The Collectors

Constable he was in possession of a small fortune’s worth of history.

“I’ll get to your Faulkner soon,” Chambers muttered. “Might take some time. Water damage, tricky.”

“Right, that’s perfectly fine. Thank you.” As Chambers turned to leave, Caleb said, “Uh, Monty.”

Chambers turned back around, looking a little impatient. “Yeah?”

“Have you checked our copy of the Psalm Book recently?” Caleb had had a horrible thought while in the vault, and taking the rare books from Chambers had forced this nightmarish theory to take the form of an awkward question.

Chambers looked suspicious. “The Psalm Book? What for? Anything wrong?”

“Oh, no, no. I just mean, well, I haven’t seen it in some time. Years, in fact.”

“Well, neither have I. You don’t just walk in and check out the Psalm Book. It’s in the national treasures section, for God’s sake.”

Caleb nodded. He had authority to look at virtually any book in the vaults, but the Psalm Book and some others were designated as “national treasures,” the library’s most important category of possessions. These works were numbered and housed in a special section of the vaults. In the event of war or natural catastrophe they would be whisked away to designated secure locations. Hopefully, there would be people left to enjoy them.

Chambers continued, with uncharacteristic loquaciousness, “I told them a long time ago we should repair the cover and redo the support stitches and reinforce the spine—all reversible, of course—but they never acted on it. Don’t know why not. But if they don’t do something, the Psalm Book won’t hold up much longer. Why don’t you tell them that?”

“I will. Thanks, Monty.” After Chambers had left, Caleb wondered what to do. If the library’s copy of the Psalm Book was missing? My God, it couldn’t be. He hadn’t seen the book in, what was it, three years at least. It certainly resembled the one he had found in Jonathan’s collection. Six of the eleven existing Psalm Books were incomplete and in various stages of disrepair. Jonathan’s edition had been complete, though in a run-down condition, similar to the library’s. The only way to tell for sure was to take a look at the Psalm Book the library had. Kevin Philips would probably allow him to do that. He’d make up some excuse, maybe relaying what Monty had just told him. Yes, that would do it.

He put the books Chambers had brought him back in the vaults after signing them back in on the system. Then he called Philips. Though sounding a bit puzzled, Philips authorized Caleb to check the Psalm Book. For security purposes, and to preclude anyone from later accusing him of damaging the book, Caleb brought another library staffer with him. After examining the book he could confirm that what Chambers had said was true, the book did need preservation work. However, he could not tell if it was the book he’d remembered seeing three years ago. It looked like it. But then it also looked like the one in Jonathan’s collection. If Jonathan had somehow taken the library’s Psalm Book and substituted a forgery, the book Caleb had looked at three years ago wouldn’t have been the real one anyway.

Wait a minute. How stupid. The library used a secret coding in its rare books on the exact same page to verify their ownership. He turned to that certain page and scanned down it. The symbol was there! He breathed a sigh of relief that was short-lived. It could’ve been forged too; particularly by someone like Jonathan. And did the Psalm Book in Jonathan’s collection have such a symbol as well? He would have to check. If it did, it would prove that Jonathan had stolen it from the library. Then what did Caleb do? He cursed the day he’d been appointed the man’s literary executor. I thought you liked me, Jonathan.

He spent the rest of the afternoon working on several scholars’ requests, a major collector’s inquiry, handling a pair of international phone calls from universities in England and Switzerland and helping patrons of the reading room.

Jewell English and Norman Janklow were both there today. Though of the same age and both avid book collectors, they never spoke to each other; indeed, they avoided one another entirely. Caleb knew how the feud had started; it was one of the most painful moments of his professional life. English had expressed her enthusiasm about Beadle’s Dime Novels to Janklow one day. The old man’s response had been a little unexpected, to say the least. Caleb clearly recalled Janklow’s words. “Beadles are idiotic rubbish, candy wrappers for the bottom-feeding mindless masses, and poor candy wrappers at that.”

Understandably, Jewell English had not taken this crushing rebuke to her life’s passion very well. And the old woman was not about to take it lying down. Well aware of Janklow’s favorite author, she’d told the old boy that Hemingway was at best a second-rate bum of a writer who used simplistic language because that’s all he knew. And the fact that he’d won a Nobel Prize for churning out that crap invalidated forever more the award in her mind. To add insult to injury, she also said that Hemingway wasn’t worthy to lick F. Scott Fitzgerald’s patent-leather shoes, and—Caleb cringed when he recalled it—she’d intimated that manly hunter and fisherman Ernest Hemingway preferred men over the ladies, the younger the better.

Janklow’s face had turned so red that Caleb had been certain the old man was going to keel over from a coronary. That was the first and only time that Caleb could ever remember having to separate two patrons of the Rare Books reading room, both of them well into their seventies. It really very nearly had come to blows, and Caleb had snatched up the rare books each had at their tables to prevent them from being used as weapons. He’d admonished them both about proper library etiquette and even threatened to suspend their reading room privileges if they didn’t back the hell off. Janklow looked like he wanted to take a swing at Caleb, but he’d held firm. He could’ve taken the old shriveled man, easy.

Caleb kept looking up from his work to ensure that nothing like that altercation happened again. But Janklow was happily going through his book, his big pencil strolling lazily over the notepaper, only stopping on occasion while he cleaned his thick glasses with a wipe. For her part Jewell English’s face was glued to her book. She looked up, saw him eyeing her, closed her book and motioned him over.

As he sat down next to her, she whispered, “That Beadle I was telling you about?”

“Yes, the number one?”

“I got it. I got it.” She clapped her hands silently.

“Congratulations, that’s wonderful. So it was in good condition?”

“Oh, yes, otherwise I would’ve called you in. I mean, you are an expert.”

“Well,” Caleb said modestly. She took hold of his hand in her gnarled one. The strength of her grip was