“Well, well,” I said, “what’ll they think of next? I still don t see—” But as I uttered the words I did see. “You found the same jack marks on the doorposts of the Gaithers house.”
“The very same,” said Randall. “Exact match of the marks on the other four break-ins. Although nothing was reported stolen at that address, remember. Only the disappearance of the maid. Yet a break-in had obviously taken place. Are you beginning to get it now?”
“Yeah. Corelli set up the jobs, and she and her boyfriend probably worked them together. But when they broke into the Gaithers’ house, it wasn’t empty, as they expected it would be. The maid was there. She probably caught Corelli and friend at the silver chest and recognized Corelli as the Argyll Lady who called on Mrs. Gaither. So the fat was in fire, unless—”
Lieutenant Randall nodded. Unless something was done to keep the maid from talking. So they did something. They killed her and, leaving the silver behind, they relocked the door, packed the maid into their ear, and hid her body in Gaylord Park, six miles away.
“Do you have any proof of all this?” I asked.
“Some circumstantial stuff. And when their lawyer gets here and we can interrogate them, I’m hoping for more. Anyway, we sure as hell have proof they’re silver thieves if nothing else. We caught them red-handed, about two hours ago, burgling the last house on your list.” Randall yawned cavernously. “A blackjack in the boyfriend’s pocket could be the Sloan murder weapon. It’s at the lab now. And the boys have found a few faint bloodstains on the upholstery of the back seat of Corelli’s car that may give us something.”
Randall noted my sour expression and said cheerfully, “Hal, my boy, you were dead right about your Argyll Lady. She’s a real dish. Wait’ll you see her.”
He picked up the phone and spoke into it.
* * * *
Two minutes later, Annabel Corelli appeared in the doorway escorted by two uniformed cops, one holding each arm. Even without makeup, her auburn hair in a tumbled mess and her clothing in disarray, she was something to see. She was really impressively beautiful—and big. She must have stood almost six feet tall and tipped the scales at a good hundred and sixty-five pounds—every one of them distributed in the proper place.
Randall stood up politely. I also got to my feet. The Lieutenant said, “Miss Corelli, let me present Hal Johnson from the public library. I promised him he could meet you in person if that list of addresses he found in your library book should help us with this case.”
She seemed momentarily taken aback when she heard my name. Then she smiled at me very sweetly. In that unforgettable voice, she said, “I am glad to meet you, Mr. Johnson.”
Trying to hide my embarrassment, I started to mumble something fatuous, I don’t remember what. But I didn’t get a chance to finish it. Annabel Corelli pulled sharply away from her guards, took two steps toward me, drew back her right arm, and slapped me so hard I fell back against Randall’s desk, my head ringing like a church bell.
They hustled her out but I could tell by the frown on Lieutenant Randall’s face it was all he could do not to laugh himself sick.
THE SEARCH FOR TAMERLANE
Originally published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, May 1981.
I was engaged in my bi-weekly proposal of marriage to Ellen Thomas when I got the call.
“I simply can’t understand,” I was saying flippantly to Ellen, “why I am so attractive to other women but not to you. Here I am, a man not too old, not too bad-looking, not too immoral, and probably the best library detective in the business, and my chosen bride, Miss Ellen Thomas of the Public Library, treats me as if I were Joe Unknown from Patagonia. Why is this?”
“I like you, Hal,” Ellen said, not at all flippantly, “I like you very much indeed. More than I’ve ever liked another man. But I’m not sure I like you enough to marry you. And spend the rest of my life with you. Even though you are a good library detective.”
“And a fine homicide detective before that,” I said.
She began to eat her pineapple upside-down cake. “Please run that by me again,” she said, her tone changing, “that bit about your being so attractive to other women.”
We were eating lunch in the cafeteria of the Public Library where we both worked. I took a spoonful of my vanilla ice cream and said with some dignity, “It’s quite true.”
“Name one other woman who finds you all that attractive.”
“Tessie Troutman,” I said. “A very perspicacious waitress at Carmody’s Bar and Grill.”
“Oh, the blonde with the—” Ellen hesitated. “The one built out to here?”
“The very same. She’s willing to marry me at the drop of a hat.”
“How do you know? Have you asked her?”
“No. And I won’t—not until you give me a definite answer. But by her ingratiating manner when she brings me my martinis, I can tell. If I were to ask her, she’d swoon with pleasure while saying ‘Yes’ at the top of her lungs.”
“Why?” asked Ellen, scraping industriously at the glutinous remains of her cake. “Because of your overpowering charm?”
“Not at all,” I said. “Admittedly, I have no overpowering charm. It’s my good looks she fancies. She likes what she sees, you might say.”
“What I might say,” said Ellen, “is that Tessie—and it’s true—has a cast in one eye and sees things slightly out of perspective. Instead, I shall merely be lady-like and tell you that I am honored by your—what is it now?—eighteenth proposal of marriage. And shall deliberate further on my response, with your kind permission.”
I groaned. “I don’t know why I want to marry you, anyway!” Ellen, unperturbed, licked her fork daintily. And that’s when I saw the cafeteria cashier waving to me and holding up her telephone receiver. I went over to her counter, took the telephone from her, and said into it, “Hal Johnson here.”
The voice of our switchboard girl murmured into my ear, “You about finished lunch, Hal?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“Two men here to see you. Jerry Coatsworth from the University Library and another one. A cute one.”
“Send them to my office and tell them I’ll be up in a few minutes. Jerry knows where my office is.” Jerry Coatsworth, the assistant librarian at our biggest local university, bowls on my team at the College Club every Thursday night. We’re good friends.
I went back to the table where I’d left Ellen. “You can have the rest of my ice cream, baby,” I said generously. “I’ve got another date.” I left and went upstairs to my office.
My office is a tiny cubicle behind the Library Director’s spacious quarters. It contains only my desk and swivel chair, two visitors’ chairs (castoffs from our Reading Room), a filing cabinet, and a patterned rug masquerading unconvincingly as a worn but genuine Sarouk.
Jerry and his “cute” friend were occupying the two visitors’ chairs when I came in. I had to squeeze past them to reach my desk. “Hi, Jerry,” I said, seating myself, “you come to find out how a real man-sized library is run?”
“No way,” he replied, grinning. “And not how to bowl a perfect score, either.” He said to the man in the other chair, “This is Hal Johnson,” and to me, “Shake hands with Perry Kavanaugh, Hal.”
I did so, across the desk. Kavanaugh was somewhere in his late twenties, I judged—blond, fresh-faced, with rumpled longish hair and a drooping mustache. He reminded me of the sun-bleached types you see riding horses in the cigarette ads. Cute, all right. He was smiling, but his eyes were anxious-looking and he had been sitting on the edge of his chair even before he leaned forward to shake hands with me.
I sent an inquiring look at Jerry. “What can I do for you?”
“We’re in trouble, Hal,” Jerry said, “and I promised Mr. Kavanaugh I’d ask you to help us get out of it.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“Mr. Kavanaugh,” said Jerry, “is the executor of his uncle Ralph’s estate. His uncle died a few days ago.
His uncle’s will leaves a number of his books to us—to the Brightstone University Library—to form the nucleus of a collection of rare books for his alma mater that he hoped would ultimately bear his name. Like the Beinecke Rare Book Library at Yale. You with me so far?”
I nodded. “The books your uncle left to the library were rare books?” I asked Kavanaugh.
“It seems so,” he replied. “First editions and so on. I don’t know a rare book from Adam’s off-ox myself, but Mr. Coatsworth here tells me—”
Jerry broke in, “They’re listed and described in the will, Hal, and yes, they’d qualify as rare books. Yes, indeed.”
“So where’s the trouble?” I asked.
“The trouble is,” said Jerry, “that Mr. Kavanaugh gave the books away six months ago.”
Kavanaugh flushed in embarrassment. “Before I knew they were rare books,” he hastened to defend himself. “And before I knew they were to be a legacy to Mr. Coatsworth’s library.”
Already guessing the answer, I asked, “Who’d you give them to, Mr. Kavanaugh?”
“To you,” Kavanaugh said. “To the Public Library.”
“And you want them back?”
“Yes. So I can carry out the provisions of my uncle’s will.”
Jerry added inelegantly, “And we want those books so bad we can taste them!”
I sat back in my chair. “How’d you happen to give them to us, Mr. Kavanaugh?”
He seemed glad of the chance to explain. “My uncle was an old man living here alone in a rented apartment since his retirement. He’s been ailing for years, nothing too serious until six months ago when his friends and neighbors and doctor began to worry about his deteriorating health and frequent mental lapses, and his doctor decided he ought to go into a nursing home. I was uncle Ralph’s only living relative, so his doctor called me in New York to see if I’d come down here and help him make the move. So I got a leave of absence from my job and came down to do what I could to help him. I got him admitted to Cedar Manor Health Center, helped him move in, and cleaned out his old apartment. Actually, I gave away most of his belongings just to get rid of them.”
“Including his books?”
“Right. Seven big cartons of them. I offered them to you—the Public Library—and you seemed happy to take them off my hands.” Kavanaugh smoothed his rumpled hair with one hand. “It was only after my uncle’s death two days ago, when I came down to make the funeral arrangements, that I discovered I had inadvertently given you the rare books he wanted the Brightstone Library to have.”
“Didn’t you know he owned some rare books?” I asked. “Hadn’t he ever mentioned them to you or told you he was a collector?”
“Never.”
“Not even when he knew you were going to clear out his old apartment?”
Kavanaugh shook his head. “He was suffering from advanced arteriosclerosis, Mr. Johnson. He wasn’t even aware he was living in a new place when he entered the nursing home. He didn’t remember much of anything about himself or his past or—or me, for that matter. So I just went ahead on my own and did what I figured ought to be done—cleared out his apartment, terminated his lease, arranged with his bank to take care of his expenses, and so on.”
Jerry said, “He gave you the books by mistake, Hal. So what do you think? Is there a chance you still have them?”
“Maybe fifty-fifty,” I said. “Depends on what they were and what shape they were in when we got them. Any donated books we can’t use, we usually sell off at periodic book sales.” I turned to Mr. Kavanaugh. “Did we give you a receipt for the books when you donated them?”
“Yes, and at least I was smart enough to save that!” Kavanaugh got it out of his pocket and handed it to me. It was one of our regular receipt forms which merely acknowledged a donation of 193 hardcover and 55 paperback books to the Public Library by Ralph Kavanaugh of the Crest View Apartments. No book titles or anything specific. The receipt was dated the twentieth of the previous October and signed by Mary Cutler, our chief librarian.
“Okay,” I said. “May I keep this temporarily?” Kavanaugh nodded. “And I’ll need a list of titles—the rare book ones—to check on. The ones mentioned in the will.”
Kavanaugh handed me a typed list. “We came prepared,” he said. “There are only six.”
The list read:
Ulysses by James Joyce. 1922
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain. 1884
Psalterium Americanum by Cotton Mather. 1718 (Autographed)
The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway. 1926
For Whom the Bell Tolls by Ernest Hemingway. 1940
Tamerlane and Other Poems by A Bostonian. 1827
“Are these the publication dates?” I asked.
“Yes,” Jerry said.
“Okay.” I stood up. “That’s it for now, then. I’ll check and let you know how I make out. I can’t promise anything, of course. But I’ll give it a whirl.”
“We sure appreciate it, Hal,” said Jerry. “Thanks a million.”
Kavanaugh added his thanks to Jerry’s.
I waved a deprecatory hand. “I’ll be in touch,” I said, and they left.
Ten minutes later I had given the whole story to Dr. Forbes, our Director. He listened in silence. At the end of my recital he said, “If we’ve still got the books, Hal, we’ll have to return them to Mr. Kavanaugh. Legally, they’re the rightful property of the Brightstone University Library.”
“They must be worth a bundle,” I ventured, “if they’re really rare books. Dr. Forbes. We could be giving up a potential fortune, couldn’t we?”
He smiled. “Yes, but it’s a fortune to which the library has no reasonable claim, I’m afraid. Since the books are in our possession, if they still are, only because of a misunderstanding, we must return them to their proper owner. I suggest you consult Mrs. Cutler to see if we still have them.”
Mary Cutler, our chief librarian, listened to my story, not in silence, like Dr. Forbes, but with frequent interjections of dismay, regret, and indignation. Books are a passion with her—all books, whether rare or common or neither; she loves and treasures them, and she disliked intensely the idea that her dear Public Library might have to relinquish any of the precious volumes on our shelves to that “stuck-up” University Library across town.
However, she promised to look into the matter at once. And with the aid of our computer, and that of the assistant librarians who are normally charged with sorting, cataloguing, and preparing donated books for circulation or sale, it didn’t take her long. By the following afternoon I was ready to report to Mr. Kavanaugh and Jerry Coatsworth.
Their eyes went instantly to the small stack of books on my desk as they settled themselves into my visitors’ chairs.
“Hey!” cried Jerry exuberantly. “You found them, Hal!”
“Thank God!” was Kavanaugh’s devout comment.
I said, “Some of them, Jerry. I found five out of six.”
That calmed them down a little. But Kavanaugh exclaimed, “Five out of six is wonderful, Mr. Johnson! Just great and in only one day! Doesn’t that mean you may still find the sixth?”
I shook my head. “I’m afraid not. We have no record at all of the missing book, whereas these five here were simple to trace. One of the five, the Psalterium Americana by Cotton Mather, had been put in our special section, where the books may be consulted with the librarian’s permission here in the library, but not borrowed or taken out of the building. The other four books here were circulating as three-week books in the regular way. Both the Hemingways had been checked out, and I had to collect them from the borrowers this morning.”
Kavanaugh said anxiously, “What about the missing one, Mr. Johnson? The one you couldn’t trace?”
“It must have been sold at one of our used-book sales. That’s all we can figure—that the sorter who went through your uncle’s cartons of books decided it was too fragile, or old, or unpopular or something to be of any use to us.
It probably went for a buck or two to some member of our reading public. As I say, we don’t have any record of it, and we don’t have it among our uncatalogued books. We looked.”
Jerry groaned. “A buck or two!”
Kavanaugh said, “I was a complete damn fool!”
“Anyway.” I said, patting the books at my elbow, “our records show these are five of the six rare books you gave us by mistake. I’ll need a receipt from you, Mr. Kavanaugh, stating that we have returned them to you.” I shoved the books over to him.
“Wait a minute!” Jerry said. “Which book didn’t you find? Which one is missing?”
I consulted their list. “This Tamerlane thing by A Bostonian,” I said.
Jerry groaned again. “Wouldn’t you know? This Tamerlane ‘thing,’ as you call it, is the most valuable book of the whole lot! I was planning to make it the centerpiece of our new rare-book collection!” He looked deeply distressed.
I stared at him. So did Mr. Kavanaugh. “What’s so special about Tamerlane?”
Jerry said, “Only that in 1827 when it was published, a certain famous American writer wasn’t well enough known yet to get his name on a book, so he used that pseudonym, ‘A Bostonian,’ instead. You know who ‘A Bostonian’ really was?”
“Who?” asked Kavanaugh and I together.
“Edgar Allan Poe,” said Jerry in a dismal voice. “The last time one of these Tamerlane ‘things’ was auctioned off, you know how much it fetched?”
“How much?” said Kavanaugh and I, again as one voice.
“A hundred and forty thousand dollars.”
Nobody said anything for a minute. Kavanaugh and I were too shocked and Jerry was too depressed, then I pointed to the five books on my desk. “How about these?”
The Library Fuzz Page 23