by John Dunning
“What were the books?”
“Oz books. Westfall stumbled over them in a garage sale. Thirty-two Oz books for a dollar apiece. Most of the time when you see those they’re in poor condition. These were very fine, beautiful copies.”
“Were they firsts?”
“Only a few were. None of the Frank Baum titles were, but there were a couple of Ruth Plumley Thompson firsts and the one Jack Snow. The main thing about them was the condition. Half of them still had dust jackets. All the color plates were fresh and unscuffed, even the plates on the covers.”
“You got any of ’em left?”
“Oh no. They didn’t last the month.”
“Nice little strike for both of you, then. What did you pay him?”
He looked offended and tried not to answer.
“I’d really like to know that,” I insisted.
“I prefer keeping my finances private.”
“You’d have every right to, if the man hadn’t been murdered.”
He hedged. “I don’t remember exactly.”
“Did you pay him in cash?”
“Not for something that big.”
“Then you wrote a check. Which means you’ve got a record of it.”
His eyes narrowed. “Do I have to talk to you about this?”
I didn’t say anything.
“It’s just that I don’t want people knowing my business. Most of the time I pay more money per book than anyone in town. But you never want people knowing exactly what you’re doing.”
“This is a homicide investigation,” I said. “I’m not gonna take out a billboard and plaster it with evidence.”
“I just don’t see how a transaction that we did a year ago can have anything to do with evidence. But if you promise me you’ll keep it private, I’ll tell you. I gave him seven hundred.”
“You have the cancelled check?”
“At home, yes. I can produce it if necessary.”
“I’ll let you know. How did the books price out?”
“I’m not sure exactly. Julian?”
“Twenty-two hundred dollars,” Lambert said.
“So you paid him a little less than one-third,” I said.
“Which was fair, under the circumstances,” Goddard said. “He had thirty-two dollars in it.”
“Which shouldn’t matter. That is very salable stuff.”
“Yes it is.”
“All right,” I said with a little sigh. “You’re right, it probably doesn’t matter anyway, but if it does I’ll ask you for that check. Now you say he was in here a couple of weeks ago. What happened?”
“Like I told you, he had a couple of books. One was a good book, but the condition wasn’t there.”
“So you bought nothing from him?”
“That’s right.”
“And that’s the last time you saw him.”
“That’s the last time I saw him.”
Something unfinished hung in the air. It took me a moment to realize what it was. Lambert, who had been busily engaged writing book descriptions on index cards, had looked up and caught his boss’s eye.
“That is right, isn’t it, Julian?”
“He did come in once since then,” Lambert said. “You weren’t here, and it was a busy morning, like today. He was only here for a few minutes. It was unusual because he didn’t do anything. He didn’t look at any of our books and he didn’t have anything to sell.”
“When was this?” Goddard said.
“Recent. No more than a week.” Lambert closed his eyes and went into deep thought. “I think it may’ve been Thursday.”
“What went on?” I said.
“Nothing. He just came in to see Roland. He said he had a deal cooking and he wanted to see Roland.”
“Was that his exact language?”
“Just like that,” Lambert said. “He had a big deal cooking and he wanted to see if Roland was interested.”
Roland was far more annoyed than interested. “Why didn’t you tell me about this?” he said.
“I was busy that morning; I didn’t have time to talk to the man. Then I just forgot about it. I didn’t think it was anything that would set the world on fire. You know how these guys are. Everything’s important. Everything’s a big deal.”
“It’s not like you to forget something like that,” Goddard said.
“I should etch it in stone every time one of these characters opens his mouth? I was busy. I was running the bookstore. I assumed if it was important he’d be back. Then I forgot about it.”
“If you guys don’t mind,” I said, “I’d like to get back to my questions. You can grumble at each other all day after I’m gone.” I flipped a page in my notebook. “Have either of you got any idea what Bobby would be doing with Rita McKinley?”
Goddard just stared. Lambert laughed out loud.
“Who told you that?” Goddard said.
“Everybody.”
“Well, it’s the first time I’ve heard it.”
I looked at Lambert. “How about you?”
His laugh had been cut off in the middle of a ha-ha, and his face had begun to turn red. He had busied himself with a book and was pretending to be somewhere else. That’s a sure sign with a guy like Lambert that he knows something more—something he’d rather not tell.
“Don’t fall all over yourself answering the question,” I said. “It’s just that a man has been murdered, and I’m supposed to make some kind of effort to find out who did it.”
He looked up defiantly. “All right, I just this minute remembered. When he walked out that day, he was kind of angry. He had been waiting for Roland for more than an hour, and I finally said I didn’t know how much longer it would be. That’s the day you went to get license plates for your new car,” he said to Goddard. “How can you ever tell in advance how long that’s going to take?”
“I was there three hours,” Goddard said.
“That would make it… what?” I said. “You thought it was Thursday.”
“It was Thursday,” Goddard said.
The day before the murder.
“So what happened?” I said, looking at Lambert.
“Suddenly Westfall gets impatient. He stalks over to the door like he’s going to leave. But before he does, he turns and says to me, ‘I guess Rita McKinley would be more interested in what I have to sell.’ And he stomped out.”
Goddard shook his head. “This just gets worse all the time. How could you forget something like that?”
“I told you,” Lambert said. “The store was a madhouse that day. I can’t buy, sell, and be a secretary all at once.”
“Let’s get back on the point,” I said. “Did Bobby say, or even hint, what he might have to sell?”
“No, and like I told you, he wasn’t carrying anything with him.”
“Did he say anything else?”
“No,” Lambert said.
We looked at each other for a moment.
“You’ve got to remember one thing,” Lambert said. “You’ve got to consider the source. How many times have these guys come in thinking they’ve found a thousand-dollar book and it turns out to be nothing? I don’t consider it my first line of business to keep up with people like Westfall. Especially when we’re doing seven hundred in real business in the space of an hour.”
“All right, forget it,” Goddard said.
But it wasn’t over yet. “What can you boys tell me about Rita McKinley?” I said.
“I can’t tell you a thing,” Goddard said. “I never met the lady, wouldn’t know her if I saw her on the street.”
“You’re aware of her reputation, though?”
“I know she has some good books. That’s what I’ve heard. But I don’t scout the other dealers. I don’t do business that way.”
I looked at Lambert. Again he had gone red around the ears. He’d be a terrible witness in court, if he had anything to hide.
“It’s a good thing you didn’t kill Bobby, Lambert,” I sai
d. “All a cop would have to do is ask you.”
He looked up shakily. “I went up there once,” he said.
Then, after a long pause, he said to Goddard, “I didn’t say anything to you because I knew you wouldn’t like it.”
Goddard didn’t like it. The temperature in the room dropped another five degrees.
“I wanted to see her stock, that’s all,” Lambert said. “There’s been so much talk, and I wanted to see what she had.”
“I hope you didn’t represent yourself as a buyer for this store,” Goddard said.
“I didn’t have to. She knew exactly who I was. She knows everybody.”
“When did you go up there?” I asked.
“Last fall, before Thanksgiving.”
“Could you show me how to get there… draw me a map?”
“Sure. It’s not that hard to find. You’ll need more than a map, though. There’s a high fence all around her place, and nobody gets in without calling ahead. You have to call and leave a message.”
“Is she pretty good about calling back?”
“She called me back. I heard from her within a couple of hours.”
“What was she like?”
“All business.”
“But she gave you no trouble about coming up?”
“Why wouldn’t she have me up? She’s in the business to sell books.”
“I just heard that she doesn’t exactly roll out the red carpet.”
“You won’t hear that from me. She’s a real lady,” Lambert said, his face reddening. “She’s got perfect manners and I’ll tell you this. She knows her stuff. I was damned impressed.”
“Obviously,” Goddard said.
“What did you think of her stuff?” I asked.
“Absolutely incredible. I’ve never seen books like that. She’s got a This Side of Paradise, signed by Fitzgerald, with H. L. Mencken’s bookplate and a personal note from Fitzgerald practically begging Mencken for a review. The book is in a bright, fresh jacket with no flaws. She’s got a whole wall of detective stuff—prime, wonderful books. Have you ever seen perfect copies of Ross Macdonald’s first three books, or the first American edition of Mysterious Affair at Styles? She’s got a Gone With the Wind signed by Margaret Mitchell, Clark Gable, and Vivien Leigh. Gable wrote a little note under his name that said, ‘And now, my dear, everyone will give a damn.’ There’s so much great stuff, you don’t know where to start.”
Goddard grunted.
“Here’s another thing,” Lambert said. “You remember that old rumor about Hemingway and Wolfe signing each other’s books?”
It was a rumor I had never heard, so I asked him to fill me in.
“Sometime in the thirties, a woman in Indiana was supposed to have sent a package of Hemingway and Wolfe books to Max Perkins, begging for signatures. The books sat around in Perkins’s office for months. Then one night Hemingway and Wolfe were both there and Perkins remembered the books and got them signed. But both of them were three sheets to the wind and Hemingway thought it would be a great joke if they signed all the wrong books. He sat down and wrote a long drunken inscription in Look Homeward, Angel, and signed Wolfe’s name. Wolfe did the same with A Farewell to Arms. They started trying to outdo each other. Wolfe’s inscription in Green Hills of Africa fills up the front endpapers and ends up on the back board.”
“Thomas Wolfe never could write a short sentence if a long one would do just as well,” Goddard said sourly.
“But the point is,” Lambert said unnecessarily, for by then even I knew what the point was, “McKinley has all those books, with the handwriting authenticated beyond any question. She seems to look for unusual associations, offbeat signatures, and pristine condition. Hey, she’s got a Grapes with a drunken Steinbeck inscription and a doodle of a guy, drawn by Steinbeck, who has a penis six feet long. I mean, a guy would fall on his face from the force of gravity if he had a schmuck like that. Under the picture, Steinbeck wrote, ‘Tom Joad on the road.’ All I can say is, I’ve looked at a lot of books, but I’ve never seen a collection quite like that.”
I had some more questions, mostly insignificant, which they answered in terms that were generally inconsequential. Then I had Lambert draw me a map to Rita McKinley’s house and I left them to their unfolding squabble. I called headquarters and talked to Hennessey. Rita McKinley had not yet returned my call. I gave Hennessey the names of additional book dealers to check out, and twenty minutes later I was in the foothills, heading for Evergreen.
It was pretty much as Lambert had said, a waste of time. She lived near the top of a dirt road that snaked up the mountainside. You went through Evergreen, a bustling little mountain town about thirty minutes from Denver; then, eight or ten miles out of town, doubled back onto a road that was clearly marked PRIVATE. There were half a dozen places up there, McKinley’s being at the far end. She had the entire mountaintop to herself. Her privacy was protected, just as Lambert had said, by a locked gate and a fence ten feet high. I wondered about covenants: I didn’t know you could build a fence like that anymore, but there it was. I looked through the chain links and followed the fence through the woods, until it became clear that I was simply circling the mountaintop and the fence went the distance. At one point the trees thinned out and I could see her house, the glass glistening two hundred yards above my head. I called up through the break—cupped my hands to my mouth and shouted her name—but no one came.
I talked to people on the way down: stopped at each of the houses and asked about the mystery woman at the top. She remained that, a faceless enigma. No one knew her. She never stopped to chat. All people saw as they passed on the road was a figure, obviously female, in a car. One man had put together a Christmas party last year for all the neighbors on the mountain. Everyone had come but Rita McKinley, who had sent regrets.
In Evergreen, I called her number again and got the recording. I left her a stiff message, telling her I wanted to see her right away. But I had a hunch that I wasn’t going to hear from the lady, that I’d have to track her to earth and pin her down. I had another hunch, that that might prove to be heavy work.
12
For all my alleged expertise, it was Hennessey who got the first break in the case. While I was spinning my wheels in the mountains, Neal had hit the streets and talked to more book dealers. He had come to a store on East Sixth Avenue where Bobby had sometimes been seen. The owner was a man in his forties named Sean Buckley. He had a good eye for books and he sold them cheap. His store was dark and was sometimes mistaken for a junk palace, but Buckley was no Clyde Fix. He knew exactly what he was doing. His books were priced intentionally low, sometimes drastically low. People talk when they find bargains like that, and Buckley’s store was always crowded with eager treasure hunters.
It was not a place for a claustrophobic: it was dusty, shabby, disorganized; books were piled on the floor and shoved into every nook. Buckley was a pleasant man, easygoing, shy, well liked, highly intelligent. I had spent a rainy afternoon a year ago talking with Buckley about politics, police work, and the intricacies of the book trade. He had just sold a $250 Naked and the Dead to another dealer for $85, knowing full well but not caring much what the price guides said the book was “worth.” The other dealer might eventually get that high-end money, but it wasn’t easy. Norman Mailer has lost a lot of luster since 1948. People don’t care much anymore, so let the other guy take the chance. If it worked, more power to him. The book had cost Buckley eight-five cents at a flea market. Buckley was the best example I had ever seen of the “keep the stock moving” school of bookselling.
I had put him fairly low on my list of people to see. Bookscouts didn’t do much business there: they don’t like to sell to a low retail man because the margin just wasn’t good enough. But Bobby had come in about a week ago with his pockets stuffed with cash. He had flashed a wad bigger than a man’s fist, and no small bills either. It looked like all hundreds from what Buckley could see: it must’ve been several thousand doll
ars at least. After much prodding, Hennessey had pinned Buckley down to a date. Last Tuesday it was, three days before the murder.
There was another thing. Bobby had been dressed to the hilt, three-piece suit and tie, hair and beard trimmed and combed, shoes shined. It had taken Buckley some time to recognize him. He had come to the store at quarter to five, just before closing. Buckley had been on the phone and hadn’t paid much attention at first. Bobby just moved back into the store and started browsing the stacks. As time passed, Buckley began getting restless. He was a man who ran by the clock—he opened and closed on time and seldom stayed open late for anyone. At five-fifteen, Buckley began turning off the lights. At last he walked back and said, in a soft, apologetic voice, “I need to close now.”
Bobby looked up and grinned. Buckley had to take a few steps back, so great was his surprise. No one had ever seen Bobby the Bookscout in a coat and tie.
“My gosh, Bobby,” Buckley said. “Where you going, to a funeral?”
“Yeah,” Bobby said. “Tonight I’m burying my old life.”
You could see right away how much he was enjoying it, Buckley said. There was always a tendency in these street people to strut when they got a little money—delusions of grandeur, you know. “Tonight I’m making the biggest deal of my life,” Bobby said expansively.
That wouldn’t be much of a deal, Buckley thought, but he was too much of a gentleman to say it.
“I’m not gonna be a bookscout anymore, Buckley,” Bobby said. “Not gonna be anybody’s doormat.”
“What are you gonna do?” Buckley said.
Bobby grinned, a sly that’s-for-me-to-know look crossing his face. “You’ll see soon enough. I’ll tell you this much. After tonight I’ll be a book dealer, same as you guys. That’s all I ever needed, just a stake.”
That’s when he pulled the money out, just for effect.
“Well,” Buckley said, “looks like you got it.”
“This is just pocket money. I’ll be shopping here a lot from now on, Buckley. It kills me to see you selling books for a quarter on the dollar and I can’t buy them myself. That’s all gonna change.”
“Well,” Buckley said, “whatever’s happening tonight, I wish you luck.”