Over My Dead Body

by Dave Warner

  ‘You need to get rid of that, now!’

  Holmes had just enough time to slip the watch off his wrist and into his pocket when on the other side of the door’s window a gentleman appeared, immaculately dressed in three-piece suit and bow tie. Georgette put his age at about fifty. The door swung back.

  ‘Morgan Edwards, please come in.’

  He ushered them into a beautifully furnished large room, like the drawing room of an old-fashioned gentleman’s club. The carpet was thick blue-grey, the walls bare of books, but there were two large paintings in a Miró style on the wall ahead and on the wall to the left. Potted plants sectioned the room and made it feel homely. Edwards, clearly security conscious, locked the door behind them. Georgette wondered if anybody had ever tried to hold up the place: ‘Give us your first editions!’ was something she couldn’t quite imagine.

  In the middle of the room was a large rectangular wooden reading table around which sat four bentwood chairs. There was also a leather sofa and two additional stations of armchairs. At the wall opposite the door through which they had entered was a simple but expensive-looking, highly polished desk. Behind that, a closed door.

  ‘Now, how may I help?’ enquired Morgan Edwards, not yet offering them a seat.

  ‘My friend Mr Turner only just flew in from London and he browsed your catalog on the plane.’ Georgette was pleased at remembering her lines.

  ‘I am a collector of late-nineteenth-century works, criminology and related subjects,’ said Holmes, injecting his voice with the anxiety of an aroused collector. It changed his personality so drastically and quickly that Georgette was forced to remind herself not to react. He also exhibited the kind of twitch a collector might get when on the scent of a sought-after piece. ‘In your July catalog you had for sale a book, Crimini d’Italia. Is it still available?’

  ‘I am afraid not. It was snapped up rather quickly.’

  ‘Oh,’ Holmes’ whole body seemed to puncture and deflate. ‘I’ve looked for that for years.’

  ‘Would you be able to let us know who purchased the book?’ asked Georgette innocently.

  A hand gesture that was so reverent and restrained it may have been in the armory of a funeral-director, suggested that would be impossible.

  ‘I’m very sorry but I pride myself on my discretion. However, I do have some other very interesting books on criminology, and other topics that may be of interest from the late Victorian era: palmistry, psychology.’

  ‘I had my heart set on that one but I can always be tempted,’ said the new Holmes.

  ‘Please, take a seat.’ Edwards gestured to the sofa. They sat themselves down. He crossed to his desk, picked up an iPad and began flicking across the screen.

  ‘Here,’ he said, handing over the iPad.

  Seeing Holmes at a loss, Georgette took charge. Holmes got in close as she showed him the various titles Edwards had for sale. Each book was represented by a small photo and very brief description. Holmes made impressed noises. As soon as he spied the cover for Crimini d’Italia he gave another plaintive sigh. Georgette expanded the photo.

  ‘Ah, there it is.’ He sounded like he was pining for a well-loved pet long deceased. ‘Who took the photo if I may ask?’

  ‘I did,’ said Edwards. ‘I do all my own photos, write all the blurbs. These days, books are a dwindling passion and my survival depends on keeping costs down.’

  ‘You speak Italian?’

  ‘And French, and German. I just skim so I can have a handle on what is in it. If my memory serves me, that one went before I’d even finished the summary. I always publish a photo of new acquisitions, cover and title page. Often that’s all collectors need.’

  ‘But you still published the summary.’

  ‘Most of the work had been done. And you never know if another one may crop up and then everything is ready. Mind you, that’s the one and only time I have ever come across that book.’

  ‘I believe it.’ Holmes nodded vigorously. ‘I looked everywhere. Where did you find it?’

  ‘Deceased estate sale, Park Avenue. There were a dozen books in a box, all first editions. The seller was not interested in haggling.’

  ‘So you were the only one who actually handled the book?’ Holmes sounded incredulous.

  ‘Yes, well as I said, one needs to keep costs down but also to be brutally frank, these are valuable items and you simply can’t trust just anybody to handle them correctly.’

  Holmes nodded at the wisdom of this. Georgette meanwhile surreptitiously checked for security cameras, spied two, one over the entry door and one above the internal door. Edwards got down to the business at hand.

  ‘So, anything that takes your fancy?’

  ‘As a matter of fact: H.G. Wells, The First Men in the Moon. I should be most interested to see how it turned out.’

  Edwards looked at him oddly.

  Holmes said, ‘I saw some early drafts. He was toying with the idea a decade earlier.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of those.’ Edwards sounded intrigued.

  ‘I can assure you. Do you have a copy I might peruse?’

  ‘I’ll just be a moment.’

  This, Georgette knew, was her cue. As soon as Edwards disappeared through the inner sanctum door he had opened via a keypad, she began searching the iPad for accounts information. There was no guarantee Edwards would keep this information on it but within seconds she had found spreadsheets including books, bought and sold. But then she actually started to think about what she was doing and her fingers turned to hooves.

  ‘Shit!’ Three times she made an error.

  ‘Haste makes waste, Watson,’ whispered Holmes.

  She forced herself to calm. July: Got it! She scanned down the list. How long had Edwards been? She was breaking the law … there! Crimini … She managed to click on the title. The purchase and sale information were clearly displayed by date but there were no dollar amounts entered, simply whether it had sold and to whom.

  ‘I’ll get a photo of it,’ she said.

  But the door was already beginning to open.

  ‘Here,’ Holmes swung the screen towards him and stared at it intently. Then as Edwards was almost upon them he rose and blocked his vision, reaching for the book Edwards had brought with him and gasping, ‘Oh my …’

  Edwards pulled the book away and handed him a pair of cotton gloves.

  ‘Precautions.’

  ‘Of course.’ Holmes said. ‘I take it you do your own bookbinding and restoration?’

  Edwards looked surprised. ‘I do. My father started the business and that was his craft. He learned there was more to be made in selling books than restoring them. I did no work on this book though, it was in pristine condition, as were the others. Usually I can do whatever work is needed. Occasionally some very special restoration might be required but that was not the case here.’

  ‘So you have no staff?’

  ‘No, as I said, I am afraid there is not enough money in books these days for that. It is the era of the Philistine.’

  Apart from key moments in her research, Georgette had rarely been quite as excited or anxious as when searching through Edwards’ iPad. To say she was relieved to be out of there was an understatement.

  Holmes had spent a good twenty minutes thumbing through a book he’d never intended to buy. Edwards hadn’t displayed overt disappointment at failing to clinch a nine-hundred and ninety-dollar sale. Perhaps Holmes indicating he might be back in touch had left hope burning within. Or perhaps he really didn’t need the sale. The phone had only rung once while they were there and the enquiry had been perfunctory.

  Just as they were preparing to leave, Holmes had turned to Edwards.

  ‘You know, I really can’t get the idea out of my head that a copy of Crimini d’Italia actually lurks. I wonder if you would mind contacting the buyer and asking him to contact me, in case he would agree to sell it?’

  Edwards hesitated.

  Holmes added, ‘Naturally you woul
d earn a middle-man commission. Ten percent?’

  When Edwards asked how the buyer might contact Holmes, Georgette gave her card.

  ‘For the time being you can reach Mr Turner through me.’

  Edwards said he would see what he could do.

  There was little or no improvement in the weather. Autumn was grinding to an end in a manner reminiscent of most of the romantic relationships Georgette had known. You wished for a return to earlier, unspoiled times, but accepted you would be better off in a bracing winter with the comfort of a heat pack. Holmes signalled a passing cab. When it stopped, he opened the door for her and gave the driver a Park Avenue address.

  ‘Four hundred and fifty-eight Park Avenue,’ Holmes told the driver.

  ‘What’s there?’ asked Georgette, sliding across the seat.

  ‘Who, not what: the seller, Miss Margaret Dutton.’

  ‘You got that off the iPad?’

  ‘Of course. And the buyer, one Professor Avery Scheer, but I should like to think about our approach to him a mite longer and see if he makes contact of his own accord.’

  It staggered her that Holmes had managed to read both in such a quick time. Her brain had been like pizza spilled on the sidewalk as she had sought to quit the accounts file. Speaking of pizza, she could do with one now. A very large one.

  ‘How did you know Edwards restored his own books?’

  ‘His hands showed some wear, especially around the inside of the fingers, and yet he did not appear to be a man who had a history of manual labor, ergo he was in the habit of some type of hobby or work where he employed his hands.’

  ‘Do you think he could be …’ she hesitated. ‘Murderer’ wasn’t the kind of word one bandied about in the back of a cab. ‘… our man?’

  ‘He had access to the book; by his own admission he can read Italian. He said he’d skimmed but of course he could be lying.’

  ‘But if it were him, wouldn’t he suggest others might have read the book?’

  Holmes presented a smile which could have been interpreted equally as condescending or benign.

  ‘Noah,’ said Holmes, ‘is not one who wants to pass credit to another. He alone will be the savior. I am afraid that Mr Edwards has not yet cleared himself.’

  His gaze strayed through the window at the steady stream of cars and the constant sidewalk crush.

  ‘So many people,’ he mused. ‘And each one a locked box. If we could read their minds Watson, it would take several lifetimes. Even if we included lifetimes as long as mine.’

  With that he sat back in silence, his expression blank, just one more locked box in the mighty city.

  13

  Either Margaret Dutton or one of her progenitors had made some serious money to be able to afford to live in this apartment building. Unable to help comparing her own place, Georgette felt like a finger painter standing in front of a Goya.

  ‘Mr Percy Turner and Doctor Georgette Watson. We wish to speak to Miss Margaret Dutton,’ said Holmes to the doorman, a man of about sixty, broad of shoulder and chest.

  ‘Is she expecting you, sir?’

  ‘I doubt it. I am a consultant detective and I hope she might speak to me about a book she until recently owned.’

  The doorman went to the intercom. Georgette had been thinking that Margaret Dutton might have been at work but on reflection realized that anybody who could afford to live here was unlikely to work. The doorman spoke into the intercom and then returned.

  ‘Might I see some identification, sir?’

  Georgette stepped in and showed him her university card. It seemed to satisfy the doorman, who admitted them and told them, ‘Apartment 404.’

  ‘You were in the navy?’ asked Holmes of the bemused doorman.

  ‘As a matter of fact. Have I met you before, sir?’

  Holmes smiled.

  ‘No, but in my town of London you could guarantee that a man of your age in this position with your bearing had a military background; courteous to the tenants, yet able to deal with a bothersome intruder. And I note that the knots securing the blind here are reminiscent of those to be found on rigging.’

  Impressed, the doorman pushed the elevator button for them and ushered them inside.

  After a brief ride they found themselves in a well-lit hallway on golden carpet. There was an art-deco mirror down the hallway: from the looks, original. It occurred to Georgette that was a style that came after Holmes’ demise. To him this was all modern. Holmes pressed the bell. The door opened, revealing a small-boned woman with brown hair and keen eyes. Georgette put her in her fifties. Her dress was two-toned, blue and black in some sheeny silk-like material, clearly expensive, and she wore it with the air of a woman for whom the expression ‘casual wear’ would be heresy. Holmes introduced himself under his alias and Georgette introduced herself.

  ‘Our doorman said you were a detective?’

  ‘Yes. I wish to speak to you about a book you sold to Edwards Rare Books.’

  Dutton lifted her eyebrows and showed them past the reception hallway to a sitting room where a Siamese cat draped itself upon a cushion by the main window. The room was immaculate and devoid of the ordinary odors of domestic life – cooking, slightly ripened fruit, dust toasting on a warm television. It gave the room a sense of this being little more than a set.

  ‘The books were my late mother’s, actually my late father’s, but my mother never got rid of them. All first editions. They’d been in the family for at least forty years so there can be no doubt as to their provenance since then.’

  ‘I’m really only interested in one book at this stage,’ said Holmes. ‘Crimini d’Italia.’

  Dutton waved a dismissive hand. ‘I couldn’t even tell you the names of the books. Is there some issue?’

  ‘On the contrary, I have been hired by a client who collects rare books. They were particularly interested in that book and wondered where it came from so to speak, in case that might lead him to more copies.’

  ‘I can’t help you, I’m afraid. My father would from time to time come across a book he liked for whatever reason and buy it. I think there were about a dozen books in the box I sold to the book dealer. There are no others.’

  ‘How long would they have been in that box?’

  ‘My father died twelve years ago, so at least that long. My mother never read them but she refused to sell up my father’s things. I’m not sure if that is sad or pathetic.’

  ‘And where were they stored?’

  ‘Here. I moved in when my father died and now, there’s just me. And Sierra.’

  ‘Your daughter?’ asked Georgette.

  ‘No, her.’

  Dutton pointed at the Siamese, and now Georgette noticed there was no wedding band on Miss Dutton’s hand.

  Holmes said, ‘Just to be clear, these books you had were from different sources, stored here for at least ten years and not read by yourself or anybody else?’

  ‘That is correct. I am afraid I am no help to your client at all.’

  Georgette, who had been around her father enough to know his various tricks-of-the-trade, asked if she might use the bathroom. Margaret Dutton looked as if she wished to refuse but politeness got the better of her and she swept her hand in the direction of the corridor.

  The bathroom was palatial in comparison to her own, fresh flowers and barely used scented soap bars. Georgette did a quick once-over of the cabinet and sink area: one toothbrush, no sign of male usage. She took only a few minutes, flushed the toilet and returned. On approach she heard Holmes holding forth.

  ‘… found myself in Staffordshire investigating a matter of extreme delicacy.’

  Georgette re-entered the room and Holmes, who had been pointing to a plate on the wall, politely stood. Georgette realized Dutton was enjoying every minute of this gentlemanly extravagance.

  ‘I was just boring Miss Dutton with a story about the Wedgewoods.’

  ‘Not boring me in the least, Mr Turner.’

  Holmes b
owed. ‘Most kind of you to say so, Miss Dutton, but I fear we have taken up enough of your time.’

  ‘Not at all. I wish I could have been of more assistance.’

  ‘Well, perhaps if I think of anything more pertinent I shall call on you again.’

  ‘Please do.’

  Margaret Dutton had her hands pressed together in rapture. It would not have surprised Georgette if she had curtsied as Holmes left.

  ‘She was putty in your hands.’ Georgette didn’t know why the wizened Dutton still rankled but she did. Probably the fact that she’d never had to work for anything and yet still owned a large apartment in Park Avenue. Her own chance to ever attain that had run aground on the reef sitting opposite. That also rankled. ‘I’m surprised she didn’t ask you to stay for lunch.’

  ‘I’m glad she didn’t. I would not have wished to be denied these superb comestibles.’

  They were eating in Chinatown. The restaurant had been a regular for her and Vance. They had laughed at the constant background of clanging aluminium and the loud bickering in some Chinese dialect that inevitably followed. Back home they would open a bottle of white wine and then … no, she definitely didn’t want to go there. Perhaps the Victorians were right in discouraging sex before marriage. Who actually benefitted from it?

  Not her that was for sure. It was the first time she had been back here since the relationship blew up. Part of her was terrified of the possibility Vance might show up, part of her would have welcomed it. Holmes was, she could admit it to herself now, not as good-looking in that typical way that Vance was – all even teeth and gym-toned upper body – but he was something Vance would never be: substantial. And polite. Vance’s sensibility was that if he gave her an orgasm he’d fulfilled all obligations. He didn’t smoke though, that was one thing he had over Holmes, but he did get jealous, so if he saw her here with Holmes that would bug the shit out of him.