fresco picnic, but that’s what I’m offering.”
“Accepted.”
While we waited for the takeout order, Bea continued to study the books, most of them from the Hunt Collection. I caught glimpses of the Asian sex lithographs, the Curtis photos, and several versions of Marco Polo’s
