Hound

by Vincent McCaffrey

  Henry asked, “Did anybody else you know visit her in the days before?"

  "Yeah. Sure. You!"

  "No one else?"

  "No one I saw."

  "Somebody you didn't see?"

  Fred smiled as if Henry had picked up on a subtlety. He said, “The elevator went up half a dozen times. Could have just been her coming and going. I don't know. They don't pay me to keep a desk log. They pay me to clean, take out the garbage, and call the plumber when he's needed. That's it."

  Fred spit out the remainder of his cigarette, unfolded his paper, and lifted it again.

  Another effort at playing detective had failed. Fred was not a likable fellow. Though what the man said seemed worth knowing, Henry left with the feeling of understanding even less, unsure of what more he might have asked—especially who else might have known about his relationship with Morgan.

  Henry had even been unable to reach Morgan's lawyer, Mr. Downes. He had left his name and number with the secretary twice. The offices of Peals, Burgher, and Downes was a glass fortress in the Hancock Tower. And Ranulf Richter had no known address at present according to his last publisher.

  Perhaps it was for that reason that finding Ranulf Richter lying back on the stone steps at the front of Mrs. Prowder's house when he got home was an even greater surprise. Richter wore the same black silk scarf and dark blue blazer jacket Henry had seen at the church service, but had returned to wearing his shorts.

  Richter said, “You are Henry?"

  Henry did not answer, but instead stood a short distance from the sprawled figure as if waiting for it to move so that he could get by.

  Ranulf sat forward. “I've been waiting for you. Wanted to talk about Morgan a bit.... Could you?” Thick eyebrows rose to a permanently furrowed forehead. “You were fond of her. So was I.... “He paused as he searched Henry's face for some understanding. Henry waited. “The coppers don't take me seriously, so I thought I'd talk to you, and maybe you could pass something on."

  Ranulf was not a good-looking man. His fashionable four days’ growth of beard exaggerated the hollow of his cheeks. His jacket was unbuttoned, revealing that the bloom of dark hair from his chest had become soiled with gray by age. The boniness of his knees below his shorts gave him a malnourished look.

  Henry said, “Is there a reason anyone should take you seriously?"

  Henry was surprised at himself for expressing this thought out loud. Ranulf's answer was quick.

  "Morgan did. You had a good deal of respect for Morgan, I believe. Then you might respect her judgment."

  Henry wondered if this answer was prerecorded—the at-the-ready answer to any number of key doubts Henry might have. But it was true. It was the only reason he might give Ranulf the time of day.

  Henry stepped closer to the building to let someone pass behind on the narrow brick of the sidewalk before he asked, “What did you want to say?"

  Ranulf looked upward at the door. “Can we go in? I need to pee, and there is no good in telling the neighbors more than they already know."

  Ranulf moved to let Henry step upward to unlock the door. On the inside stairs, Ranulf stopped repeatedly to look around.

  "This is an old one,” he said. “Not an imitation."

  Henry spoke without looking back. “1820s."

  Ranulf said, “It has the feel to it."

  Henry had always liked the simplicity of the building—the lack of obvious detail. The character of the structure was in the small scale of things, the narrowness of the staircase and halls, the lower ceilings, as well as the absence of decoration. If Henry had been an inch taller, he would have had to duck to enter his own door.

  Henry unlocked that door and pointed the way past the kitchenette to the bathroom. There were only two chairs, and his table was still stacked with Helen Mawson's books, so he pulled the extra chair out from behind the table and set it in the middle of the floor, sitting himself by his desk with the daylight of the window directly behind his head.

  Ranulf had washed his hands and stood at the door with the hand towel, surveying the room before he folded the towel and hung it up. Then he turned the chair around backward and straddled it, resting his crossed arms on the back and his unshaved chin on his wrists.

  "This is very nice. A good little room. You've managed to get quite a lot of books into it. I take it you eat out a lot."

  This made Henry smile. The savage washed his hands after using the toilet and was very observant.

  Henry answered, “A lot."

  Ranulf studied him. “Me, too. Cooking is too much bother when others can do it better and in less time. Why spoil good food and miss the chance for a great meal?"

  Henry was not about to engage in small talk. “Exactly ... Tell me about Morgan."

  Ranulf's eyes were blue, but too dark to return much color to the light. His large forehead and brow shaded his eyes enough to make them hard to read.

  He said, “Well. I can tell you that if I had ever been inclined to marry, she is the woman I would have been looking for."

  Henry wondered what the point was going to be. “What did you want to tell me?"

  Ranulf tilted his head to the side, pivoting on his chin. “I suppose the reason you seem so unsociable is that you wonder if I might be responsible for Morgan's death. Such thoughts would put me off as well. But I did not kill her. I loved her. It disturbed me more than I can ever tell.... I actually got drunk the day I heard. Despite what you might have heard, I never get drunk. My antics are pure theatre. I have a small talent for overacting, and little else, as my three books have clearly overexposed to the world.... A lesson in that. If you don't have the talent, don't let them know it. Morgan understood my situation. She told me not to publish the first one. Now the world knows what a fraud I am, and I've had to reinvent myself. Again. I have begun to paint. It's far easier to get past the appointed authorities. Words are so definite, finite, final. But they don't know what to make of my painting. Their standards are so arbitrary, so political. I work very hard to keep any identifiable content out of them. They've been calling the paintings genius. I have a show in Provincetown right now. Big hit. We made the New York papers in August. Admittedly, that's the slow period for art openings, but it's when everyone from New York is on the Cape. Big hit. Big hit. And Morgan tried to stop me from doing that as well.... And she'll be right again. In time."

  Henry slouched in his chair, feeling dislike for the subject. “Why are you telling me all this?"

  Ranulf appeared to be pleased by something. “By way of introduction. We don't know each other—well, I suppose I know more about you."

  Henry said, “Funny, I was thinking the opposite."

  Ranulf smiled. “No. All you know about me is what you hear about from the newspapers. That bullshit is worth every penny I pay for it, which is nothing. It's publicity. On the other hand, what I know about you, I know from Morgan. Morgan and I have been friends for a long time. She talked a great deal about you."

  Henry sat up straight again. His sense of the situation was suddenly slipping. Why would Morgan speak of him to Ranulf? What was this man after now, that he should pretend such a thing?

  Henry said, “Like what?"

  Ranulf lowered his head just enough to look through his own eyebrows, as if hiding.

  "She loved you."

  What was this man up to?

  "Why would she tell you that? She never spoke of anyone else to me. She wasn't that type."

  Ranulf lowered his eyes as well now in some respect for the subject. “That's because there wasn't anyone else to talk about. You were the only man she loved, after Heber, of course, and only then after he became ill.... You didn't know that?"

  Henry answered reflexively. “I hadn't seen her in four years."

  Ranulf said, “Well, that's the case."

  Henry felt the hollowness came back, the feeling that there was a hole inside him that was growing even as he sat in his chair. Henry stood and took a breath.
/>   "Why...?"

  The word escaped.

  Ranulf said, “Why what? Why did she tell me? Because I was her friend. And women can find it easier to talk to a gay man, even more than to another woman. Odd thing, that. But then we were friends. Dear friends, and as you must know, she had few friends."

  Henry took another breath to speak. “Why didn't she tell me?"

  Ranulf now squinted against the light to see Henry's face better. “I think she did. But she thought you couldn't hear—didn't understand—just then. I suppose she was right about that, too. Her first responsibility was to Heber, and you were stealing her heart. She would not be torn."

  Henry sat again, feeling trapped but with no want to escape. Ranulf was not looking at him now, but at the titles of the books, as if avoiding his eyes.

  Ranulf's voice lowered, perhaps wanting to hide some other thought. “The literary snows of yesteryear. The drifted best sellers of times past. So very important in their moment. So dead ...” Then he turned back to Henry. “I can't really believe she's dead, you know. I haven't accepted it yet. I just saw her a couple of weeks ago.... I was the one who told her to call you. She didn't want to. She didn't think she could handle it. But she needed another friend to help, and I somehow knew you would. It's just so damn stupid that it turned out this way."

  Ranulf's eyes sparked. The twisting trail of tears were no longer hidden in the stubble on his cheeks. He looked down and wiped a darker stain onto the navy blue jacket sleeve.

  Henry said, “Thanks."

  Ranulf sniffed and shook his head. “For what?"

  Henry said, “I'm not sure. Thanks anyway."

  Ranulf cleared his throat. “The reason I came here was to talk to you about something else, though.” He wiped his cheeks again on the other sleeve of his jacket, sniffing again. “She was murdered. It could have been a burglar, I suppose. I just don't believe it. I tried to tell the police. They thought it was you. Of course. I told them I didn't think so. All they did was check my whereabouts at the time it happened. They think I'm a nut—which of course I am. There is a downside to all that publicity.” One short laugh broke his admission. “But I feel rather strongly about it. And I'd like you to press the issue a little for me, if you could. I think she was killed by her son."

  The son. Which son? Another thought occurred. “Why were you so sure I didn't do it? I was nearly the last person to see her alive."

  Ranulf nodded. “I wasn't actually sure. Not until now."

  There seemed to be no center to this. Gravity had lost its hold. Things were falling apart. Henry grabbed at another thought for balance.

  Henry had spoken to the acquisitions librarian at Boston University that morning—Miss Crist. The arrangement Morgan had wanted was in writing, but never signed. Their assessment of value had been lower than Henry's. Miss Crist apologized, saying the value of most modern first editions had plummeted in recent years because of the increased availability made possible by the internet. Henry had disagreed and made a point of the association value of books from such a specific source, the signatures and inscriptions, and recalled the condition of the books as extraordinary.

  By the time Henry had left the office, Miss Crist appeared more depressed than simply sad at Morgan's death. She wondered out loud if the collection might end up somewhere else. But it was the last thing the librarian said which had hung in Henry's mind.

  She had asked, “Were you the fellow who called? Someone called. Said he was a book dealer, and he had examined the collection. He gave me his name, but I didn't know it. And I didn't write it down. He was interested in comparing his evaluation with mine. Seemed to know Morgan and Heber quite well."

  Henry had said the name of each of the sons, but the librarian had recognized neither. Henry had asked if they had spoken of actual amounts.

  Miss Crist had said, “Yes. I told him it might be worth a quarter of a million dollars. The dealer agreed with me."

  Henry looked at Ranulf now, as the man examined the leather cover of a Roycrofter volume. “Did you ever call the acquisitions librarian at B.U.?"

  Ranulf answered absently, his eyes studying the illuminated letters of a title page. “No. Why would I do that?"

  "Because somebody did. Because somebody was very interested in the value of those books. And because it is the theory of a friend of mine that Morgan was killed for money."

  Ranulf looked back at Henry without question.

  "Morgan was killed by hate."

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Fourteen

  Henry often read his favorite books two and three times. The good ones were to be savored more than once. And for this reason there had never been anything more than fitful curiosity at a library. There was no sense in getting involved with books there. There was no future in it. The first time he discovered a book he loved at the Brookline Public Library, he was twelve years old, and he could not bear to return it. He paid the library the fine for keeping it, in spite of his father's scowl. That copy of Oliver Twist was still his, still marked and battered by the careless use of others before him, but safe in his possession now, and treasured.

  Henry had bought his first book with his own money—earned shoveling the short sidewalk for a neighbor—when he was eight years old. It was a copy of Robert Lawson's Mr. Revere and I, which he still owned as well, and left at his father's house in the bookcase by his mother's chair where he had first placed it years ago. But the first book his mother had bought at a store along with him, or at least the first one he could remember, was found downtown, at the Brattle Book Store, in the autumn of the year he had turned six, after she had taken him to a sale at Filene's Basement. The Brattle was not a large store, but it had seemed enormous to him then. The narrow aisles were often stacked with boxes and the broad tables filling the open center of the floor toward the front had the appearance of overflowing. Old Mr. Gloss, glasses falling low on his nose, sat behind a book-encrusted counter near the door and watched Henry as he explored the edges of a jumbled stack on a table too high.

  Gloss had said, “The best ones are at the middle, young man, because they aren't picked over as much.” In the nearly empty store, that weekday afternoon, Henry was startled by the voice suddenly directed at him and dropped the book he held in his hand.

  Mr. Gloss spoke again.

  "You don't want that one, anyway. Use the stool from the corner back there. You'll find something better at the middle."

  Mr. Gloss did not smile. Finding the right book was serious business, it seemed.

  Henry did just that. A Kipling. A copy of Just So Stories illustrated by the author himself which was now on the same shelf at his father's house, near by the Dickens and the Robert Lawson.

  He had learned at the Brattle to always check the lowest and highest shelves because most people were too lazy to bend or reach. Most of his first books had come from the bottom.

  When, years later, just out of high school, he had taken the job at Alcott & Poe, it was only because of Barbara. He had been waiting for a job opening at the Brattle.

  Barbara had looked him over with obvious distrust. Less than six months after opening her own shop, she could not yet afford another employee. He had liked her immediately. He liked the smell of her, which he thought might be the smell of a soap but later learned was simply a passion for licorice. He liked the intense brown of her eyes. He liked the way she took him seriously from the very first. He did not know until later that she was only a few years older than himself.

  She had asked, “What kind of experience do you have?"

  Why did she ask—even after telling him there was no job open?

  He looked about. Her shelves then were widely spaced, still low, barely head height and sparsely filled with the new titles she had bought on credit and spread face-out in most areas. He had already been into the shop several times out of curiosity, after he had first seen her setting up some months before. It was the girl in front of him who had b
rought him back to the shop, not the books.

  He would not have admitted that at the time.

  He said, “Not a lot with these. I can't say I know a lot about the new ones. But it doesn't look like you need much help with what you have. What I can do is buy good used stock and fill your shelves up for less than half what you are paying for this new stuff. You'll make more. And I know the right books to buy. I know what's good. I know what will sell."

  He said it as casually as he could. It was only bravado. At that moment he knew nothing more about actually selling books than what he had overheard in shops while browsing for himself. Perhaps a little more. He had long thought that he might want to have his own bookshop one day. Up to that moment, however, he had never actually worked in one. That particular night he was working as a busboy at a restaurant in Harvard Square. All the knowledge he had was gathered from buying used books and reading them. He had begun to collect his favorite authors. He had read the Van Allen Bradley book on collecting, but all that detail seemed too precious. Yet he had made his case, believing for that instant that it was true because he wanted it to be. And she did not answer immediately, as he later learned she was usually so quick to do. She looked him over again.

  She said, “I'll tell you what. You go out and buy a hundred dollars’ worth of books that you think I should have. I'll put them on the shelf. If a third of them sell in two months, I'll hire you."

  Where did such an idea come from? She could not have planned it. It was one of her inspirations, of course. A hunch. How many times afterward had he seen her give way to such an impulse, and often win? It was a challenge he was unable to resist.

  He had answered, “My money, I price them—your money, you price them."

  She smiled at that. He knew it was the right thing to say.

  She said, “Your money,” without saying “of course,” though it was obvious.

  He had bought more than two hundred dollars’ worth of books over the next week—hitting yard sales on the weekend, the Salvation Army, Morgan Memorial, a couple of public libraries with ongoing sales of discards and donations, and several other bookshops where he knew there might be underpriced and overlooked treasures. And then, unhappy at some of his choices on second thought, he had pulled books from his own shelves which he thought might be replaced easily. He still remembered the loss of giving up those titles as he stacked and ordered his selections late into the night, feeling all the while that he was betraying himself by sacrificing his own treasures. In fact, there was a copy of Bram Stoker's The Lair of the White Worm among them which he had never been able to replace in all the years since.