A Book of the Dead

by John Blackburn

  “Quite so.” Levin beamed sympathetically. The conversation was going exactly as he hoped. “Rexton used to be a most respectable firm, but since old Peter Rexton retired, they seem to lack vision.

  “It is not for me to criticize a rival of course, but if we had someone like yourself on our list; someone whose books would really sell given the right treatment; no trouble or expense would be too much to offer.”

  “They’d sell all right, given proper advertisement and publicity.” Mott had disliked Judas Levin for some time, but now he seemed to be a remarkably civil fellow, and intelligent too, once you got to know him.

  “I’m sure that’s true, Mr Mott, and if you ever think of a change, do bear us in mind.” Levin pressed his advantage. “I’m sure you’d find our production satisfactory and we do have a go at publicity. Also, we’d be proud to have you with us.”

  “I’m sure you would, old boy.” Mott laughed loudly and scornfully. “Not only proud, but overjoyed, I should say. Which publisher would not? Why, if I decided to give Rexton and Bulljohn the heave ho, there’d be a queue of you fellows waiting outside my door, cap in hand.

  “Yes, I might consider your firm if I decided on a change, though there’s little chance of that at the moment. Bulljohn has a verbal option on my next two works and as you know, an Englishman’s word is his bond.

  “Ah, and here comes your good lady with our refreshment.” He looked up as Levin’s secretary laid a tray on the desk. “The cup which cheers, but does not inebriate; worst luck.”

  “Thank you, Betty.” There was a slight coldness in Levin’s tone now. He had resented the phrase “cap in hand”. He disliked the reference to Englishmen keeping their bonds. Since his hopes of transferring Mott’s allegiance from Rexton had faded, he was beginning to regret his hospitality.

  “And now, Mr Mott, though I wouldn’t describe myself as being overworked, I have things to do, so just what did you want to see me about?”

  “Ah, of course. Completely slipped my mind for a moment.” Mott poured out tea, added milk and sugar and raised the cup ceremoniously. “Cheers, Mr Levin, and here’s to Men of Courage, bless their little hearts.”

  “To what?” Judas Levin was 58, but he suddenly looked much older than his years. “The Death Book? What about it, Mr Mott?”

  “Are you hard of hearing, Mr Levin? I never mentioned the Tibetan Book of the Dead.” Mott scowled at him. “My interest is in a volume entitled Men of Courage published by the Raeburn Press during 1958; the year you took them over.”

  “I know. I heard you all right and please forgive me.” Levin’s hand was shaking too badly for him to fill his own cup. “I’m rather superstitious, you see, and I used that title ill-advisedly. A sort of personal foible, but why, Mr Mott? Why should Men of Courage interest you?”

  “Nothing very exciting, I’m afraid.” Mott lied fluently though he had noticed Levin’s distress and found the name “Death Book” extremely appropriate. “It’s just that I’m considering a series of articles to debunk those ‘men of courage’; Roland Rawson in particular. I believe he’s mentioned in the text, and need the book as a reference to expose his boasts. But it is pretty hard to come by these days, and I hoped you could help me.”

  “Extremely hard.” A little nervous tic was trembling beneath Levin’s left eye. “I’d only just started here when we bought out Raeburn and their stock was part of the deal; the ‘Death Book’ included. Sorry, Men of Courage, I should say, and it was only in the proof stage then.” He stared at the grey smoke drifting from Mott’s cigar.

  “A difficult book to market as you can imagine. Too general for one thing and each chapter had been written by a different author; most of them unknown. We didn’t know what to do with the wretched thing for some time and then . . .” He paused and dabbed his face with a handkerchief. “Mr Triggs, our senior editor in those days, was a bit of a gambler and he decided to take a chance. A limited edition of a hundred and fifty copies were offered to people mentioned in the text and to other individuals who might be interested. All we kept was one set of proofs on file.”

  “Which has since vanished or been destroyed.” There was no surprise in Mott’s tone. He somehow knew that this enterprising collector must have paid the publisher a visit. “What exactly happened to your copy, Mr Levin?”

  “I’ll tell you the little I know, Mr Mott, though it really is very little.” Levin tucked away his handkerchief, but the tic still trembled under his eye. “Yes, Men of Courage, the Death Book,” he said. “A strange story, but some time ago, just before last Christmas, we had an enquiry from a dealer asking whether we had a copy available. I’m afraid I can’t remember his name, but my secretary might have kept his letter somewhere.”

  “The name was Pike?”

  “Yes, that’s right, Mr Mott. John or James Pike, I think it was. He said he had a customer who, like yourself, wanted the book for research and would pay well for a clean copy. I wrote back and told him that, though the edition had been out of print for years, there was a set of files available and his client was welcome to consult them on the premises. It’s always been the firm’s policy to preserve a copy of everything we’ve published; mainly for legal reasons.

  “Anyway, that was the last we heard from Pike, and I presumed he’d found a copy elsewhere. I didn’t give him or Men of Courage a thought till our annual stocktaking was made last month.”

  “And your proofs were missing?”

  “Yes, Mr Mott, but I’ve never been able to understand why. Who would wish to steal such a thing?” Levin’s false teeth made a sharp clicking sound. “What possible motive could there be?”

  “The question is, who had the opportunity, old boy?”

  “Well, only Paul Mason, our filing clerk and general dogsbody had a key to the basement as far as I know. The files are all kept down there and if anyone needed to consult a set, they’d have to get written permission from myself or one of the other directors and Paul would open up for them. But why, Mr Mott? Why should old Paul Mason have taken the proofs? The book had no real value, and Paul had been with the firm for years. Since he was a boy in fact and I’d have trusted him with my last penny.”

  “Perhaps you would have done, Mr Levin, but what do we really know about other human beings?” Mott imagined what might have happened. Pike’s customer had asked him to check with the publishers and Pike had telephoned or written back to say that, though there was no copy for sale, they had one on file. It would have been fairly easy for that versatile client to discover who had charge of the files.

  “Could I have a word with this chap Mason, Mr Levin?” he asked.

  “A word – with Paul Mason.” Levin’s teeth rattled again. “No, that’s quite impossible, Mr Mott. Mason’s not with us any more, and though I didn’t suspect there was any connection between him and the loss of that book, I wonder – just wonder if his death had anything to do with it.”

  “You mean . . .”

  “I mean nothing, Mr Mott, but I was at the inquest and there was no doubt at all. Seven days after I replied to Pike’s letter, old Paul Mason killed himself.”

  At least two people had died because of the book and Mr Molden-Mott hadn’t enjoyed himself so much for years. He swaggered up the steps of the British Museum, and the thought that he should have reported what he knew to the police never occurred to him. Why should it? His ability and brains were far superior to anything the rozzers could offer and he had a personal score to settle. Somehow, this sneak-thief, this cold-blooded murderer, had discovered that he owned a copy, and had broken into his flat and stolen it while he was away. In Mott’s view, revenge seemed a most worthy motive for tracking the villain down, and to hell with the law.

  And he could imagine exactly what had happened at the publishers. The contemptible Judas Levin might say, “Old Paul Mason had been with t
he firm for years, would have trusted him with my last penny,” but he had also used the term “general dogsbody” and mentioned what the dogsbody was paid. Just enough to keep Mason and his invalid wife from starvation and the dog might have heard the whistle of another master and responded.

  Yes, poor old Mason might have accepted a bribe to borrow an unimportant book which wouldn’t be missed till the annual stocktaking, and he had died accordingly. That murder had been a nasty, unnecessary crime and a nasty, unwholesome brain had done the planning.

  Mott pushed through the doors of the Reading Room, checked his reference and handed the slip to an attendant. On paper, at least, the BM had a copy of Men of Courage. He just hoped that someone else hadn’t got to it first.

  “Nothing but blackamoors, Indians and RC priests seem to use the room these days.” He sat down and stared scornfully at the collection of woolly heads, turbans and clerical collars bent over volumes. On his right, two clergymen were busily at work; one learning his office, the other studying Ruff’s Guide to the Turf.

  “A nasty, vile crime,” he thought. “Pike’s death had been quite different, because he was a sharp, grasping man and probably a blackmailer to boot. But Mason – no. There’d been no need to kill Paul Mason.

  “I’m engaged in a bit of research, Mr Mason, and you might be able to help me.” Mott imagined the first innocent approach made in a café, a bus or a tube train. “You have the key to your firm’s filing section, and there’s a book that I need to borrow for a few days.

  “Be prepared to pay you a hundred for the service and I hope you consider the offer satisfactory.”

  Yes, a hundred quid would be about right. Not enough to arouse suspicion, but a very pleasant temptation for a poor man, and Mason had accepted the bribe, and wrapped up the proofs next day. He’d strolled along the Thames embankment with the parcel under his arm, and he might have spoken to his benefactor before handing it over.

  “You’ll not tell anyone about this, will you, sir? I’ve never been in any trouble before, and . . .”

  “You won’t be now, Mr Mason, and don’t worry at all. Nobody will ever know the reason for our transaction. Not even you, Mr Mason.” A hand had reached out for the parcel and another hand came up. Mason’s thin, old body had twisted over the parapet and into the Thames water and mud. On the embankment someone had walked away past Cleopatra’s Needle and the sphinxes had gone on smiling.

  Fair enough, but why? Why kill the poor bastard, when there was no need? Why not just remain anonymous, pay the money, borrow the book and fail to return it? And what was so important about a set of proofs printed almost thirty years ago to provide a motive for at least two murders? Mott’s blackmail theory had started to fade and he almost started to accept Tom’s notion that a crazed collector might be at work.

  All the same, why and what? What attraction could Men of Courage contain to drive even a lunatic to murder? Well, in a few minutes, he should find out. It would be very difficult, almost impossible, to steal the BM’s copy and in its pages he might learn the truth.

  “Why – Why – What?” Quite involuntarily, but loud and clear the words burst from his lips and thundered around the room. The cleric at his side frowned and pointed at the Silence notice before returning to his sporting studies. Some very undesirable persons were allowed to use the Reading Room these days, he clearly decided.

  “The volume you asked for, sir.” The attendant had also heard Mott’s outburst and though he whispered, the “sir” sounded vaguely insolent. “I hope you will treat it with care.”

  “Don’t worry about that, my man. Just put the thing down and attend to your other duties.” Mott had resented the fellow’s tone and normally he would have given him a piece of his mind. At the moment, however, he was just too pleased to see the book intact to feel anger.

  He didn’t open it at once though, but stared at the cover with something like love in his eyes. The original blue vellum had been replaced by a drab library binding, but the title showed it was what he wanted; the book which was a key to reveal a very sinister murderer. Also a key to fame and fortune and Mott enjoyed praise. Already he imagined the voices of old, authoritative men discussing his triumph in clubs. “Smart fellow, Molden-Mott. Solved the Norwood and Embankment murders single handed. Police thought they were suicides, but Mott knew better. Once, he got his nose to the scent, the business was as good as over. Mott – Mott – Molden-Mott.” Like a peal of victory, his own name rang through his head, and then at last, slowly and expectantly, a lover approaching the bed of his beloved, an explorer climbing the last pass into an undiscovered country he opened the cover and looked at the title page.

  “Men of Courage. An account of Human Heroism, covering two Centuries.” He picked up the book, turned to the first chapter and started to read.

  But as he did so, every face in the room swung towards him. Black, brown and white features took on expressions of horror and astonishment, and three attendants came bounding across the floor. For Mott’s own face had become a mask of baffled fury, and his cry of anger was scarcely human.

  “Oh, you bastard,” he shouted at the top of his voice. “You bloody, wicked, clever bastard!”

  Between his fingers the pages of the book had crumbled into greyish powder and were drifting away.

  Seven

  “Acid, the bastard used acid. Three capsules of vitriol at a guess, though I can’t be sure about that.” Mott scowled at Tom and Janet and his voice was full of injured dignity and humiliation. He remembered the pleasure he had felt on being handed the book, and the excitement on reading the title page. And then there was no more enjoyment and no more print to read. The pages had crumbled into a cloud of grey powder and vanished into thin air.

  The sequel was even more hideous. With an attendant on either side he, J. Molden-Mott, had been marched through lines of indignant faces to the curator’s office and treated as though he was a juvenile delinquent. “The fellow dared to accuse me of destroying the book, Mayne; me of all people.”

  “Rather a neat idea, though.” In spite of Mott’s indignation Tom had to grin, because the idea really was neat. It would have been almost impossible to steal or damage the BM’s copy by normal methods, so a novel form of attack had been used. Little capsules of lighter fuel filled with vitriol and strapped in place with adhesive tape. In time, the acid would have eaten through the plastic containers and started to run through the pages. Though he sympathized with Mott’s feelings, there was something very comical about the drifting, grey confetti and he was glad to see that Janet shared his view. She was staring at the floor and trying to conceal a smile.

  They sat in the back room behind his shop, hemmed in by unsorted books and manuscripts and unframed prints. The shop itself was closed for the night, but through the glass partition he could see that one industrious browser was still browsing. An old though not a very valued customer who could be relied on to steal nothing and let himself out.

  “I suppose one might call it neat, in a crazy and objectionable sort of way.” Mott had obviously noticed Janet’s smile and resented it. “We’ve got a rum bird on our hands, Miss Vale. When he can buy or steal he does so, if not he mutilates and destroys. If necessary he becomes a completely ruthless murderer.

  “Very rum, very dangerous, and he must have got hold of most of the edition by now, though we do not know why he wants the copies, or what they contain. Without that knowledge we’re snookered and I gathered you had no luck, old boy.”

  “No, not even a smell of the damned book.” Tom remembered the fruitless hours he had spent on the telephone and the replies which were always the same. “Men of Courage, Mayne. Haven’t seen one for years, but you might try Elder at Bournemouth.”

  “Can’t help you, Tom. Think I sold one some time ago, but God knows who to. Henry Coverdale might be able to fit you up, though it’s
doubtful.”

  “Let me see. No I’m afraid not, but give James Thin of Edinburgh a ring, but it’s a hundred to one against.”

  Always the same. A negative response and advice to try somebody else. A hundred to one, or a thousand to one, the odds seemed hopeless. Tom dreaded the thought of his next phone bill.

  “Then our only hope is that the joker panics and makes an attack on you, Mayne. After all, you are Pike’s heir and successor.” The thought seemed to cheer Mott up and he nodded as there was a knock on the door. “But you have business to attend to, it appears.”

  “Good-evening, Mr Mayne.” The browser entered and approached Tom, creaking like an unoiled gate. He was very tall and thin and extremely old and held out a book as though it was a rather disgusting and germ-ridden object.

  “Sorry to bother you so late, Mr Mayne, but I found this and wondered about the price marking. Thirty pounds seems terribly high you know.”

  “May I see, Major Laker.” Tom took the book from him and frowned. “Corvo’s Weird of the Wanderer. I don’t think that thirty is at all too high.”

  “Not normally, but in this condition.” The aged warrior looked slightly offended as though a close friend was trying to swindle him.

  “As you can see the spine and covers are rubbed, a flyleaf is missing and there’s a lot of foxing everywhere. Foyle’s had a much better copy for only twenty, the other day.”

  “All right, twenty it is.” Normally, Tom would have used the obvious retort, “Then why didn’t you buy from Foyles?” and held out for the full price, but he just wanted to get rid of Laker. He watched the major lay down the money and creak away out, well pleased with his bargain.

  “Business indeed, Mayne.” Mott grimaced at the four five-pound notes and winked at Janet. “Do you manage to make a living from this dump, old boy?”