The Collectors

door. “Mr. Pearl, it’s Caleb Shaw. From the Library of Congress.”

“Who?”

Caleb looked a little embarrassed and started speaking quickly. “Caleb Shaw. I work in the Rare Books reading room. We last met a few years ago when a collector of Lincoln memorabilia came to the library and I brought him around to you.”

“You don’t have an appointment for tonight.” The tone was one of mild annoyance. Apparently, Pearl wasn’t grateful for the referral Caleb had given him.

“No, but I come on some urgency. If you could just spare a few minutes.”

A few seconds later the door clicked open. As the others entered, Stone noted a tiny reflection from above. The small surveillance camera was staring right at them, ingeniously disguised as a birdhouse. The reflection was from the streetlight hitting the lens. Most people would have missed such a device, but Oliver Stone was not most people, certainly when it came to things that spied on you.

As they passed into the store, Stone also noted two other things. The door, although it looked old and wooden, was actually made of reinforced steel, set in a steel frame, and the lock, to Stone’s experienced eye, looked tamperproof. And the barred window was three-inch-thick polycarbonate glass.

The interior of the shop surprised Stone. He had expected to see a cluttered layout, with dusty books on bowed shelves and every crevice bursting with old parchments and tomes for sale. Instead, the place was clean, streamlined and well organized. The building itself was two stories in height. Tall ornate bookshelves lined every wall, and the books housed in them were behind locked sliding glass doors. A ladder on wheels ran on a long track tube attached to the tops of the nine-foot-high shelves. Three oval cherrywood reading tables with matching chairs sat in the middle of the long, narrow space. Overhead was a trio of bronze chandeliers that gave off surprisingly weak light. They must be on dimmers, Stone thought. A six-foot-wide spiral staircase led to the level above, which was partially open to the floor they were on. Up there Stone could see still more shelves, with a Chippendale-style banister running around the opening to the first floor.

A long wooden counter was at the end of the main room with still more shelves behind it. What Stone wasn’t seeing surprised him. No computers, not even a cash register was visible from where he stood.

Reuben said, “Feels like a place you’d want to smoke a cigar in and have a tumbler or two of whiskey.”

“Oh, no, Reuben,” Caleb said in a shocked tone. “Smoke is deadly to old books. And one spilled drop can ruin a timeless treasure.”

Reuben was about to say something when a heavily carved door behind the counter opened and an old man walked out. Everyone except Caleb did a double take because the gentleman’s silvery beard was long and flowed down across his chest, and his long white hair cascaded down past his shoulders. His costume was even more eye-catching. Over his tall, potbellied frame he wore a full-length lavender robe with gold stripes across the sleeve. His rimless oval glasses were perched on his long wrinkled forehead, where wisps of grizzled hair lay in an untidy fashion. His eyes were, yes, they were black, Stone decided, unless the poor light was playing a trick on him.

“Is he a monk?” Reuben whispered to Caleb.

“Shh!” Caleb hissed as the man came forward.

“Well?” Pearl said, looking at Caleb expectantly. “Are you Shaw?”

“Yes.”

“What is your matter of urgency?” Pearl suddenly glared at the others. “And who are these people?”

Caleb quickly introduced them, using only their first names.

Pearl’s gaze lingered the longest on Stone. “I have seen you in Lafayette Park, have I not? In a tent, sir?” he said with exaggerated formality.

“You have,” Stone replied.

Pearl continued, “Your sign says, if I recall correctly, ‘I want the truth.’ Have you found it?”

“I can’t say that I have.”

Pearl said, “Well, if I were inclined to seek the truth, I don’t believe I would start my search across from the White House.” Pearl turned back to Caleb. “Now, your business, sir?” he said briskly.

Caleb hastily explained about his being appointed DeHaven’s literary executor and his request about the appraisal.

“Yes, it was certainly a tragedy about DeHaven,” Pearl said solemnly. “And you’ve been named his literary executor, have you?” he added in a surprised tone.

“I helped Jonathan with his collection, and we worked together at the library,” he answered defensively.

“I see,” Pearl replied tersely. “But you still require an expert’s eye, obviously.”

Caleb turned slightly pink. “Uh, well, yes. We have an inventory of the collection on Milton’s laptop.”

“I would much prefer to deal in paper,” Pearl replied firmly.

“If you have a printer here, I can take care of that,” Milton said.

Pearl shook his head. “I have a printing press, but it’s from the sixteenth century, and I doubt it’s compatible with your contraption.”

“No, it wouldn’t be,” mumbled a shocked Milton. A devoted lover of all things technological, he was obviously stunned at Pearl’s lack thereof.

“Well, we can print one out and bring it to you tomorrow,” Caleb suggested. He hesitated and then said, “Mr. Pearl, I might as well come right out and say it. Jonathan has a first-edition Bay Psalm Book in his collection. Did you know about it?”

Pearl lowered his glasses onto his eyes. “Excuse me, what did you say?”