Joanne Dobson - Karen Pelletier 05 - The Maltese Manuscript

by Joanne Dobson

  “Who took what?” Amanda asked.

  Neither Sunnye nor Amanda knew the Maltese Falcon manuscript had been stolen. Its loss was so potentially embarrassing to the college that it had been hushed up as if it were a state secret. While Elwood Munro’s death had brought the book thefts to public attention, so far, the stolen manuscript had remained a dark administrative secret.

  I sat on the rolling desk chair and brought my partners-in-crime-fighting up to date. “I hate to say this,” I concluded, “but it looks as if Rachel may have stolen the Hammett manuscript, then hid it here in plain sight in this…mess. When the brouhaha dies down, she’ll be able to sneak it out of the library.”

  “Rachel? I’ve met this woman, right?” Sunnye asked. “She dresses like a milk-maid—all that pale, loose-woven stuff?”

  “Sounds like Rachel.”

  “But,” Amanda broke in, “if she stole the manuscript, does that mean she’s the killer?”

  A shudder ran through me: Just last week I’d spent hours with Rachel, and we’d ended up together in a remote and lonely location. But then I tried to imagine Rachel harming me—or sneaking up behind Elwood Munro and bashing him over the head. “Rachel? Never. She’s such a gentle person. Why, Sunnye, you should have seen her with your dog. Trouble loves her.”

  At the sound of his name, the animal lifted his head and scrutinized me with wise brown eyes. I was still focused on the pages in my hand. “I don’t know why the manuscript would be on her desk unless she took it. But I can’t imagine why she would do that.”

  “Desperate for money,” Amanda said.

  “In cahoots with Elwood Munro,” Sunnye suggested.

  “You have any idea how much she could get for this?”

  She laughed. “As much as she wanted, I imagine.” The novelist had taken the manuscript from me and was turning pages reverentially. “This is a unique item, especially if these revisions are in Hammett’s own hand. A real rarity.”

  I pushed it. “How much is ‘as much as she wanted’?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Fifty, a hundred thousand. Maybe more.” She flicked the price away as if it were inconsequential. “Even a million wouldn’t be too much; a million is nothing to some people. It would all depend on how much some person of means—some obsessed collector—was willing to pay, and pay under the table, too, this being stolen property. He’d have to keep it solely for his private pleasure, but there’d be someone…” She ran a light finger over the page and trailed off dreamily.

  I must have given her a sharp glance.

  “Not me,” she said. “No way I’d take that kind of risk.”

  “Oh, no?” I felt my eyebrows pucker.

  “Trespass is one thing,” she continued, soberly. “Receiving stolen goods is altogether something else.”

  “You better call Charlie,” Amanda broke in. “If there’s any possibility this Rachel woman is the killer, we’ve got to tell him.”

  “Ye-e-es. But, you know, when it comes right down to it, I’m not absolutely convinced she’s the biblioklept.”

  “The what?” Amanda frowned at me.

  “The book thief, at least the one who stole the manuscript. Rachel’s not the only person on campus to have easy access to rare books and manuscripts. There’s Nellie Applegate. She’s in and out of this office every day. So are the work-study students. I hate to say it, but Peggy Briggs is a library runner. She could get her hands on anything she wanted. And if ever anyone needed money…”

  “Peggy…” Sunnye said, “hmm…and she disappeared right around the time of the murder.”

  “Right after she discovered the body.”

  “Really? Then you found her backpack in Munro’s house….”

  “Yeah. And the night before that—the evening of the reception—she was behaving oddly. She was standing in a doorway in the library lobby, carrying an envelope exactly like this one.” I tapped the empty interdepartmental-mail envelope. “Now I’m asking myself whether or not she had the Maltese Falcon manuscript in it? And, if she did, was she in cahoots with Rachel?”

  “Was who in what with me?” The overhead light flared on, and Rachel Thompson stood in the doorway, a ring of keys in her hand and an astonished expression on her flushed face. “What the hell is going on here?” she exclaimed.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Hearing Rachel’s voice, Trouble jumped up from his place at Sunnye’s feet. His mistress motioned him down again. He obeyed, but gazed longingly at Rachel.

  The librarian strode over and snatched the manuscript from Sunnye’s hand. She looked closely at it, then gasped. “Where’d you get this?” she exclaimed.

  “Right where you put it,” Sunnye said, sharply.

  The dog’s wide brow furrowed at her tone. He looked from his owner to Rachel, then back again.

  “What are you talking about?” Rachel turned pages, checking the manuscript for damage. “This was stolen from the library.”

  “Yeah? Stolen by you and hidden in plain sight. That’s a corny old ploy stolen from Poe.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “We found the Maltese manuscript on your desk, Rachel,” I explained. I picked up the stretched-out manila envelope, pointed to the empty slot in the desk rack.

  Rachel’s brow matched Trouble’s in puzzlement. She turned to Sunnye. “What is this, Ms. Hardcastle? Some kind of wacked-out publicity stunt? Did you plant this here so you could pretend to find it? Get press for being a gen-u-wine private eye?”

  I jumped in before Sunnye could respond. “Listen, Rachel. Sunnye doesn’t have any phony reason like that. This is why we’re here—the police think she killed Elwood Munro, but she didn’t. We’re helping her investigate—”

  “Investigate?”

  “Yes. She’s just looking for evidence to exonerate herself.”

  “Just looking? Ransacking my desk? In a restricted area? After midnight? And, Karen, you went along with this ludicrous scheme? Breaking into the college library? Are you out of your mind?”

  I shrugged: Maybe.

  “We didn’t exactly break in.” Amanda spoke for the first time. “We were already in the library. We just…stayed.” Suddenly looking exhausted, she sank into a desk chair in a corner by the bank of file cabinets. No mention of having slithered through a filthy heating duct.

  With narrowed eyes Rachel scrutinized Amanda. “Who are you?”

  “She’s my daughter.” I stepped between the librarian and Amanda. “Leave her out of this.”

  Rachel jerked her thumb at Sunnye. “How do you know she didn’t kill that man, Karen?” she said. “Just because she says she didn’t? The celebrated Sunnye Hardcastle can do no wrong?” The librarian flourished the manuscript. “Don’t let her dupe you. She probably stole this in the first place.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense. How could she have gotten in here?” But, then, of course, there were no locked rooms for Sunnye Hardcastle; she could go wherever she wanted.

  Rachel reached for the phone. “I’m calling Security.”

  I shook my head. “You can call the campus cops if you want to, Rachel, but if you do, you’ll get Sunnye and me in a lot of trouble, and we’re telling the truth.”

  Sunnye was tired of letting me take the lead. “Anyhow, Ms. Thompson, what are you doing here this time of night? You love your job so much you come in at, what, one-twelve a.m.?” She stood with her feet apart, hands loose at her sides. A shooter’s position. My heart sank. I should have known Sunnye Hardcastle would have a gun somewhere on her person.

  “Can’t we just forget about all this?” I pleaded inanely. “Before things get any worse.”

  Rachel eyed Sunnye warily. “I do come in at all hours—I live right down the street from the college. Tonight I was on my way home from…a date and stopped by to pick up an order form I’d forgotten.” She wore a grey linen pant suit, and a scarlet band in her dark hair: fairly dressy for Rachel. I remembered seeing her enter Rudolph’
s earlier that evening hand-in-hand with Paul Henshaw. Paul, a rare-book dealer. Had the two of them…? “And, no, Karen,” she said, glancing over at me. “We can’t just forget about all this.” She reached for the phone on her desk.

  Rachel’s calm reason was beginning to shake my confidence. Was it indeed possible that I’d been duped by Sunnye into helping her get her hands on this invaluable manuscript? Or, on the other hand, was Sunnye right, and Rachel had taken advantage of her position to conceal it in a place so visible no one would ever think to look there? Or, had Peggy…?

  Rachel picked up the receiver.

  “I’ll take that.” From the darkness of the closed stacks, a new voice joined in. All heads swiveled toward the door. A shadow detached itself from the larger penumbra of books and bookshelves, stepped forward, took on the shape of a man. My God! It was Dennis O’Hanlon! “Put the phone down and give me the manuscript,” he said, hand extended.

  We froze in position: Rachel by the desk with the manuscript; Sunnye by the door to the stacks; Amanda slouched in the wheeled desk chair, half-hidden by the file cabinets; me all the way over by the reading-room door through which Rachel had entered.

  “How’d you get down here?” Rachel asked. She looked dumbfounded.

  “You showed me how, Ms. Thompson. Now, hand it over,” he said, flexing his outstretched hand. Framed in the doorway, Dennis looked large and powerful. “I said, now. Come on, Ms. Thompson. You know I’ve been authorized by the college to investigate the thefts from your library. You cooperate and things will go easier for you.”

  “But…but, I…I didn’t steal it.” She clutched The Maltese Falcon to her chest.

  “Uh, huh. Right. Karen, Sweetheart…” He stepped further into the large office. “You take that manuscript from Ms. Thompson and bring it over here. And…be careful. She may be armed.” One second there was no weapon in his hand, the next a lethal-looking little automatic had materialized.

  “Dennis,” I protested.

  “Mr. O’Hanlon,” Rachel cried, indignantly. “I had nothing to do with this.”

  Dennis had the proper credentials, a compelling air of authority, and the gun, but I didn’t leap to obey him. Something was out of sync here. He had told me at least twice that Avery Mitchell had taken him off the case. And Avery had told me that Dennis had backed out on his own. Now, here, tonight, he was claiming to represent the college.

  With the clarity my brain can occasionally achieve under stress, I recalled everything I knew about Dennis O’Hanlon. I remembered the hungry eyes of the young Denny that day so long ago when we’d caught the big fish. Then I superimposed on that memory the equally hungry eyes of the mature Dennis as he’d sat at Rudolph’s bar earlier that evening, expounding his philosophy of life: There isn’t a lot I wouldn’t do for money.

  The words resonated in my brain. Paul Henshaw, who should know, had said that on the rare-book black market the collector’s item now clutched to Rachel’s breast could command a small fortune.

  Three possible suspects in the murder of Elwood Munro and the theft of The Maltese Falcon manuscript stood before me: Rachel, Sunnye, and Dennis. Each had motive, means, and opportunity. Rachel had a taste for luxury, as exhibited by the new BMW, and she had, of course, free access to all the library’s collections. Sunnye was an avid collector of American first editions, and what could be more collectible than the inscribed manuscript of the premiere American classic detective novel. And, Dennis…well, Dennis…there wasn’t a lot he wouldn’t do for money.

  I decided to play along with him. “Now, Dennis,” I said, giving the P.I. an innocent’s wide-eyed stare. “I don’t think a gun is necessary. Surely Rachel understands the consequences of her actions. Let’s just call Security as she suggested. Then we can get this all sorted out.” I moved toward the phone.

  “Security? Not a chance.” He considered me with a level green gaze. Then he sighed: things had gotten more complicated than he expected. “I didn’t want to do it this way, Karen, but like always you’re too smart for your own good.” The gun, as if it had a life of its own, moved slowly, even reluctantly, from Rachel to me. I sucked in a deep breath. The shiny automatic then jerked toward Sunnye at the door, ordering her further into the room. She obeyed without protest, and my heart froze. Where was the feisty Kit Danger when we needed her? We stood at an impasse until Dennis sighed again. “I’m leaving here with this manuscript, ladies, and if you three know what’s good for you, you’re not gonna give me any grief.”

  You three? Only three? Then he hadn’t seen Amanda slouched in her chair by the file cabinets. And, indeed, when I slid my eyes over toward her, she had vanished into the shadows. I exhaled with relief. At least my daughter was safe.

  But Trouble hadn’t vanished. The big Rottweiler was at Sunnye’s side, a menacing snarl beginning to emerge from between bared teeth.

  “Keep that dog back,” Dennis snapped at Sunnye, “or he gets it first.”

  Sunnye glared, but she grabbed Trouble’s leash and pulled him up short. I kept expecting her to do something—anything—to save us: lunge at Dennis, kick him off his feet, sic the dog on him. But she just stood there. Maybe she was marking time.

  Maybe she had simply given up.

  A moment of intense silence ensued as four sets of eyes focused on the private investigator and his gun: mine, Rachel’s, Sunnye’s, and Trouble’s. Three women and a ferocious dog ranged against one renegade male.

  We could have taken him if it wasn’t for the gun. The gun was the equalizer—the cold steel equalizer.

  Dennis broke the silence. “That little twerp, Munro, I fingered him as the book thief right away. You gotta admire his nerve; he just about owned this library. Broke into vaults, locked offices, closed stacks—wherever the books were that he wanted. Went in through ventilation ducts, elevator shafts, over steel security gates. But I don’t think he was alone in it. He must’ve had an accomplice to tell him where things were, to cover up for him. Was it you, Ms. Thompson?”

  “Me? I hardly ever saw the man. It was Nellie who…” Her eyes widened, and she proceeded pensively. “It was Nellie who assisted him when he needed anything. I sometimes thought she—”

  But Dennis wasn’t interested in Nellie Applegate. “You know, that stupid little dweeb could have really cleaned up on all those books, but he never sold even one of them. He was some kind of nut—took them just to…have them. Like owning thousands of books would make him smart.”

  “Looked pretty smart to me,” I mused. “Even brilliant. The focus and comprehensiveness of that collection—”

  He laughed. “And you only saw the one house—” He broke off as if he realized he’d said too much.

  “There’s more than one?”

  “Shit!”

  “Dennis,” I persisted, “did Munro have more than one stash of stolen books?”

  “Karen, shut up, will you. You see, I have a different take on rare books than Munro did. I look at them and I see… portable cash. He lived on trust funds, I found out. Trust funds! Well, ladies, this…” He stepped forward and snatched the manuscript from Rachel’s hand. “This will enhance my trust funds.”

  In the murky light he stood silent for a moment, staring at me with eyes the color of used dollar bills. Then he shook his head and sighed. “Jesus H. Christ, Karen, like I said, I didn’t want it to come down to this. I thought I could just walk out of here without…but things seem to be getting out of control.”

  Sunnye spoke for the first time since Dennis’s appearance. Her words were low and level. “Did you kill that poor man, Mr. O’Hanlon?”

  He spun toward the novelist, the muzzle of his little automatic swinging in her direction. “Kill him? He fell, didn’t he? Library steps, damn unstable.” Straightforward? Sardonic? His tone was unreadable.

  Rachel broke in. “But, when used properly, they’re not—”

  Suddenly, a crash resounded. On the far side of the room a computer monitor exploded into thin shards. Shat
tered glass flew everywhere. I leapt back. Rachel screamed. A heavy tape dispenser ricocheted off the broken screen and skidded to a halt at my feet. Amanda must have hurled it from her hiding place behind the file cabinets.

  Dennis swiveled toward the disturbance, a bullet from his gun smashing into the already pulverized computer screen.

  “Hold it right there, O’Hanlon,” Sunnye barked, without a second’s lag time. I hadn’t seen her reach for it, but in her steady hand she now held an efficient-looking black handgun. “One move and you’re a dead man.”

  I recognized the line from Stormy Weather, when Kit Danger faces down Yves Dupin, international saboteur. Or was it from Bad Attitude, when the evil industrialist Nindy Falkoff threatens the life of Pauline Albright, crusading public service advocate? Or was it from—

  But Denny feinted to the right, then dodged left, pivoted out the door and vanished into the shadowy stacks, pages flying from the loosely tied manuscript in his grasp. A bullet exploded from Sunnye’s gun, whizzed through the door and lodged with a thunk in a thick, corded, leather-bound volume on the first set of shelves, about five feet above the floor. Heart level.

  From four or five tiers away, a responding bullet cracked the door’s glass panel right beside my forehead. I screeched and threw myself down.

  “My God,” Rachel shrilled, “he’s firing from behind the incunabula!” She’d been scrabbling across the office floor, trying to recover a few fly-away manuscript pages.

  I dragged her down before she could dash out to save her precious early printed books, but Sunnye was already beyond my reach, sprinting into the shadows after Dennis. Another shot cracked, ricocheted off a metal book truck with a reverberating ping. Sunnye’s gun responded: boom! My ears rang: In the enclosed space the detonation was deafening.

  From behind the desk, I grabbed the phone and yanked it down beside me. Pressing 911 with a spastic finger, I caught a glimpse of Amanda as she emerged from behind the bank of file cabinets, slithering on her belly in the direction of Sunnye’s big leather bag. It took a second or two for me to realize what she had in mind. “Amanda, no,” I yelled, but she had Sunnye’s backup gun out of the bag and cocked, and was already halfway through the door into the stacks.