The Collectors

“LJ239. It’s the room number of the Rare Books reading room. I look at it every day when I go to work.”

Inside the safe was one article. Caleb carefully drew out the box and slowly opened it.

Reuben said, “That thing’s in pretty ragged shape.”

It was a book, the cover was black and torn and the binding was starting to come apart. Caleb carefully opened it and turned to the first page. Then he turned another and then another.

He finally gave a sharp intake of breath. “Oh, my God!”

Stone said, “Caleb, what is it?”

Caleb’s hands were shaking. He spoke slowly, his voice trembling. “I think, I mean I believe this is a first- edition Bay Psalm Book.”

“Is it rare?” Stone asked.

Caleb looked at him wide-eyed. “It’s the oldest surviving object printed in what is now the United States, Oliver. There are only eleven Psalm Books in existence in the entire world, and only five of them are complete. They never come onto the market. The Library of Congress has one, but it was given to us decades ago. I don’t believe we could’ve afforded it otherwise.”

“So how did Jonathan DeHaven get one?” Stone remarked.

With great reverence Caleb carefully eased the book back into the box and closed it. He placed the box in the safe and shut the door. “I don’t know. The last Psalm Book came on the market over sixty years ago when it was purchased for what was then a record amount equaling millions of dollars in today’s money. It’s now at Yale.” He shook his head. “For book collectors this is like finding a missing Rembrandt or Goya.”

“Well, if there are only eleven in the world, it would be pretty simple to account for them,” Milton suggested. “I could Google it.”

Caleb looked at him with disdain. While Milton embraced every new advance of the computer, Caleb was a decided technophobe.

“You can’t just Google a Psalm Book, Milton. And as far as I know, all of them are in institutions like Harvard, Yale and the Library of Congress.”

“You’re sure it’s an original Psalm Book?” Stone asked.

“There were numerous subsequent editions, but I’m almost certain it’s the 1640 version. It said so on the title page and has other points of the original that I’m familiar with,” Caleb breathlessly replied.

“What exactly is it?” Reuben asked. “I could barely read any of the words.”

“It’s a hymnal that the Puritans commissioned a number of ministers to put together to give them religious enlightenment on a daily basis. The printing process was very primitive back then, which, coupled with the old-style spelling and script, makes it difficult to read.”

“But if all the Psalm Books are in institutions?” Stone said.

Caleb glanced at him, a look of trepidation on his face. “I guess there’s the possibility, however rare, that there are unaccounted-for Psalm Books out there. I mean, someone found half of the handwritten manuscript for Huckleberry Finn in her attic. And someone else turned up an original copy of the Declaration of Independence behind a picture in a frame, and then there was the discovery of some of Byron’s writings in an old book. Over hundreds of years anything’s possible.”

Though the room was cool, Caleb wiped away a bead of perspiration from his forehead. “Do you know the enormous responsibility this entails? We’re talking about a collection with a Psalm Book in it. A Psalm Book, for God’s sake!”

Stone put a calming hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I’ve never met anyone better qualified to do this than you, Caleb. And whatever we can do to help, we will.”

“Yeah,” Reuben said. “In fact, I’ve got a few bucks on me if you want to get a couple books out of the way before the real heavyweights start circling. What’ll you take for that Divine Comedy thing? I could use a few laughs.”

Milton piped in, “Reuben, none of us could even afford to buy the auction catalog they’ll print the collection in.”

“Well, that’s just great,” Reuben exclaimed in mock fury. “Now, I guess the next thing you’ll tell me is I can’t quit my crappy job at the loading dock.”

“What the hell are you people doing here!” a voice cried out.

They all turned to look at the intruders who were standing just outside the vault door. There were two burly men in the uniforms of private security, their guns pointed at the Camel Club. The man in front of the two guards was short and thin with a shock of red hair, a trim beard of matching color and a pair of active blue eyes.

“I said what are you people doing here?” the redhead repeated.

Reuben growled, “Maybe we should be asking you the same thing, buddy.”

Caleb stepped forward. “I’m Caleb Shaw with the Library of Congress, where I worked with Jonathan DeHaven. In his will he appointed me as his literary executor.” He held up the house and vault keys. “I was given permission from Jonathan’s lawyer to come here and look over the collection. My friends came along to help me.” He reached in his pocket and presented his library ID to the man, whose demeanor quickly changed.

“Of course, of course, I’m sorry,” the man said after gazing at Caleb’s ID before handing it back to him. “I just saw people entering Jonathan’s house, and the door was unlocked, and I suppose I jumped to conclusions.” He nodded to his men to put away their guns.

“We never did catch your name,” Reuben said, eyeing the man suspiciously.

Before he could answer, Stone said, “I believe we’re in the company of Cornelius Behan, CEO of Paradigm