The case of the missing books

by Ian Sansom

  It didn't look as though that approach was going to work on this occasion though, because there was no one around at all. The only sign of recent human activity seemed to be the cardboard boxes in the hall, and a Volvo estate parked outside the house.

  Israel stepped cautiously across the threshold and cleared his throat.

  'Hello?' he said, sticking his head forward, his voice growing weaker in the quiet. 'Excuse me? Anybody about?'

  His voice echoed and the house remained silent, completely deserted apart from all the fine furniture, and the paintings on the walls, and the vast rugs on the terracotta floors, and ornaments and objets d'art stuffed in cabinets and on plinths and in recesses and cubby-holes.

  A black retriever and a white Persian cat appeared in the hallway from behind the cardboard boxes, regarded Israel slowly and with animal disinterest, and then walked on by, out of the front door and down into the garden.

  'Hello? Hello?'

  Now he'd entered the house he figured he might as well keep going, and so he slowly made his way through the hall and down a corridor, past doors and double doors, calling as he went, and eventually he came through to a vast kitchen painted an electric yellow, with black and white chequerboard tiles, and there, outside the kitchen window, with views out across a small orchard, he saw a motionless human figure, silhouetted against the darkening sky.

  'Hello?' called Israel, extremely faintly now, his heart beating like a little bird's. 'Hello?' The figure did not respond. Israel gulped and began to walk across the kitchen, his brown brogues clicking accusingly across the floor, through the utility room full of wellington boots and Barbours, and outside.

  It was a long terrace at the back of the house. The dark, motionless, stooped figure that Israel had seen inside turned out to be an elderly man standing at a long wooden workbench. He was wearing a trilby hat, and a boiler suit over a three-piece suit, and he was working very slowly and with deep concentration with what looked like a cooking spatula, shaping and moulding a concrete bust, like one of the huge heads Israel had seen in the garden.

  'Hello?' said Israel uncertainly.

  'Ah. Yes. Good,' said the old man, snapping out of his reverie, and turning round and smiling warmly, his bright blue eyes sparkling, as if he were expecting him. 'Good. Ah. You're not Bullimore?'

  'No. Sorry.'

  'I thought you were Bullimore.' The man waved the concrete-covered spatula at Israel.

  'No, I'm not.' Israel had no idea who Bullimore was.

  'You're not with Bullimore?'

  'No.'

  'So you are?'

  'Israel Armstrong. I'm the new librarian.'

  'Ah, the new librarian. Marvellous. Can't shake hands, I'm afraid. Covered in stuff.' He wiped his hands on his boiler suit. 'Chairman Mao was a librarian, did you know?'

  'Yes.'

  'Would have been better off sticking to it, really.'

  'Yes.'

  'Would have saved the world a lot of trouble.'

  'Er.'

  'And Hitler was an artist.'

  '…'

  'Not sure about Stalin. What was he?'

  'Erm. I'm not sure.'

  'Pipe-smoker, anyway. Never to be trusted. Don't smoke a pipe yourself?'

  'No.'

  'Good. Always worth asking. Now, I've heard a lot about you.'

  'You have?'

  'Oh yes. You know, small town. Word gets around. Great write-up you had in the paper.'

  'Thank you.'

  'You're settling in OK?'

  'Yes.'

  'Good. Excellent. Well, very nice of you to come out and see us.'

  'That's all right. You are…?'

  'Sorry, forgive me. Awfully ill-mannered. I'm Pearce Pyper, widower of this parish.'

  'Right.'

  'Now, by your accent I detect that you're not from here, Israel, is that right?'

  'Yes. I'm from London, actually.'

  'Ah. Yes. That's right. I remember. It was in the paper. Us outsiders must stick together, you know. I'm a Cork man originally myself–long time ago, of course. Rebel Cork!'

  'Right.'

  'Lot of nonsense. Anyway, where exactly in London are you from? Big place, London, or at least it was the last time I was there.'

  'Yes. North. North London. I don't know if you know it at all…?'

  'Yes. Of course. Not all of it, mind. Kensington and Chelsea I know very well. And my club, the Athenaeum. You're not a member?'

  'No.'

  'Ah, well. Name like Israel, I suppose you're Jewish, are you?'

  'Er..'

  'I knew the Chief Rabbi once. You didn't know him?'

  'No. I don't think so.'

  'Not the current fella. The one before the one before that. Can't remember his name now. What was he called?'

  'I'm sorry. I don't know. I'm not really—'

  'Never mind. It'll come to me. My first wife was Jewish. Jabotinsky? Her family were in the fur trade? And little Irving Berlin I knew briefly. Wonderful parties. And Heifetz.'

  'You knew Heifetz?'

  'Yes. Well, through my wife. Could never see why people got so excited about the fella myself. Much preferred George Formby: great fun at a party.'

  'Anyway, I've come about the, erm, the library books, Mr Pyper.'

  'You can call me Pearce.'

  'OK, Pearce. I'm collecting up all the old stock and overdue books.'

  'Jolly good. Getting it all ship-shape and what have you. Come on then inside.'

  They went back through the house, through rooms that no longer seemed inhabited, which seemed in fact merely like the shelter for the remnants of a grand inheritance–hunting trophies here and there, and cheetah skins on the floor–and finally they entered into what Israel assumed was the drawing room, looking out over the gardens. Israel had never seen a room quite like it–a room completely and utterly replete, perfectly satisfied with its ornaments and its fine furnishings, every inch of its panelled walls filled with family portraits. Israel thought miserably of his chicken coop.

  'Now. Drink. What can I get you? Sherry OK?'

  'It's a bit early for me actually.'

  'Nonsense. By the time you get to my age you'll not bother with that sort of thing. Sweet or amontillado?'

  'Er…'

  'I'll pour you the sweet. You come back round to it in old age. Now.' Pearce Pyper poured the drinks from cut glass into cut glass.

  'Sláinte.'

  'Cheers. This is quite a place you've got here.'

  'Oh yes. We were very lucky with this place. My wife and I bought it in 1939. Post-partition, before the war. Happy days. Lot of work, mind.'

  'Your wife, is she still…'

  'No, no. Four wives actually. First two died. Third one divorced me. Fourth one I divorced. Quits all round. Are you married?'

  'No.'

  'Wouldn't recommend it. Are you a homosexual?'

  'No.'

  'The companionship's always nice of course, but you can always get a dog. Have you got a dog?'

  'Er…'

  'Cost me a fortune.'

  'The dog?'

  'No, the divorces. Had to get rid of a lot of the ormolu. My first wife, she was a terrible one for the Persian bowls, and the African tribal art: influence of Picasso, and the other fella. What was he called? God…Weird little man. Obsessed with sex? Beard.'

  'Erm.'

  'Yes, yes, anyway, that was him. Used to collect Elizabethan crewel-work myself. Had to sell it all off, mind. The Art Deco I'm trying to hang on to: I've got a bit of a thing about the Art Deco. Had to let some of it go, of course. Like losing a child.'

  'Oh dear.'

  'To Bullimore actually. I thought you were with him.'

  'No.'

  Pearce Pyper dropped his voice. 'Dreadful man. Bumptious, to be honest, if you know what I mean. Buys the stuff, carts it off to his shop, or down south, wherever, I don't know. Bit of a shit, actually.'

  'Oh.'

  'But you know, upkeep of the ho
use and everything. Beggars can't be choosers. Difficult keeping on top of it all.'

  'I'm sure.'

  'But we do our best. "Go muster thy servants; be captain thyself."'

  'Right.'

  'Another sherry?'

  'No, I'm fine, thanks.'

  'I shouldn't really, but I shall.'

  Pearce poured himself another sherry and took Israel by the arm.

  'Come on, let's get your books from the library. Tenax propositi and what have you.'

  The library was adjacent to the drawing room, divided only by a set of heavy, ornate, satiny-white doors; thrown open, the two rooms might have once been a magnificent ballroom, but now separated they were like two halves, two varieties of exquisiteness. Leaving the densely furnished drawing room they now entered the ordered calm of the library. Simple mahogany shelves reached up high to the ceiling and at both ends of the room–which was at least forty or fifty feet long–were two beautiful desks, with carved legs showing rampant lions. Sofas and rugs and small occasional tables piled high with books were all around.

  A man sat in the centre of this magnificent room, surrounded by boxes.

  'Ah, Mr Bullimore, this is my young friend, Israel Armstrong.'

  'How do you do?' said Israel.

  'Mr Bullimore here is culling for me. Weeding, eh, Bullimore?'

  P. J. Bullimore struggled to his feet. He looked uncomfortable and incongruous in the surroundings–a ruddy, stout-faced man with a huge, heaving stomach. He sported finger rings, and a chunky watch and wore the clothes of someone who looked like they'd just been practising their chip shots, and who had enjoyed a couple of gin and tonics, and who was warming up to tell you an amusing story that wouldn't be suitable for the ladies.

  'Pleased to meet you,' he said, shaking Israel's hand.

  The cardboard boxes all around Bullimore were packed with books and marked on the side either 'Poetry', or 'Philosophy', or 'History', or 'Religion'.

  Pearce Pyper stood by the boxes.

  'Now, what was it we agreed?'

  P. J. Bullimore was silent.

  'Mr Bullimore? Was it fifty pounds per box?'

  Bullimore was looking silently ahead.

  'That's pretty reasonable, isn't it, Israel? He's a librarian, you know,' Pearce said to Bullimore.

  'Sounds very reasonable,' said Israel, assuming that Pearce Pyper's library might be similar in kind and in value to his own: a rainforestful of dampening paperbacks.

  But then he took a book from the top of the box marked 'Poetry'.

  'T. S. Eliot?' he said.

  'Yes,' said Pearce. 'He was a cold fish. Friend of my first wife's. Used to send us all his books.'

  'You knew Eliot?'

  'Well. I wouldn't go that far. He was friendly with my sister as well. Little too friendly, actually. Bertrand Russell, he was the same.'

  'But this is…'–Israel opened up the book, The Waste Land, and looked at the flyleaf–'signed by Eliot?'

  'Is it? Yes. Probably.'

  'Hmm.'

  Israel then moved on to another box, which was marked 'Cookery'.

  'The Alice B. Toklas Cook Book?'

  'Ah yes. Too French for my tastes.'

  Israel examined the flyleaf. 'Signed by Alice B. Toklas.'

  'Yes. God, she was a handful, let me tell you. And the woman, what was the other woman…?'

  'Gertrude Stein?'

  'Good God, yes. Like a bloody prize-fighter. Forearms the size of my thighs.'

  Israel had moved on to 'Fiction' and had taken the first book off the top of that box.

  'The Great Gatsby.'

  'Lovely book. Nice man. Never liked his wife. Highly strung.'

  'You know, Mr Pyper—'

  'No, no. Call me Pearce.'

  'Pearce, some of these books are…they're priceless, you know.'

  'Well, I don't know about that,' said Pearce Pyper modestly.

  'I really think I should be the judge of that, Mr, what did you say your name was?' said Bullimore suspiciously.

  'Armstrong.'

  'Mr Armstrong. I don't know if you know much about the book trade.'

  'I'm a librarian.'

  'Ah. But the book trade? The trade?'

  'A little.' Israel didn't mention that the little he knew about the book trade was from his experience working as a deputy store manager in the Bargain Bookstore in the Lakeside Shopping Centre in Thurrock in Essex.

  'Yes. I'm sure,' said Bullimore. 'But you should really leave the valuation to us experts. Look,' he said, picking up another volume from the 'Fiction' box. 'For example. This probably looks fine to the untrained eye. But if you look closely you'll see that here there's some water damage.' He pointed to a brown fleck. 'And the covers are torn. And the binding is loose.'

  'Right,' said Israel, taking the book from his hands and opening it up. 'But it's signed by James Joyce. It's a copy of Ulysses.'

  'Yes, well, obviously, once I've gathered all the worthwhile items together I was going to put the higher value items aside and price them separately.'

  Israel doubted that very much.

  'Anyway, Mr Pearce,' said Bullimore. 'I'm just about done for the day here. I'll leave you and your young friend and perhaps call back later next week to finish off?'

  'Yes, of course. Finish things off. That'd be marvellous. Let me—'

  'No. It's OK. I can see myself out.'

  And he left, rather quickly.

  'Mr Pyper?' said Israel, once Bullimore had left the library and closed the door behind him.

  'Do call me Pearce.'

  'Sorry. Pearce. I don't mean to speak out of turn or anything, but if I was you I think I'd be careful of him.'

  'Who?' said Pearce Pyper, finishing his sherry.

  'Bullimore, Mr Pyper.'

  'Do call me Pearce. Sorry, what did you say?'

  'Mr Bullimore. I think you should be very careful.'

  'Really?'

  'Yes. Really.'

  'I've been dealing with him for years now. Furniture and what have you.'

  'He was offering you a pittance for those books.'

  'Well, they're no good to me now.'

  'Some of those books are worth thousands.'

  'Well, I'll talk to Bullimore about it. I'm sure we'll come to some agreement that is amenable to all parties. But now, we mustn't forget what you came for.'

  They went to a small console table beside a velvet-upholstered chaise-longue, which had a tartan rug folded upon it, beneath one of the big windows.

  'Very important to support your local library,' said Pearce.

  'Yes.'

  'Here we are then,' he said, grandly presenting Israel with half a dozen plastic dust-jacketed paperbacks, as out of place in Pearce's library as they belonged in the mobile. 'I always keep them separate.'

  Israel glanced at the titles.

  'Damon Runyon?'

  'Oh yes. Dashiell Hammett. Raymond Chandler. I do like the American hard-boiled. Chandler was at school with one of my cousins. Lunatic, apparently.'

  'Right,' said Israel, 'well, it's good to have them back. Thank you.'

  'Not at all.'

  'It's a wonderful garden you have there,' said Israel, nodding towards the view of sculptures and trees outside.

  'Oh, I am glad you like it. It's a labour of love, I'm afraid, but there are worse ways to spend one's old age.'

  'I like the sculptures and the…' Israel couldn't think of word to describe the totem poles, and the moulded concrete flowerpot heads. '…And the other things.'

  'Good! Some people are rather sniffy about them, I'm afraid.'

  'Really?'

  'Oh yes.'

  'Do you make them yourself?'

  'Absolutely. My means of self-expression I suppose you might say. You must come back for a proper tour one day.'

  'That'd be lovely, thank you.'

  'Sherry?'

  'No. Thanks. I should really be going.'

  'Yes, of course.'

 
Israel could see the red barn on the Devines' farm in the distance, beyond Pearce Pyper's gardens.

  'Shall I go out this way?' he asked, indicating the French doors leading onto the rear terrace.

  'No, no. You must go out the way you came in. Bad luck otherwise.'

  'Is it?'

  'Of course!'

  Pearce Pyper led Israel back through the house.

  'So, where are you for now?' asked Pearce Pyper.

  'I'm staying with the Devines,' said Israel, pointing. 'Just past the big red barn there.'

  'Ah, the Devines? Lovely family.'

  'Yes.'

  'Terrible business with the parents.'

  'Yes.'

  'Lovely girl, though, Georgina. Done them proud. Make some lucky man a wife one day, eh?'

  'Yes, I'm sure.'

  'Anyway, good luck to you.'

  'Yes, thanks,' said Israel.

  Pearce Pyper pointed down the driveway, and Israel set off, library books tucked under his arm.

  It was getting dark. The lane was narrow. Overhead it was threatening rain. And as Israel walked he went back to trying to work out where the missing books had gone. Ted honestly seemed to believe that if they just kept rounding up overdue books they'd gather them all in eventually. But Israel knew this wasn't the case: the books had been stolen. He just still couldn't quite work out who might have had a motive for stealing fifteen thousand library books from Tumdrum and District Library–or fourteen thousand, or however many it was. Maybe they wanted to inflict harm upon the council, or upon the library, or upon librarians, so maybe it was someone with a grievance: thus, Norman Canning. Or it might be the council themselves, trying to cover up their plans to withdraw all library services. Then again, it was possible that someone simply wanted to sell the books and make some money. He therefore still had several lines of enquiry, none of which was so far working out.

  He thought he heard something behind him: it sounded far off, at first, like a faint crunching. But the sound suddenly grew louder, and Israel turned around.

  There was a vehicle approaching down the narrow grassy lane at high speed–in the dark he couldn't make out what it was. He dropped the library books and dived into the hedge, moments before the vehicle sped past him.

  It was his head that hit the tree first.

  18

  His nose. He'd broken his bloody nose: in the impact of leaping out of the way of the oncoming vehicle and into the tree his nose had gone; it had popped. Israel had always been very attached to his nose.