The Library Fuzz

by James Holding

  Jerry spread his hands in a belittling gesture. “They’re rare books, and they’re worth a good deal, of course. But peanuts compared to Tamerlane. The Cotton Mather, with his signature on the flyleaf, and the Mark Twain, might go at auction for five thousand apiece. The two Hemingways at maybe two thousand apiece. Ditto for the Ulysses.” He paused. “Do you think there’s any chance of recovering the missing book, Hal?”

  “We’ll give it another try, but I can’t hold out too much hope.”

  Jerry stared gloomily at his feet. Finally he lifted his head. “Anyway. Hal, it’s no skin off your nose. You’ve been great to get these five back and we appreciate it. Mr. Kavanaugh, how about giving Hal his receipt?”

  I pushed a form over to Kavanaugh, already filled out and requiring only his signature. While he was groping in his pocket for a pen, I said to Jerry, “I didn’t know you were a rare-book buff.”

  “I’m not. I read up on the six books after we were informed of the contents of the will.”

  I said, “I can see why the Cotton Mather, with his signature on it, would be a rare book. But what about these others?”

  Jerry managed a grin. He took the copy of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn out of the pile and leafed through the book for a minute, then put it down on the desk in front of me, opened to an illustration of an old man. “Look at that fellow,” he said.

  I looked. Then I did a double-take and looked again. “His fly’s open!”

  “Right. In this 1884 edition a disgruntled pressman altered the engraving of the illustration so that this guy’s fly was open instead of closed. They call this the ‘open-fly copy,’ and it’s worth much more than a correct copy of the edition would be.”

  I laughed. Kavanaugh said, “You’re joking!”

  “No, I’m not. The Ulysses is a first edition, published in 1922, but the Hemingways are a little unusual.” He leafed through the copy of The Sun Also Rises. Then, like a proud child playing “show and tell” at kindergarten, he placed the open book in front of Kavanaugh and pointed. “Page 181,” he said. “Do you see that word ‘stopped’?”

  “Yes,” Kavanaugh said. “What’s rare about that?”

  “How is it spelled?”

  Kavanaugh looked again. “With three p’s!”

  Jerry nodded. “Part of the first run had that misspelling before it was caught and corrected. So this uncorrected copy is considered by rare-book buffs to be the genuine first edition.” He held up For Whom the Bell Tolls. “This is a first edition, 1940. For most of the first run of this one the photographic credit line under Hemingway’s picture on the back of the dust jacket was mistakenly omitted. See? Like this copy. Consequently this is more valuable than the corrected first-edition copies with dust jackets.”

  “Well, well,” I said. “You learn something new every day, don’t you?”

  Kavanaugh handed me my receipt. “What do we do next?” he asked helplessly.

  “Get together with your lawyer,” I suggested.

  “We tried to,” Jerry said, “but he’s in Washington at a meeting of the Bar Association. Back Monday.”

  “You need him,” I said to Kavanaugh. “You need him bad. For what you’ve done by giving those books to us was to dissipate some of the valuable assets of your uncle’s estate, of which you are the executor. That’s a real no-no to the legal boys. Your lawyer will have to figure out a way to persuade the probate court to accept your uncle’s will for probate in spite of the missing assets.”

  “Can he do it?” Kavanaugh was suddenly downcast.

  “I don’t know. The receipt we gave you when you donated the books may help. Your recovery of these five books here will be reasonable proof that you gave the rare books to us by mistake. You will probably need an affidavit from us stating that we unknowingly sold the missing book at public sale to an unknown buyer. And you’ll certainly have to advertise for the missing book, offering a reward, as reasonable proof that you made all possible efforts to get it back for the legatee.”

  Jerry wagged his head. “What are you, Hal?” he asked. “A lawyer as well as a cop?”

  “No. But I’m surrounded by about a million reference books here.”

  Kavanaugh sat up and said with more enthusiasm now, “I’ll place the ads this afternoon, Mr. Johnson. How much reward shall I offer?”

  “Don’t name an amount. Just say ‘generous reward.’ And don’t mention rare book, for God’s sake. You just want to get the book back for sentimental reasons.”

  “Okay,” Kavanaugh said. He stood up and Jerry followed suit. “And thanks for your help, Mr. Johnson. I don’t know what we’d have done without you.”

  He gathered up his five books and they left, trailing expressions of gratitude as they went.

  * * * *

  That was Wednesday. I waited until Friday evening before I called the telephone number listed in Mr. Kavanaugh’s advertisements.

  I draped a handkerchief over the mouthpiece of my telephone.

  When he answered, I said through the handkerchief, in as hoarse a voice as I could manage, “Are you the one who’s been advertising for a book?”

  “Why, yes,” said Kavanaugh promptly. “Tamerlane and Other Poems. Why do you ask?”

  “I’ve got it,” I said.

  A sharp intake of breath and a long moment of silence at the other end of the line told me all I wanted to know. I went on, “How much is the reward?”

  Kavanaugh said, “Are you sure you have the book I advertised for?”

  “Yep.” I said. “So how much is the reward?”

  A hesitation. Then Kavanaugh said, “Do you mind telling me who you are? And how you happen to have the book?”

  “Never mind that until we get the reward settled. Books are the way I make my living, and I just got lucky when I spotted the one you want.”

  “Lucky?” Kavanaugh sounded thoroughly bewildered.

  “Yeah. The book’s worth a lot of money, isn’t it? So the reward should be pretty big, shouldn’t it?”

  “I—hadn’t settled on a specific amount. You’ll get whatever seems fair, of course.”

  “How about ten thousand dollars?” I said. “The Tamerlane thing is worth that much reward, isn’t it?”

  “Well, that’s pretty steep, don’t you think? The book has only a sentimental value to me.”

  “How about if we talk it over before you decide. Are you free now?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Great. Come over to my place. You can make sure my book is the one you want. And we can bargain a little about the reward. I live in apartment twelve at Pennfield Gardens.”

  “Where’s that?” asked Kavanaugh. “I’m pretty much a stranger in town.”

  “Your cabbie will know the way. I’ll look for you in about twenty minutes.”

  * * * *

  Actually, he made it in seventeen, which is pretty good going. At his knock I opened the front door without turning on the light in the vestibule, so he was inside before he got a good look at my face.

  Then he stood stock-still and stared. “Mr. Johnson!” he exclaimed. “Was it you who telephoned me about the missing book?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Come on in and sit down where we can talk this whole thing over.”

  He advanced into my living room and, dazed, sat down stiffly in an armchair with his back to my bedroom door. I sat opposite him on the sofa. “I don’t understand this at all, Mr. Johnson. Why did you call me and pretend to have found my book?”

  “Because,” I said quietly, “I decided you are a rank amateur and need some professional help.”

  “Such as yours?”

  “Exactly. Such as mine.”

  “What professional help can you offer me, for God’s sake?” asked Kavanaugh a little wildly.

  “I can tell you where your missing book is, for starters.”

  Kavanaugh blinked. “Where?”

  “In New York. Either in your safety-deposit box or squirreled away in your home.”r />
  He drew a deep breath and ran a hand over his blond hair. “Now I think I understand,” he said. “You’re trying to blackmail me, aren’t you, Mr. Johnson?”

  “Call me Hal,” I said. “And let’s not talk about blackmail. I’d rather consider it a reward for locating your missing book. I think about half of what you get for it at auction would be a fair reward. Say, roughly, seventy thousand dollars, if we can trust Jerry Coatsworth’s figure.”

  He said matter-of-factly, “It probably won’t bring that much. Anyway, what makes you think I’ll split with you? You can’t prove anything against me. I can destroy the book, then it would be merely your word against mine. And whose word do you think the probate court would take?”

  I slid in the clincher very gently. “They’d take mine,” I said, “unless you had that affidavit from the Public Library that I mentioned to you.”

  That stopped him for a few seconds. Then, “My lawyer could get around that, Johnson, and you know it as well as I do.” But his voice held uncertainty.

  “You’re dreaming. Your goose is cooked, Kavanaugh, unless you agree to cooperate with me.”

  “Well… he hesitated. Then he sketched a tight smile. “Do you mind telling me how I gave myself away? Why you think me such an amateur?”

  I ticked the points off on my fingers. “First, I found it slightly odd—and thought-provoking—that the only book we couldn’t locate was the most valuable one. Second, I didn’t believe for a minute that you never knew your uncle owned rare books or had willed them to the Brightstone Library. It seemed much more likely that as his appointed executor under his will, you’d been given a copy of the will long ago, with the rare books listed in it. And third, I couldn’t quite accept the presumed fact that our people, who sorted your uncle’s books, would be dumb enough to discard a book like Tamerlane without first checking with our chief librarian.”

  Kavanaugh said nothing. His expression, by rights, should have been sheepish after my little lecture. Instead he looked thoughtful. I asked him, “Why did you decide to steal your uncle’s books anyway? As his only living relative, you’re probably the heir to everything he had except the books, aren’t you?”

  He nodded. “Yes. But I knew when I moved him into that nursing home that if he lived for more than a year at those prices, he wouldn’t have a nickel left to his name except his Social Security. So I was merely trying to salvage a little bit of his estate for myself before it was too late.”

  I said, “Well, you had a good idea, Kavanaugh, but you handled it like an amateur.” I grinned at him. “Which is where I come in.”

  With the air of a man asking a very important question, Kavanaugh said, “How many other people have you told about this?”

  I gave him my you-must-be-out-of-your-head look. “Cut anybody else in on this sweet little setup? The only chance to get in on some big money I’ll ever have? I haven’t breathed it to another soul. I’m telling you the truth.”

  “Good,” Kavanaugh said, in what sounded like a relieved tone to me. He put his hand inside his jacket and pulled out a dainty little automatic and pointed it at me.

  I was dumfounded.

  Kavanaugh stood up, took two paces toward me, and directed the round cold eye of his gun in the general area of my mid-section. No doubt aiming, I thought, to slaughter some of the butterflies that had suddenly come alive there.

  I swallowed hard, like taking a big pill without water. “Hey!” I got out in a squeak. “Hold it!”

  Kavanaugh’s gun hand was trembling, I saw, but not enough to make much difference to me if he pulled the trigger. He said, with a thread of smugness in his voice, “I knew it was you who telephoned me tonight. So I brought this with me in case you got any big ideas. He waggled the gun and sweat broke out on my normally placid brow.

  “You knew it was me on the phone?”

  “Of course. You’re not as professional as you seem to think, Johnson.” He was thoroughly enjoying my discomfiture.

  “How did you know it was me?”

  “Because you referred to the Tamerlane book as the Tamerlane ‘thing,’ just as you did in your office when you discussed it with Coatsworth and me.”

  I winced. He had a point. An amateur he might be, but he was not a complete fool. I said. “You figure to shoot me? In cold blood? Right now?”

  “Why not? Without you around to interfere with my handling of the Tamerlane ‘thing,’ my little scheme could still work.”

  I looked down at the gun menacing my stomach and said, “If I were you, Kavanaugh, I wouldn’t shoot me.” I fed him the old cliché. “You’d never get away with it.”

  He said tauntingly, towering over me, “Why not, Mr. Professional?”

  I looked over his shoulder toward my bedroom and said loudly, “Come on in, Jerry. Did you hear it all?”

  Startled, Kavanaugh took his eyes off me long enough for me to twist the gun out of his hand, after which I thrust it, none too gently, into his stomach.

  He gasped.

  I said, “You are an amateur, Kavanaugh. That looking-over-the-shoulder trick is as old as the hills. And I see you even forgot to take the safety off your gun. Now sit down and listen to me.” I emphasized my request with another stiff prod of the gun barrel.

  Slowly he backed up and sagged into his chair.

  “I deliberately rigged this whole affair tonight,” I informed him. “And you’re now tied up so tight you better stop squirming or you’ll really get hurt.”

  Kavanaugh said sullenly, “You rigged it?”

  I nodded. “I’ve got our entire conversation on tape. How does that grab you?”

  His eyes widened. He lifted his gaze from the gun in my hand to my face.

  He didn’t say anything, however, so I went on quickly, “I don’t intend to use the tape against you, even though the police, your lawyer, the probate judge, and the Brightstone University Library would find it very interesting indeed.”

  “Why did you tape it then?” he asked.

  “An anchor to windward,” I answered, “in case you refuse to cooperate.”

  “I don’t believe you taped anything.”

  “The mike’s under the arm of your chair.” He ran his fingers along the underside of his chair arm and found the mike. He still didn’t say anything, just sank a little deeper into his chair. I allowed him a silent minute to think things over.

  At length he said, “Cooperate. What the hell do you mean, cooperate?” He frowned, the sullen look replaced now by a contemplative one. “What do you want from me, Johnson?”

  “The book,” I said. “The Tamerlane.”

  “Half the loot isn’t enough for you? You want it all, is that it?”

  “Who are you to complain?” I said. “After all, you just tried to kill me to hang onto the whole bundle for yourself.” I shook the clip out of his automatic and tossed the empty gun into his lap across the few feet separating us. I said, “What I want you to do is to give the book to the Brightstone Library, just as directed in your uncle’s will.”

  That wiped the contemplative look off his face and replaced it with one that was half puzzled, half astonished, and wholly ludicrous. It was all I could do to keep from laughing.

  “You’re not going to sell the book at auction?”

  “No way, buster,” I said firmly.

  “Then what’s in it for you?”

  “Look,” I said, “Jerry Coatsworth is going to be in charge of the Brightstone new rare-book collection. And Jerry Coatsworth is a friend of mine. I’m not going to stand around and see him cheated out of his rare books by an amateur crook who doesn’t know any more about stealing than I do about playing left field for the Cubs. Especially when you try to make my library the fall guy in the sketch. Does that answer your question?”

  He had the grace to look embarrassed. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I guess so.”

  “So here’s what I want you to do. Get the book from wherever you’ve hidden it. Tell your lawyer and Jerry C
oatsworth that some guy who bought it at a local used-book sale saw your ad in the papers and returned it to you for the reward.”

  “I can’t just say ‘some guy’,” protested Kavanaugh. “And how much reward?”

  “How about five hundred dollars? Could you scrape up that much? Not from your uncle’s estate, but from your own funds?”

  “Sure.”

  “Okay. Then you write a check for five hundred bucks to the Public Library Building Fund. We’re opening a new branch on the

  South Side. And you tell Coatsworth and your lawyer and the probate court that the guy who returned the book wanted to remain anonymous, and asked you to give his reward to the Public Library. You got it?”

  Kavanaugh began to perk up. “Sure, I got it, Hal. And if I do it that way, you’ll never say anything about what really happened? You’ll never—ah—?”

  “Never breathe a word?” I gave him my biggest trustworthy grin. “You’ll have to hope so, won’t you?”

  Kavanaugh got out of his chair, put his little gun away, and held out a hand to me. “It’s a deal,” he promised solemnly. Then he added impulsively, “And a better one than I deserve, Hal. Thank you for making me keep my amateur status.”

  That night I took Ellen out for dinner, made her swear a sacred oath of secrecy, and told her the whole story. “So you see, Ellen,” I finished up, “I’m not only nice-looking but I’m intrepid in the face of danger, loyal to our library, and compassionate to amateurs. Don’t you think you should make up your mind to marry me?”

  Ellen put down her knife and fork. After a minute she said, “Since you’re such a paragon, Hal, I think I ought to confer an honorary degree on you.”

  “An honorary degree would be nice,” I said, pleased. “What degree did you have in mind?”

  Ellen dimpled. “How about B.L.S.—Bachelor of Library Science?”

  “Bachelor?” I said, regarding her sorrowfully. “You’re turning me down again, aren’t you? For the eighteenth time.”

  “Nineteenth,” said Ellen. But she reached across the table and squeezed my hand hard, which I took for a hopeful sign.

  SIDESWIPE