Joanne Dobson - Karen Pelletier 05 - The Maltese Manuscript

by Joanne Dobson

  She rose from the chair and hefted her bulging backpack. A small stuffed animal was attached to one strap, a grungy old Pink Panther. It had been a while since I’d seen one of those. She caught me looking at it. “It was Megan’s,” she said.

  “Oh,” I replied. Here was someone who faced serious life challenges, not simply a department chairman’s absent-minded admonitions. Sexual harassment guidelines prohibit us from touching students, but I gave her a squeeze on the arm. “Don’t worry about missing the class, Peggy. And try to get some rest.”

  ***

  When I realized that I’d read patriarchal power structure twice in contiguous sentences without deleting either, I knew I had to pay closer attention to my revision. But I couldn’t help brooding about Peggy Briggs and her quest for a better life. I’d have to find some way to let my student know she could count on me. But for what? To give her advice? To cut her some slack? To listen when she needed a sympathetic ear?

  Soon I had the talk in decent shape, except for one publication date about which I was uncertain. I trudged over to Special Collections to check it at the source. Bob Tooey was at his usual place in a baby-blue sweater that seemed to have shrunk in the wash, pulling tight across his shoulders and upper arms. As Nellie placed the requested book in front of me, with a sidelong glance at the little researcher, my eyes adjusted. It wasn’t that Tooey’s sweater had shrunk, it was that the little man was really built. I hadn’t noticed that before: a short, plain-looking guy, but with the upper-body definition of an Olympic gymnast. Surprisingly powerful looking. I stared at him for a few seconds, then caught myself. I checked the date I was looking for, and went back to the office.

  ***

  “I told you I’d be seeing you.” I glanced up from the computer monitor, startled. Dennis O’Hanlon stood in my office doorway. He was wearing an olive drab trench coat of some fashionable crinkly fabric, and looked just as out of place in the Enfield English Department as he had at the Lowell High reunion.

  “Dennis? What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Don’t get up,” he ordered, closing the door quietly. He pulled over one of the captain’s chairs and sat down, practically knee-to-knee with me. He looked me in the eye, straight on. In the light coming from the tall window I could see what the dim illumination of the Lowell Doubletree bar hadn’t revealed, a straight white scar running from the corner of his right eye across his temple and disappearing in the curly ginger hair. “Karen, I need a favor,” my visitor said.

  “A favor? What kind of favor?”

  He reached in his coat pocket, removed a cigar case, tipped out a fat brown cigar. “I need you not to know me.”

  “What are you talking about? Not to know you?” This was just a little too much like a TV police drama. “And what are you doing at Enfield anyhow? And what the hell—”

  “I told Mitchell this wasn’t gonna be easy.” He clipped off the end of the cigar, returned the case to his pocket, and retrieved a silver lighter.

  “Mitchell?” That stopped me cold. “You mean Avery?”

  “Avery Mitchell. President of Enfield College. Right. That Mitchell. Your boss. My client. I told you I was a P.I., didn’t I.” He tilted the unlit cigar in my direction. “You don’t mind, do you?” The flame flicked to the cigar’s tip before I could respond. He took a drag, then studied the incipient coal. “You see, Karen, I’m on a case, and in pursuit of the investigation I’m attending your crime-fiction conference. Undercover.”

  I gaped at him. “An undercover scholar! You’ve got to be kidding!”

  “Undercover as a scholar,” he corrected me. “There’ll be so many professors on campus for the conference, no one will notice one more new face. That gives me a perfect opportunity to hang out, talk to people, get the lay of the land. Only, I need you…not to know me.” He leaned back, took another deep drag, let out a slow, thin stream of smoke. In spite of myself I inhaled deeply. The smoke smelled warm and strong and masculine. The smoker exuded an air of sensuality powerful enough to make my skin tingle. God! What was the matter with me? This was grungy little Denny O’Hanlon.

  I looked out the window, away from Dennis. The campus was at its most dismal: bare branches, denuded lawns, cold, hard sky. Students on their way to classes hurried by, hands in pockets, heads bowed against the invisible wind. Snow before lunchtime, I thought. Late March, and this winter refuses to end.

  Dennis sat very still, watching me with sea-glass eyes. His red-blond hair sprang into sleek waves in spite of the ruthlessly short cut. He looked like a street-bred tabby cat.

  “Avery, you say?” I recalled the conversation in the President’s office. Avery had talked about stolen books. He had mentioned taking drastic steps. For a classy institution such as Enfield, engaging a private investigator would indeed constitute a drastic step. Despite nods in the direction of social equality, Enfield College represented the entrenched values, interests, and institutions of the rich. Dennis was a Lowell street kid. I could easily imagine him, like Raymond Chandler’s Marlowe, snarling, “To hell with the rich!” I was intrigued by the paradox. “Avery?” I repeated.

  “Yep.” Dennis puffed at his smoke.

  “Tell me about it.”

  Chapter Nine

  My glamorous-sounding job as Sunnye Hardcastle’s escort came down to finding a secure closet for her ankle-length leather coat, locating her conference badge, bringing her a glass of champagne and a plateful of tiny smoked-salmon sandwiches, and making introductions.

  “So, you’re supposed to be my bodyguard?” Sunnye said, when I met her in the library.

  “Escort. From what I’ve heard, you should have no need of a bodyguard.” I looked closely, but couldn’t see anywhere Sunnye could possibly be packing heat beneath her shimmering grey silk sheath. Must be in the soft leather shoulder bag.

  The novelist gave me a Cheshire-Cat grin. Then she stuck on her conference badge, took a hefty slug of wine, slipped Trouble a sandwich, and flashed an automatic smile at the first admirer to approach her.

  The reception was being held in the library’s large foyer, the area temporarily closed to students and other patrons by discreet green plush-covered chains on upright brass poles. And permanently closed to dogs, as a vigilant security guard explained to Sunnye. “I’m a public figure with a need for protection from deranged fans,” she informed him. “He’s a trained guard dog—goes with me everywhere.” My eyes widened as I watched a crisp fifty-dollar bill change hands, and Trouble entered the library without further challenge.

  Long tables laden with succulent tidbits had replaced the foyer’s book and manuscript display cases. A bar anchored the far end of the room. Among the attendees, only Rachel Thompson and I—and one pseudo-scholar, undercover—knew that sometime in the early morning hours of the previous day a locked and alarmed library display case had somehow—impossibly—been opened, and an invaluable manuscript had been stolen.

  ***

  “What do you know about bibliomania?” Dennis had asked me in my office earlier that day.

  “Bibliomania?” I broke the word down into its constituent parts. Latin derivation. Biblio. Mania. “You mean bibliophiles? People who are crazy about books? I think you’d have to put me into that category.”

  “But you’re sane—at least I assume so.” He gave me an Irish grin. “What I’m talking about is something more like bibliokleptomania. People who are so obsessed with books that they’ll go to any lengths to possess them. Biblioklepts, I think they’d be called.”

  “So,” I mused, “you are working on the library thefts. I thought so. Avery told me about them, you know. He said a half million dollars….”

  Dennis rolled the fat cigar in his fingers. “Karen, when you and I were kids back in Lowell living on beans and potatoes and Merrimack River fish,” he flashed his feline smile, “did you think we’d ever be sitting in a room like this one talking about a half million dollars?”

  I shrugged. “It’s still someone else
’s half million. Why you, Denny? How’d you get involved in this?”

  “I did some work for UMass Lowell. Word got around. I’m…damn good.”

  “But…rare books? You know about them?”

  “I’m a fast learner.” He waggled his cigar like Groucho Marx. “Anyhow, Karen, let me bring you up to date. Last night the s.o.b. who’s been heisting the books got into the library again. Took something big-time—a manuscript worth maybe $100,000—from a locked display case in the foyer.”

  “You’re kidding!” I visualized the contents of the cases. “Oh, no! Not The Maltese Falcon!”

  “Yeah, that’s it. A scrawled-over stack of old pages. An annotated typescript, Mitchell called it. A hundred grand! Tell me, Karen, why the hell would that thing bring such big bucks?”

  I pondered for a moment. “The Falcon’s…seminal, I guess you’d say—an apt term, if not p. c. at the moment. It established a transformative myth in the American imagination, the loner private eye—an incorruptible man in a crooked universe. An icon of American crime novels, films, even TV police dramas. And the manuscript? I saw it there, in that case. It had Hammett’s revisions all over it, in his own hand. Jeez…only $100,000? I’m surprised. The thing must be priceless.”

  “Priceless, huh? Nothing’s priceless.” Dennis brooded for a long moment. Then he stubbed his cigar out in an empty coffee mug and dumped it in the trash. I knew the sweet brown aroma would linger in the air for days. “Well, back to the theft: No signs of forced entry to the building. Even weirder, the showcase was still locked—like the manuscript had just been vaporized right through the glass. No signs of forced entry: no broken glass, dents, scratches. Just poof! Gone.”

  “Someone must have had a key….”

  Dennis shrugged. “If they did, it’s an inside job, but I’m not convinced…” He let it trail off, and fell silent again.

  “Dennis?”

  He shook his head, as if to clear his thinking. “So, anyhow, Mitchell’s been talking to me for almost a month about an investigation—since before I met you at the reunion.” Another ginger-cat grin. “You could have knocked me over with a first edition of a Dick Tracy comic when you told me you taught at Enfield.”

  I thought back. “You did look flabbergasted.”

  He nodded. “Mitchell was…” Dennis waffled his hand back and forth to indicate Avery’s indecision. “But this morning, when they found that manuscript missing, he called, told me to get my ass over here right away.”

  “He didn’t say ‘ass.’” I knew Avery. He was anything but crude.

  “He might as well have. He wanted me here pronto. Karen, I’m building a top-notch reputation as an investigator, and this is a big case for me. I need your help. And, the first thing I need is for you not to know me.”

  ***

  Now, at the reception, I abandoned Sunnye to her fans and wandered over to a tray of fat red strawberries imported, no doubt at hideous expense, from God-knows-which despot-ridden equatorial nation. “Lose the glasses,” I muttered to the ginger-haired conferee dipping a berry into a pot of melted chocolate. “Horn-rims went out with Professor Henry Higgins.” The strawberry-eater was six feet tall and lithe like a tiger. The white scar stretching from his eye to his hairline was only partially obscured by the clunky glasses. His name tag read Prof. Mark Slade, Mount Helen College. “And,” I added, “do you see a single other person here under the age of seventy wearing tweed? With suede elbow patches, no less?”

  “So nice to meet you, Professor Pelletier,” Professor Slade said. “I’ve read all your work, of course. And with great admiration. Although I must say I do believe you’ve overestimated the role of class binaries in the cultural construction of a robust national identity.”

  “Slade’s” critique was lifted verbatim from a hostile American Literary History review of my scholarly book. “You really do your homework, don’t you?” I simpered at Dennis, moved on to the seafood bar, and nabbed a plateful of shrimp.

  Paul Henshaw, an Enfield rare-book dealer, had backed Sunnye into a paneled alcove. Paul was in his sixties, attractive and grey-haired, and Sunnye seemed to be enjoying the encounter. Trouble was asleep at her feet. In spite of the neat ponytail, Paul was a tough guy, broad-shouldered, heavily muscled, and virile, with a pushed-in nose that at one time had been broken, then poorly set. His shop, Henshaw’s Rare and Antiquarian Books, was an Enfield institution. I knew his tales of fabulous book discoveries and heartbreaking misses could be engrossing, but right now he was monopolizing the novelist. I gave him a cordial brush-off, found a small table upon which Sunnye could sign books, brought her a chair, and bullied people into an orderly line. In spite of the purported academic indifference to the commercialized products of popular culture, a number of attendees carried luridly colored copies of Tough Times.

  My post at Sunnye’s side gave me a prime view of the crowd. In the crush around the writer I spotted familiar faces. Claudia Nestor flitted from person to person, greeting newcomers with a high shrill laugh, refilling her wine glass, scowling at the selection of hors d’oeuvres. Nellie Applegate, in a too-long grey dress made from some nubby fabric manufactured exclusively to be sold in second-hand shops, sipped at something colorless and gazed vaguely around the room. Bob Tooey, the little potato-faced researcher from Special Collections, was all dressed up now in a baggy blue suit, waiting in line for Sunnye to sign a bright new copy of Tough Times.

  Behind Tooey, Rachel Thompson drank red wine in big gulps. She appeared pale and stressed, her dark eyes nervous, her thin lips tight. And no wonder. She had primary responsibility for the library’s collection of rare books and manuscripts. The loss of The Maltese Falcon manuscript, not to mention all the stolen books, did not place her in a favorable light. To say the least. Her job might even be at risk. And where, after all these thefts from the Enfield holdings, would Rachel find a new job? The academic world is small and news travels fast. Who would hire a librarian who couldn’t keep the books on her shelves?

  Rachel introduced herself to Sunnye and handed the novelist two copies of Tough Times. One for herself, I assumed, and one for the library. I remembered the signed first edition of Rough Cut I’d seen in the display case. Had that been stolen along with the Falcon manuscript?

  Dennis, in the guise of Professor Slade, sidled up to me. “Karen, who’s that?” He tilted his wineglass in the direction of a half-open door sequestered in the foyer’s paneling. Peggy Briggs stood in the shadow of the door, a bulky manila envelope hugged to her chest. It was an internal mail envelope, the kind with the twist closure and the little viewing holes.

  “That’s Peggy Briggs, one of my students. Why?”

  He didn’t answer my question. “Where does that door go?”

  “God knows. This old building is riddled with odd doors. It can be like a bad dream. Strange winding corridors. Staircases that lead to walled-off hallways. I’ve gotten hopelessly lost more than once. But that particular door? To tell the truth, I never even noticed it before.”

  “Looks like it was designed as a concealed entry.” Dennis took a step in Peggy’s direction. “Wonder what she’s got there?”

  “Don’t!” I grabbed his sleeve. My student was under enough pressure already.

  He pulled away, then turned to me, his expression suddenly so menacing I shivered. “I’m here on an investigation, Karen. Don’t get in my way.”

  I was momentarily stunned. “You’re the one who brought me into this.”

  “Yeah, I did. But I didn’t expect you to be obstructive.” His scowl brought on a second shiver. He pivoted to stare over at the door where Peggy had stood. It was closed now, outline barely visible in the intricate paneling. My student was nowhere in sight. “Shit!” he said, and strode over to Rachel Thompson. I couldn’t hear what he said to her, but I didn’t need to. She immediately glanced over at the sequestered door, then they took off together in the direction of the main staircase.

  I stood alone and stared after Den
nis. Nobody gets away with talking to me like that! No way was I going to cooperate any further with that son-of-a-bitch. He could go back to Lowell and choke to death on Merrimack River fish bones for all I cared.

  And, where did that door lead, anyhow? Had Peggy gone through it? If so, Rachel and Dennis would surely find her. I sighed; I couldn’t mother all my students all the time. Peggy would be fine, and her comings and goings were none of my business anyhow.

  The room was stuffy. A few English Department colleagues huddled by the bar. In pursuit of a fresh drink I joined them and stumbled into the middle of a wrangle over the value and purpose of crime fiction. Ned Hilton insisted that Kit Danger’s significance lay in the manner in which the character destabilized the subtexts of performative femininity.

  Miles Jewell’s irate tones cut through Ned’s tentative assertion. “Blatant social constructivism, Hilton. Where’s the literary value? That’s what I want to know.”

  Ned squared his slender shoulders. “Literary aesthetics do not account for the recuperation of heterogeneity from hegemony. What more valuable function can you assign to a text than the inscription of personal agency within repressive social circumstances?”

  Miles didn’t seem to know the answer to Ned’s question. Neither did I.

  It was stifling in the crowded foyer. I gave up the wait for a drink, and pushed my way through the crowd to the front door for a breath of air. The big door had an iron frame, inset with thick glass, criss-crossed with hammered grids, and embossed with brass lions. It weighed a zillion tons; not a door that was ever meant to be opened by a woman. I opened it anyhow. Outside, two smokers puffed silently in snow that thickened with the gathering night. Claudia Nestor found me on the threshold. She was wearing black silk, and the eye tic was on automatic pilot.