The Collectors

“Robinson Crusoe? Moll Flanders?”

Seagraves said, “Moll Flanders.”

“Excellent. What else?”

“Goldsmith’s The Life of Richard Nash. And a Horace Walpole.”

“The Castle of Otranto, 1765?”

“That’s the one. It’s in pretty good shape, actually.”

“You don’t see many of those. I’d be glad to take a look at them for you. As you can imagine, there are many variations in editions. And some people buy books thinking they’re true first editions, but they turn out to be something else altogether. It even happens with some of the better dealers.” He added quickly, “Inadvertently, I’m sure.”

“I could bring them in the next time I’m here.”

“Well, I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Bill, because you’d have a hard time getting them past security unless prior arrangements have been made. They might think you stole the books from us, you see. You don’t want to be arrested.”

Seagraves paled. “Oh, right, I hadn’t thought of that. My God, the police. I’ve never even had a parking ticket.”

“Calm down, it’s okay.” Caleb added a little pompously, “The world of the rare book can be very, how shall I say, sophisticated, with a spice of danger. But if you are serious about collecting in the eighteenth century, you’ll need to make sure you have a number of authors represented. A few that come to mind are Jonathan Swift and Alexander Pope; they’re regarded as the masters of the first half of the century. Henry Fielding’s Tom Jones, of course, David Hume, a Tobias Smollett, Edward Gibbon, Fanny Burney, Ann Radcliffe and Edmund Burke. It’s not an inexpensive hobby.”

“I’m finding that out,” Seagraves said glumly.

“Not like collecting bottle caps, is it?” Caleb laughed at his little joke. “Oh, and of course, you can’t forget the eight-hundred-pound gorilla of that era, and the master of the second half of the century, Mr. Samuel Johnson. It’s not an exhaustive list by any means, but a good start.”

“You certainly know your eighteenth-century lit.”

“I should, I have a PhD on the subject. As far as evaluating your books, we can always meet someplace. Just let me know.” He fished in his pocket and handed Seagraves a card with his office number on it. He clapped Seagraves enthusiastically on the back. “And now I’ll get your book.”

When Caleb brought the tome out to him, he said, “Well, enjoy.”

Seagraves glanced at Caleb and smiled. Oh, I will, Mr. Shaw, I will.

By prior arrangement Caleb met Reuben, and the pair went to DeHaven’s house after Caleb got off work. They searched for two hours. While they found receipts and bills of sale for all his other books in his desk, they discovered nothing supporting the slain librarian’s ownership of the Psalm Book.

Caleb next went down to the vault. He needed to check the Psalm Book for the Library’s secret coding: That would prove whether Jonathan had stolen it. And yet Caleb made no move to enter the vault. If the code was there? He couldn’t face that prospect. So Caleb did what came naturally when he was under pressure: He ran for it. The book would keep, he told himself.

“I just don’t understand this,” Caleb said to Reuben. “Jonathan was an honest man.”

Reuben shrugged. “Yeah, but like you said, people can really get into this collecting stuff. And a book like that one might make him do something on the shady side. And that would explain why he kept it a secret.”

Caleb replied, “But it would eventually have come out. He had to die sometime.”

“But he didn’t expect to die that suddenly, obviously. Maybe he had plans for it but never got a chance to carry them out.”

“But how do I auction off a book that he has no ownership documentation for?”

“Caleb, I know he was your friend and all, but it seems to me that the truth has to come out at some point,” Reuben said quietly.

“There’ll be a scandal.”

“I don’t see how you get around it. Just make sure you don’t get swept up in it.”

“I guess you’re right, Reuben. And thanks for your help. Are you staying here?”

Reuben looked at his watch. “It’s a little early yet. I think I’ll leave with you and then sneak back later. I was at least able to get some sleep this afternoon.”

The two men left. Three hours later, a bit before eleven o’clock, Reuben reentered the house through the back door. He made a snack in the kitchen and went upstairs. In addition to Cornelius Behan’s “love room” the attic also allowed for a fine view of Good Fellow Street through another half-moon window. Reuben alternated watching Behan’s place through the telescope and the house opposite with a pair of binoculars he’d brought.

When a car pulled up to Behan’s house around one o’clock in the morning, Reuben watched closely as Behan, a young woman dressed in a full-length black leather coat and a couple of Behan’s bodyguards got out of a dark green Cadillac SUV. They all went into the house. The missus must be away, Reuben thought as he took up position at the window overlooking Behan’s house.

He didn’t have long to wait. The lights in the bedroom came on, and in walked the defense contractor and his lady for the evening.

Behan sat in a chair, clapped his hands, and the young lady immediately went into action. Button by button she undid the leather coat. When she opened it, and even though he knew what was coming, Reuben still gasped as he stared at the scene through the telescope: thigh-high fishnets, bullet bra and what seemed to be a mere slip of panties. He let out a long, satisfied sigh.