“Chamber of Commerce journalism,” commented Charlotte as she gazed out at the sparkling cove, where Gilley’s lobster boat was making its way around Sheep Island from lobster buoy to lobster buoy.
“You can say that again. Well, their nasty little fable may backfire on them when people find out that Frank’s in the coronary care unit. But maybe not. I’m not sure I’d trust the town’s good will to extend that far.”
“I wonder how he’s doing?”
She was answered by a knock on the door. It was Tracey. He had again walked over from the Saunders’ wharf. Charlotte still couldn’t get used to the idea of a place that sometimes was an island and sometimes wasn’t.
“How’s Frank?” asked Stan as they greeted Tracey at the door.
“Not too well,” he replied solemnly. “He’s still in the coronary care unit.”
“Sorry to hear it,” replied Stan. “Would you like to come in?”
“Thank you, no,” said Tracey. “I have to be getting on up to Ledge House. I wonder if you’d like to come along, Miss Graham? Something’s come up that I think you might be interested in.”
A few minutes later they were hiking up the road toward Ledge House, chatting easily about lobster traps and the other arcana of Maine life. It seemed to be becoming a regular commute for Charlotte—one that she was becoming fond of. As she was of her companion. She and Tracey couldn’t have come from more dissimilar worlds—he had spent his entire life in the same little corner of Maine—but they had much in common, chiefly their devotion to their work. She also sensed behind his round red cheeks and mild blue eyes that familiar strain of Yankee grit, the ballast of the soul that keeps the ship steady in the roughest of waters. For her, it was like coming home again. After a while, they walked in comfortable silence. But if they were silent, nothing else was: birds sang, katydids buzzed, the waves lapped against the bar, the boats in the harbor rumbled, and—a motorcycle engine roared. As they reached the top of the rise, they could see the offender: a long-haired teenager on a trail bike, mindlessly tracing figure eights over and over and over again in a grassy field. So much for the pleasures of nature.
“Who’s that?” asked Charlotte, as the teenager came around again, sending the dirt flying. He was wearing a studded leather jacket and a knapsack emblazoned with the name of a rock group.
“Kevin Donahue, Chuck and Marion’s boy,” explained Tracey. “Another one of those obnoxious teenagers.”
“Well,” she said, turning to Tracey, “what’s up?” Enough with the small talk, already, she thought. (Four decades in Hollywood and New York had coarsened whatever New England courtliness she might have once possessed).
“Daria Henderson just called the station,” he replied. “She went to the vault this morning to get out one of Dr. Thornhill’s rare books. Said something about showing it to you, in fact.” He paused. “But it wasn’t there. All the rare books that were supposed to be in the vault were missing.”
“Missing!” exclaimed Charlotte. “How long have they been gone?”
“She doesn’t know. They weren’t there when she looked for them two weeks ago. She thought Dr. Thornhill had put them somewhere else, which is what she thought at first this time too. But they’re nowhere to be found.”
Ahead, they could see the gardener’s cottage where John lived. “How about John Lewis, the scholar-in-residence?” said Charlotte. “Maybe he was using them over at the gardener’s cottage.”
“She checked with him right off,” said Tracey.
“Does that mean someone’s stolen them?” How ironic that they had just been talking about their vulnerability to theft, she thought.
“Evidently,” he replied in his thick Maine accent.
For such a small place, Gilley Island certainly had its share of trouble, Charlotte mused. She was reminded of the editorial in the newspaper: it did seem that an island was a little kingdom, a symbol of independence and individuality, a minute world of pure perfection. But it was also sinister somehow in its detachment from the strictures of mainland society. When something went awry, it seemed to go more awry on an island. She was reminded of stories she’d heard about the islands off the coast of the Canadian Maritimes: one island inhabited by thrifty, hard-working, God-fearing folk, and its neighbor by utter degenerates, with only a rotten gene or two down the centuries to account for the difference.
The question was, who was responsible for the rotten gene on Gilley Island? Someone with a grudge against Thornhill might commit malicious mischief, but why steal his books? She wondered about reselling them, and concluded it might be very difficult. “What’s the procedure for reporting stolen books?” she asked. “There must be a way of alerting dealers.”
“There is,” Tracey replied as they walked up the driveway to the front door. “Mr. Mayer is going to tell us about it. He’s taking care of it.”
The door was answered by Grace. She said nothing, as if recent events had robbed her of the energy required for her syrupy sweetness. Charlotte and Tracey followed her into the library, a spacious room that ran the full depth of the house. Unlike the parlor, which had a feminine quality, the library was a man’s room, filled with dark wood and capacious club chairs of the kind found in grand old hotels that care more about comfort than image. Despite the brightness of the day, the atmosphere was dusky. Heavy green drapes were drawn over the windows. The books were housed in polished walnut bookshelves marked with brass plates. From the shelves hung engraved portraits of gentlemen in seventeenth- and eighteenth-century dress, presumably the authors of some of the books in the collection. One portrait—of a man in an Elizabethan ruff—had been tilted aside to reveal the rectangular vault concealed behind it. The gleaming stainless steel door stood open, exposing the empty interior.
In the center of the room stood an old English refectory table, at which Daria sat in one of four ornately carved armchairs. She rose to greet them, as did Felix, who had just hung up the telephone.
Tracey introduced himself to Daria and Felix. He then explained Charlotte’s presence: he didn’t expect that they would mind the assistance of someone who had helped solve the famous “murder at the Morosco” case.
“Not at all,” said Felix, lowering his ponderous torso into a large armchair by the fireplace. “The more heads the better. A very interesting case. There was a book written about it, was there not?”
“Yes,” replied Charlotte. “Murder at the Morosco.”
“A likely title,” he said with a smile. After lighting his cigar with a great deal of licking, puffing, and lip-smacking, he proceeded with his remarks: “I presume Chief Tracey has filled you in on what’s happened. At his direction, I have notified the proper authorities of the theft.”
“Who are the proper authorities?” asked Charlotte. She sat at the table in one of the ornate armchairs, facing a tile-ornamented fireplace.
“The FBI, when the loss is over five thousand dollars and when it is presumed the books have left the state. And, of course, the local law enforcement authorities,” he added, with a nod to Tracey.
Nodding in return, Tracey made some jottings in a notebook. He also sat at the table, looking distinctly out of place in a dark blue uniform shirt with his name embroidered in gold thread above the breast pocket.
“How are the dealers notified?” he asked.
“A computer bulletin board alerts dealers around the world within hours,” replied Felix. “Dealers with computers have immediate access to a list of missing books. Dealers without computers can call a special number or consult a list that is mailed out monthly.”
“It sounds like an efficient system,” said Tracey.
“Very efficient,” interjected John, who had entered and was standing by the door. “The tragedy is that it’s needed at all. Such a sophisticated system was never necessary in the past. But as rare books have become increasingly fashionable, theft has become a greater problem.”
Daria introduced him to Tracey.
“Excus
e me for interrupting,” said John, crossing the room to shake Tracey’s hand. “I just wanted to offer my services. I’m sure Mr. Mayer is doing everything in his power to help, but if there’s anything I can do, please let me know. Obviously, I have an interest in seeing that the books are recovered.”
“When did you last see the missing books, Mr. Lewis?” asked Tracey.
“A couple of weeks ago,” he replied. “It was a Tuesday. I remember because I’d just returned from a long weekend in Boston.” He walked over to a calendar that was hanging on a wall. “June twelfth, I guess it was.”
“The day before I looked for them and discovered that they weren’t there,” added Daria.
“Will there be anything else?” asked John.
“Not at the moment,” replied Tracey.
“I’m sorry this had to happen, but maybe it will be a lesson to Frank,” he said, heading back toward the door. “Keeping books as valuable as these lying around is an open invitation to theft.”
“I am afraid our young friend is right,” said Felix after John had gone. “Let’s hope our dear host will have a chance to put the lesson into practice once the books are recovered.”
“A question about this notification system, Mr. Mayer,” said Tracey, pencil in hand. “Would a dealer who is offered a book for sale automatically consult the computer bulletin board, or would he have to be tipped off first that a book might have been stolen?”
“A very good question, sir,” replied Felix, with a little nod. “Usually a dealer would suspect theft before consulting the list, the tip-off, as you say, being that the seller cannot supply a verifiable provenance.”
“Provenance?” asked Tracey.
“Origin. But in the case of extremely rare books such as these, the dealer would immediately suspect theft. If a seller should tell me, for instance, that he bought the books at a yard sale or found them in his grandfather’s attic, I would immediately—what is the expression in English?—smell a fish.”
“A rat,” corrected Charlotte.
“Ah, ja,” replied Felix good-naturedly. “Smell a rat or suspect something fishy, nicht wahr?”
Charlotte nodded. She noticed with repugnance the lack of concern with which he flicked the ashes of his cigar on the fine Chinese carpet.
“Does that mean the books are likely to be recovered?” asked Tracey.
“Ja—if they enter the market place,” replied Felix. “But material gain isn’t the only motive for theft. In fact, the thief who steals for material gain is usually quite easy to catch. It’s the thief who steals out of some other motive who’s hard to catch.”
“Such as?” prompted Daria.
Felix settled back in his chair self-importantly, delighting in his role as resident expert. “One motive is the drive to possess, which we were talking about the other day. The thief who is motivated to steal for this reason doesn’t try to sell the book, which makes it very difficult to catch him. This type of thief thinks he has a right to a book. Usually he keeps the book in a place that is directly under his control, such as a vault.”
The group’s attention shifted to the vault, whose gaping emptiness lent a jarring note to the otherwise tranquil atmosphere of the room.
“Then there’s the casual thief, who steals because the opportunity arises. The janitor who accidentally comes across a valuable document, the visitor who is left alone in a room with an unlocked vault full of early printed herbals. This kind of thief is easy to catch. He usually tries to sell the book, but goes about it so ineptly that he gives himself away.”
“The vault wasn’t locked?” asked Tracey, turning to Daria.
“Well, that’s the thing,” she replied. “It wasn’t. Not when Dr. Thornhill was here, and he was here most of the time. He only locked it when he went down to Boston. He put the books in the vault more to protect them from light and dust than to protect them from theft.”
“So anyone could have taken them,” observed Tracey.
“I suppose so,” said Daria in a tone of puzzlement. “But he’s here most of the time, and even when he’s not, there’s usually someone around.”
Charlotte remembered Stan’s comment that Thornhill was in the habit of spending long hours in his library huddled over his books like a miser over his gold. The room was almost a separate apartment: there was a cot, an adjoining bathroom, and a kitchen corner with a small refrigerator and a microwave. French doors opened onto a terrace overlooking the rose garden, where a crude cross marked Jesse’s grave. Beyond the rose garden was an arbor, and beyond that, the herb garden. A light breeze carried the spicy scent of herbs.
“What about last night?” asked Tracey. “Could someone have entered the library while you were at the hospital? I see that it’s not very secure,” he said, nodding at the open doors to the terrace.
“Yes, that’s a possibility,” said Daria. “The doors are never locked. Fran and Grace and I were all at the hospital.”
Tracey made a notation in his notebook.
“Shall I continue?” asked Felix.
“By all means,” said Charlotte.
“Finally there’s the thief who steals out of anger. He harbors a grudge against an institution, or, in the case at hand, an individual. Usually he destroys a book rather than selling it. He is rarely caught, but we can take some solace from the fact that he rarely repeats his act.”
“Then it’s possible that the books were taken by someone with a grudge against Dr. Thornhill,” said Charlotte. “For instance, a member of the Citizens for the Chartwell Corporation.”
“Very possible indeed,” said Felix, taking another puff of his cigar.
Or, Charlotte thought, a disaffected colleague. John certainly qualified in the grudge category. But she couldn’t imagine him destroying books that he believed to be among civilization’s greatest treasures.
“What kind of thief do you think is involved, Mr. Mayer?” asked Tracey.
“I doubt it’s the thief who steals for gain,” replied Felix. “This kind of thief is usually very professional: he knows which books are the easiest to sell. And the rarer the book, the more difficult it is to dispose of.”
“But wouldn’t it be possible to sell the books to an unscrupulous dealer?” asked Daria. “I’m sure there are dealers who wouldn’t hesitate to pass a stolen book off on an unsuspecting customer.”
“Ja,” replied Felix. “I am afraid there are as many unscrupulous people in the bookselling business as in any other. I doubt, however, that such a dealer would sell the books to an unsuspecting customer. It is more likely that he would have a particular customer in mind, a bibliomaniac, perhaps, for whom the pride of possession would outweigh any moral scruples he might have about accepting stolen merchandise.”
Pulling a monogrammed linen handkerchief out of one of his many pockets, he wiped his shiny forehead. Charlotte noticed that the toe of his foot, clad in white doeskin, tapped a nervous tattoo. Was he nervous because Daria’s question challenged the integrity of his profession? Or was he nervous because he had stolen the books? He had access to them, and he knew the market. She looked down with a shudder at the little gray heaps of cigar ashes at the side of his chair. She could imagine what his apartment looked like. She knew it was ridiculous of her to think so, but to her his sloppiness alone made him worthy of suspicion. She had always had a passion for order. Even as a child she had been tormented by something as trivial as a wrinkle in her blouse or a grass stain on her skirt. But although she recognized that her fastidiousness was excessive, experience had nevertheless confirmed her opinion that sloppiness can sometimes be a manifestation of weakness of character. Besides, Felix’s sloppiness wasn’t all that made her uneasy about him. He also seemed to be playing a role: he was almost a caricature of himself—a shade too unctuous, too jovial, too much the bon vivant.
She made a mental note to ask her friend Tom Plummer to check Felix out through his contacts in the New York book world. Tom was the journalist who had written Murder
at the Morosco. He had connections everywhere, or could make them. If Felix had stolen the books, he must have needed the money, in which case Tom’s snooping would turn up some evidence of financial trouble.
“Now for the big question,” said Tracey. “How much are the books worth?”
“It’s hard to say,” replied Felix, still puffing on his cigar. “In the book business, we say that a rare book is worth what someone will pay for it. There are no hard and fast prices. For instance, it’s very difficult to estimate the value of a rare book if no one will take it off your hands.”
“I shouldn’t think that would be the case with these books,” said Charlotte impatiently.
“This is true. In fact, it’s difficult to estimate the value of these books for precisely the opposite reason: they are so desirable. Usually, one studies dealers’ prices and auction house records to get an idea of a book’s value, but some of these books haven’t been on the market in decades.”
“Mr. Mayer,” said Charlotte with a polite smile, “can you give us a rough estimate of their value, please?” He was obviously milking his opportunity to show off to the last drop.
“Of course,” he said, unperturbed. “I’m only explaining the difficulties involved so that you’ll understand that my estimates may not reflect the true market value of the books.”
Charlotte nodded.
Leaning his head back against the chair, he stared at the ceiling, his liver-colored lips moving in silent calculation.
“The earliest is the Herbal of Apuleius, printed in Rome in 1481. The first illustrated herbal ever printed. A copy in poor condition sold in London last year for twenty thousand pounds. Franklin’s copy could expect to bring seventy thousand dollars.”
Tracey let out a low whistle. “How do you spell that?” he asked as he made a notation in his notebook. Charlotte, too, was stunned at the amount. Felix had talked about Der Gart’s being very valuable, but she had thought it unique in being worth so much.
Murder at Teatime Page 8
