Death Sentences

by Otto Penzler

  “Muriatic acid, citric acid, oxalic acid, and Tartureous acid,” he said, tapping each bottle in turn.

  He carefully mixed a solution of the latter three acids in a bowl, and instructed Mr. Berger to apply it to his inked changes to Tess of the d’Urbervilles.

  “The solution will remove ink stains, but not printer’s ink,” said Mr. Gedeon. “Be careful, and take your time. Apply it, leave it for a few minutes, then wipe it off and let it dry. Keep repeating until the ink is gone. Now begin, for we have many hours of work ahead of us.”

  They worked through the night, and into the next morning. Exhaustion forced them to sleep for a few hours, but they both returned to the task in the early afternoon. By late in the evening, the worst of the damage had been undone. Mr. Berger even remembered the titles of the books that he had returned to the shelves while drunk, although one was forgotten. Mr. Berger had set to work on making Hamlet a little shorter, but had got no further than Scenes IV and V, from which he had cut a couple of Hamlet’s soliloquies. The consequence was that Scene IV began with Hamlet noting that the hour of twelve had struck, and the appearance of his father’s ghost. However by halfway through Scene V, and after a couple of fairly swift exchanges, it was already morning. When Mr. Berger’s excisions were discovered many decades later by one of his successors, it was decided to allow them to stand, as she felt that Hamlet was quite long enough as it was.

  Together they went to the lodgings and checked on the characters. All were present and correct, although Macbeth appeared in better spirits than before, and remained thus ever after.

  Only one book remained unrestored: Anna Karenina.

  “Must we?” said Mr. Berger. “If you say ‘yes’, then I will accept your decision, but it seems to me that she is different from the rest. None of the others are compelled to do what she does. None of them is so despairing as to seek oblivion over and over. What I did does not fundamentally alter the climax of the novel, but adds only a little ambiguity, and it may be that a little is all that she requires.”

  Mr. Gedeon considered the book. Yes, he was the librarian, and the custodian of the contents of the Caxton Private Lending Library & Book Depository, but he was also the guardian of its characters. He had a duty to them and to the books. Did one supersede the other? He thought of what Mr. Berger had said: if Tolstoy had known that, by his literary gifts, he would doom his heroine to be defined by her suicide, might he not have found a way to modify his prose even slightly, and thus give her some peace?

  And was it not also true that Tolstoy’s ending to the novel was flawed in any case? Rather than give us some extended reflection on Anna’s death, he chose instead to concentrate on Levin’s return to religion, Kozyshev’s support for the Serbs, and Vronsky’s commitment to the cause of the Slavs. He even gave the final word on Anna’s death to Vronsky’s rotten mother: “Her death was the death of a bad woman, a woman without religion.” Surely Anna deserved a better memorial than that?

  Mr. Berger had crossed out three simple lines from the end of Chapter XXXI:

  The little muzhik ceased his mumblings, and fell to his knees by the broken body. He whispered a prayer for her soul, but if her fall had been unwitting then she was past all need of prayer, and she was with God now. If it were otherwise, then prayer could do her no good. But still he prayed.

  He read the preceding paragraph:

  And the candle by which she had read the book that was filled with fears, with deceptions, with anguish, and with evil, flared up with greater brightness than she had ever known, revealing to her all that before was in darkness, then flickered, grew faint, and went out forever.

  You know, thought Mr. Gedeon, Chapter XXXI could end just as easily there, and there would be peace for Anna.

  He closed the book, allowing Mr. Berger’s change to stand.

  “Let’s leave it, shall we?” he said. “Why don’t you put it back on its shelf?”

  Mr. Berger took the book reverently, and restored it gently, lovingly to its place in the stacks. He thought about visiting Anna one last time, but it did not seem appropriate to ask Mr. Gedeon’s permission. He had done all that he could for her, and he hoped only that it was enough. He returned to Mr. Gedeon’s living room and placed the key to the Caxton Library on the desk.

  “Goodbye,” he said. “And thank you.”

  Mr. Gedeon nodded but did not answer, and Mr. Berger left the library and did not look back.

  16

  In the weeks that followed Mr. Berger thought often of the Caxton Library, and of Mr. Gedeon, and of Anna most of all, but he did not return to the laneway, and he consciously avoided walking near that part of the town. He read his books, and resumed his evening walks to the railway track. Each evening he waited for the last train to pass, and it always did so without incident. Anna, he believed, was troubled no more.

  One evening, as summer drew to its close, there came a knocking on his door. He answered it to find Mr. Gedeon standing on his doorstep, two suitcases by his side, and a taxi waiting for him by the garden gate. Mr. Berger was surprised to see him, and invited him to step inside, but Mr. Gedeon declined.

  “I’m leaving,” he said. “I’m tired, and I no longer have the energy that I once had. It’s time for me to retire, and entrust the care of the Caxton to another. I suspected as much on that first night, when you followed Anna to the library. The library always finds its new librarian, and leads him to its door. I thought that I might have been mistaken when you altered the books, and I resigned myself to waiting until another came, but slowly I came to understand that you were the one after all. Your only fault was to love a character too much, which caused you to do the wrong thing for the right reasons, and it may be that we both learned a lesson from that incident. I know that the Caxton and its characters will be safe in your care until the next librarian comes along. I’ve left a letter for you containing all that you need to know, and a number at which you can call me should you have any questions, but I think you’ll be just fine.”

  He held out to Mr. Berger a great ring of keys. After only a moment’s hesitation, Mr. Berger accepted them, and he saw that Mr. Gedeon could not stop himself from shedding a tear as he entrusted the library and its characters to its new custodian.

  “I shall miss them terribly, you know,” said Mr. Gedeon.

  “You should feel free to visit us anytime,” said Mr. Berger.

  “Perhaps I will,” said Mr. Gedeon, but he never did.

  They shook hands for the final time, and Mr. Gedeon departed, and they did not meet or speak again.

  17

  The Caxton Private Lending Library & Book Depository is no longer in Glossom. At the beginning of this century the town was discovered by developers, and the land beside the library was earmarked for houses, and a modern shopping mall. Questions started to be asked about the peculiar old building at the end of the laneway, and so it was that one evening a vast fleet of anonymous trucks arrived driven by anonymous men, and in the space of a single night the entire contents of the Caxton Private Lending Library & Book Depository—books, characters and all—were spirited away and resettled in a new home in a little village not far from the sea, but far indeed from cities and, indeed, trains. The librarian, now very old and not a little stooped, liked to walk on the beach in the evenings, accompanied by a small terrier dog and, if the weather was good, by a beautiful, pale woman with long, dark hair.

  One night, just as summer was fading into autumn, there was a knock on the door of the Caxton Private Lending Library & Book Depository, and the librarian opened it to find a young woman standing on the doorstep. She had in her hand a copy of Vanity Fair.

  “Excuse me,” she said, “I know this may sound a little odd, but I’m absolutely convinced that I just saw a man who looked like Robinson Crusoe collecting seashells on the beach, and I think he returned with them to this—” she looked at the small brass plate to her right—“library?”

  Mr. Berger opened the door wide t
o admit her.

  “Please come in,” he said. “It may sound equally odd, but I think I’ve been expecting you …”

  XV

  The Book Case

  Nelson DeMiltimele

  OTIS PARKER WAS dead. Killed by a falling bookcase whose shelves were crammed with very heavy reading. Total weight about a thousand pounds which flattened Mr. Parker’s slight, 160 pound body. A tragic accident. Or so it seemed.

  To back up a bit, I’m Detective John Corey, working out of the First Precinct Detective Squad, which is located – if you ever need me – on Ericsson Place in Lower Manhattan, New York City.

  It was a cold, blustery March morning, a Tuesday, and I was sitting in a coffee shop on Hudson Street, a few blocks from my precinct, trying to translate ham and eggs over easy into Spanish for my English-challenged waiter. “Huevos flippo. Hambo and blanco toasto. Okay?”

  My cell phone rang at 8:34, and it was my boss, Lieutenant Ed Ruiz who said, “I notice you’re not at your desk.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Where are you?”

  I told him and he said, “Good. You’re up. We have a body at the Dead End Bookstore on North Moore. Discovered by a clerk reporting for work.”

  I knew the bookstore, which specialized in crime and mystery novels, and I’d actually been a customer a few times. I love murder mysteries. I can always guess the killer – without peeking at the end. Well…hardly ever. My job should be so easy.

  Ruiz continued, “The deceased is the store owner, a Mr. Otis Parker.”

  “Oh…hey, I know him. Met him a few times.”

  “Yeah? How?”

  “I bought a book.”

  “Really? Why?”

  I ignored that and inquired, “Robbery?”

  “No. Who robs a bookstore? You rob places that have money or goods you can sell.”

  “Right. So? What?”

  “Well,” replied Lt. Ruiz, “it looks like a ground ball,” cop talk for something easy. He explained about the falling bookcase, then added, “Appears to be an accident, but the responding officer, Rourke, says it might need another look before they clean up the mess.”

  “Okay. Hey, how do you say fried egg on a roll to go in Spanish?”

  “You say hasta la vista and get over to the bookstore.”

  “Right.” I hung up and went out into the cold March morning. Lower Manhattan at this hour is jammed with people and vehicles, everyone on their way to work, and all thrilled to be doing that. Me, too.

  It was quicker to walk than to get my squad car at the precinct, so I began the four block trek up Hudson, bucking into a strong north wind that roared down the avenue. A flasher on the corner opened his trench coat and got lifted into a holding pattern over the Western Union building. Just kidding.

  I turned into North Moore, a quiet cobblestoned street that runs west toward the river. Up ahead on the right I saw two RMPs and a bus, which if you read NYPD detective novels you’ll know is two radio cars and an ambulance. One car would be the sector car that responded, and the other the patrol sergeant’s car.

  As I approached the Dead End Bookstore I saw there was no crime scene tape, and the police activity hadn’t drawn much attention on the street; it hardly ever does in New York unless it’s something interesting or culturally significant, like a mob hit. Even then, it’s not worth more than a minute of your time. Also, this was not a lively street; mostly older apartment and loft buildings with lots of vacancy signs. Mr. Otis Parker had located his bookstore badly, but named it well.

  I clipped my shield on my trench coat and approached a cop whose name tag said Conner. I asked him, “Is the M.E. here?”

  “Yeah. Dr. Hines. I think he’s waiting for you.”

  Hines was an okay guy. Looked like an undertaker and didn’t try to play detective. I glanced at my cell phone clock. It was now 8:51 A.M. On the off chance that this was something more than an unfortunate example of Newton’s law of gravity, I’d need to fill out a DD-5 and begin a homicide file. Otherwise, I was just stopping by.

  I looked at the front of the bookstore which took up the whole ground floor of an old five-story brick building, sandwiched between two equally old buildings. The glass door had a Closed sign hanging on it, along with a notice of store hours – open every day except Sundays, 9 A.M. to 6 P.M. Basically, banking hours that insured the minimum number of customers. There were two display windows, one on each side of the door, and in the windows were…well, books. What this street really needed was a bar.

  Anyway, in the left window were mostly classic crime novels – Chandler, Dorothy Sayers, Agatha Christie, Conan Doyle, and so forth. The window on the right featured contemporary bestselling authors like Brad Meltzer, James Patterson, David Baldacci, Nelson DeMille, and others who make more money writing about what I do than I make doing what I do.

  I asked Officer Conner, “Who’s the boss?”

  He replied, “Sergeant Tripani.” He added, “I’m his driver.”

  You want to get the lay of the land before you burst on the scene so I also asked, “Who else is in there?”

  He replied, “The two paramedics, and the responding officers, Rourke and Simmons, and an employee named Scott who discovered the body when he came to work.”

  “And Otis Parker,” I reminded him.

  “Yeah. He’s still there.”

  “Did you see the body?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What do you think?”

  Officer Conner replied, “My boss thinks it’s an accident.”

  “And you think?”

  “Whatever he thinks.”

  “Right.” I advised him, “If anyone comes by and identifies themselves as a customer or a friend, show them in.”

  “Will do.”

  I entered the bookstore which looked like it did the last time I was here – no customers, no staff, cobwebs on the cash register and, unfortunately no coffee bar. Lots of books.

  The store had a two-story high ceiling, and there was a wrought-iron spiral staircase toward the rear that lead up to an open loft area where I could see Sergeant Tripani, whom I knew, standing near the railing. He saw me and said, “Up here.”

  I walked to the staircase that had a sign saying Private and began the corkscrew climb. On the way, I tried to recall the two or three times I’d interacted with Mr. Otis Parker here in his store. He was a bearded guy in his early 60’s, but could have looked younger if he’d bought a bottle of Grecian Formula. He dressed well, and I remember thinking – the way cops do – that he must have had another source of income. Maybe this store was a front for something. Or maybe I read too many crime novels.

  I also recalled that Mr. Parker was a bit churlish – though I’d heard him once talking enthusiastically to a customer about collectors’ editions which he sold in the back of the store. I’d sized him up as a man who liked his books more than he liked the people who bought them. In short, a typical bookstore owner.

  I reached the top of the stairs and stepped up into the open loft which was a large, wood paneled office. In the office was Officer Rourke, the two paramedics, Dr. Hines – wearing the same black suit he’d worn for twenty years – and Sergeant Tripani who greeted me, “Good morning, detective.”

  “Good morning, sergeant.”

  There’s always a pecking order, and Sergeant Tripani, the patrol supervisor, was the head pecker until Detective Corey from the squad showed up. Of course Mr. Parker’s death was not a suspected homicide – at least not by Sergeant Tripani – but here I was to check it out, and Sergeant Tripani was happy to turn it over to me. In fact, he said, “It’s all yours, John.”

  “Ruiz just asked me to stop by.” I pointed out, “I still have my coat on.”

  He didn’t reply.

  I snagged a pair of latex gloves from a paramedic, then I surveyed the scene of the crime or the accident: It was a nice office, and there was an oriental rug on the floor, strewn with lots of leather bound books around a big mahogany w
riting desk. The legs of the desk had collapsed under the weight of the falling bookcase behind it, as had the legs and arms of the desk chair and side chair. The tipsy bookcase in question had been uprighted and leaned back against the wall revealing Mr. Otis Parker whose sprawled, splayed, and flattened body lay half on the collapsed desk and half on the floor. The desk items – telephone, Rolodex, pencil holder and so forth – had miraculously remained on the desk as had the blotter which was soaking up some fresh blood on and around the deceased’s head and face. Fortunately, Mr. Parker’s brains remained where they belonged. I don’t like to see brains.

  Also on the desk was a framed black and white photo. The glass was cracked but I could see a dark haired woman, maybe in her late thirties. If this was his wife, it would be an old photo. But if it wasn’t old, then Mr. Parker had a young wife. Or, maybe it was his daughter. In any case, the lady was not bad looking.

  Otis Parker, I noted, was wearing good shoes, and good slacks, and a nice white shirt. His snappy sports jacket hung on a coat tree nearby. I couldn’t tell if he was wearing a tie because he was face down. So, obviously, he’d been sitting at his desk when the bookcase behind him had somehow tipped away from the wall and silently fallen on him, his desk and his chair. He may have seen or felt a few books landing around him, but basically he never knew what hit him. Indeed, it looked like an accident. Except, why did a thousand-pound bookcase fall forward? Well, shit happens. Ironic, too, that Otis Parker was killed by the books he loved. Okay, the bookcase killed him. But that’s not what the New York Post would say. They’d say, Killed by the books he loved.

  I greeted Officer Rourke and inquired as to the whereabouts of his partner, Simmons.