by John Grisham
good laugh.”
Carlisle looked at Farley and Kendrick, and finally said, “Okay. Let’s proceed without them. Now the sticky question of the money. Mr. Lance?”
The CEO cleared his throat and said, “Well, we’re on the hook for twenty-five million, but that’s for a complete loss. This is shaping up to be something far different.”
“Indeed it is,” Carlisle said with a smile. “Assuming the crook has all five, the math is easy. Of the twenty, how much might you be willing to kick in?”
Without hesitation, Lance said, “We’ll do half. No more.”
Half was more than Carlisle was hoping for, and as an academic he felt somewhat off balance trying to negotiate with a hardened CEO of an insurance company. He looked at Farley and said, “Arrange the other half.”
11.
On the other side of Rue St.-Sulpice, and less than forty feet from the front door of Librairie Gaston Chappelle, was the Hôtel Proust, an old, quaint, four-story place with typically cramped rooms and a single elevator barely large enough for one adult and his or her luggage. Bruce used a fake Canadian passport and paid cash for a room on the third floor. In the window he set up a small camera aimed at the front of Gaston’s shop. He watched the live footage on his iPhone in his room at the Hôtel Delacroix, around the corner on Rue de Seine. Noelle, in her room at the Hôtel Bonaparte, watched it too. On her bed were the five manuscripts, each in a different type of bag.
At 11:00 a.m., she left with a shopping bag and went to the lobby, where she asked the front desk to keep the maids away from her room because her husband was sleeping. She left the hotel, crossed the street, and stopped at the window of a dress boutique. Bruce walked by and without stopping took the bag. She returned to her hotel room to protect the remaining manuscripts, and also to watch what happened at Gaston’s shop.
Strolling by the fountain in front of the classical church St.-Sulpice, and trying hard to blend in with the other tourists, Bruce burned some clock as he fortified himself for what was ahead. The next few hours would change his life dramatically. If he was walking into a trap, he would be hauled home in chains and sent away for years. But if he pulled it off, he would be a rich man and only Noelle would know it. He walked a few blocks, always circling back and covering his trail. Finally, it was time to begin the delivery.
He entered the bookstore and found Gaston poring over an old atlas, pretending to be busy but watching the street. There were no customers. His clerk had been given the day off. They stepped into his cluttered office in the rear and Bruce removed a cedar box. He opened it then opened the archival box inside, and said, “The first one, This Side of Paradise.” Gaston gingerly touched the top leaf and said, in English, “Looks fine to me.”
Bruce left him there. He opened and closed the front door, glanced up and down the narrow street, and walked away, as nonchalantly as possible. Noelle watched the video from the camera in the Hôtel Proust and saw nothing unusual.
Using a prepaid cell phone, Gaston called a number at the Credit Suisse bank in Geneva and informed his contact that the first delivery had been completed. As instructed by Bruce, the ransom war chest was sitting in a Zurich bank, waiting. As instructed, the first installment was wired to a numbered account at AGL Bank in Zurich, and upon its arrival it was wired to another numbered account in a bank in Luxembourg.
Sitting in front of a laptop in his hotel room, Bruce received an e-mail confirming the two wires.
A black Mercedes stopped in front of Gaston’s and Thomas Kendrick got out. He was in and out in less than a minute and left with the manuscript. He went straight to his office, where Dr. Jeffrey Brown was waiting, along with another Princeton librarian. They opened the boxes and marveled at the prize.
Patience was required, but the waiting was torturous. Bruce changed clothes and went for a long walk. At a sidewalk café on Rue des Écoles in the Latin Quarter, he managed to choke down a salad. Two tables away, Noelle sat down for a coffee. They ignored each other until he left, with a backpack she had placed in a chair. A few minutes after one, he entered Gaston’s again and was surprised to see him chatting with a customer. Bruce eased to the rear and placed the backpack on his office desk. When Gaston managed to slip away, they opened the second cedar box and looked at Fitzgerald’s scrawl. Bruce said, “The Beautiful and Damned. Published in 1922 and perhaps his weakest effort.”
“Looks fine to me,” Gaston said.
“Make the call,” Bruce said and left. Fifteen minutes later the wire transfers were confirmed. Not long after that, the same black Mercedes stopped in the same place, and Thomas Kendrick fetched number two from Gaston.
Gatsby was next in order of publication, but Bruce was saving it for last. His fortune was coming together nicely, but he still worried about the final delivery. He found Noelle sitting in the shade of an elm tree in Luxembourg Gardens. Beside her was a brown paper bag with the name of a bakery on it. For good measure, the end of a baguette protruded out the top. He broke it off and chomped away as he headed for Gaston’s. At 2:30, he entered the bookstore, handed over the bag and what was left of the baguette, along with Tender Is the Night, to his friend, and hustled away.
To mix things up, the third wire went to a Deutsche Bank branch in Zurich, then to a numbered account in a London bank. When the two were confirmed, his fortune went from seven figures to eight.
Kendrick appeared again to pick up number three. Back in his office, Dr. Jeffrey Brown was giddy as the collection grew.
The fourth manuscript, that of The Last Tycoon, was hidden in a Nike gym bag Noelle carried into a Polish bookstore on Boulevard St.-Germain. While she browsed, Bruce carried it away and walked four minutes to Librairie Chappelle.
The Swiss banks would close at five. At a few minutes before four, Gaston called Thomas Kendrick and passed along some somber news. For Gatsby, his acquaintance wished to be paid in advance. Kendrick kept his cool but argued that this was not acceptable. They had an agreement, and so far both sides had behaved.
“True,” Monsieur Chappelle said politely. “But the danger, as my contact sees it, is that he makes the final delivery and those on your end decide to forgo the last installment.”
“And what if we wire the final payment and he decides to keep the manuscript?” Kendrick replied.
“I suppose that’s a risk you’ll have to take,” Gaston said. “He is rather adamant.”
Kendrick took a deep breath and looked at the horror-stricken face of Dr. Brown. “I’ll call you back in fifteen minutes,” he said to Gaston.
Dr. Brown was already on the phone to Princeton, where President Carlisle had not left his desk for the past five hours. There was really nothing to discuss. Princeton wanted Gatsby far worse than the crook needed another four million. They would take their chances.
Kendrick called Chappelle and passed along the news. When the final wire transfer was confirmed at 4:45, Chappelle called Kendrick back and informed him that he was holding the Gatsby manuscript in the rear seat of a taxi waiting outside his office building on Avenue Montaigne.
Kendrick bolted from his office with Dr. Brown and his colleague giving chase. They sprinted down the wide stairway, rushed past the startled receptionist and out the front door just as Gaston was emerging from the taxi. He handed over a thick briefcase and said that Gatsby was all there, with the exception of page 1 of chapter 3.
Leaning against a tree not fifty yards away, Bruce Cable watched the exchange and enjoyed a good laugh.
EPILOGUE
Eight inches of overnight snow had blanketed the campus, and by mid-morning crews were hustling with plows and shovels to clear the walkways and doorsteps so that classes could go on. Students in heavy boots and coats wasted little time between classes. The temperature was in the teens and the wind was biting.
According to the schedule he’d found online, she should be in a classroom in Quigley Hall, teaching a class in creative writing. He found the building, found the room, and managed t
o hide and stay warm in a second-floor lobby until 10:45. He slipped back into the winter and loitered on a sidewalk beside the building, pretending to chat on his cell phone to avoid any suspicion. It was too cold for anyone to notice or care. Bundled as he was, he could have been just another student. She came out the front door and headed away from him in a crowd, one that swelled as other buildings emptied with the change of classes. He followed at a distance and noticed she was accompanied by a young man, one with a backpack. They turned here and there and appeared to be headed for the Strip, a row of shops and cafés and bars just off the campus of Southern Illinois University. They crossed a street, and as they did her companion took her elbow as if to help. As they walked on, even faster, he let it go.
They ducked into a coffeehouse and Bruce stepped into the bar next door. He stuffed his gloves in a coat pocket and ordered black coffee. He waited fifteen minutes, time enough to knock off the chill, then went to the coffeehouse. Mercer and her friend were huddled over a small table, coats and scarves draped over their chairs, fancy espresso drinks in front of them, deep in conversation. Bruce was beside the table before she saw him.
“Hello, Mercer,” he said, ignoring her friend.
She was startled, even stunned, and seemed to gasp. Bruce turned to her friend and said, “I’m sorry, but I need a few minutes with her. I’ve come a long way.”
“What the hell?” the guy said, ready for a row.
She touched his hand and said, “It’s okay. Just give us a few minutes.”
He slowly got to his feet, took his coffee, and as he left them he brushed by Bruce, who let it go. Bruce took the guy’s chair and smiled at Mercer. “Cute guy. One of your students?”
She collected herself and said, “Seriously? Is that really any of your business?”
“Not at all. You look great, Mercer, minus the tan.”
“It’s February in the Midwest, a long way from the beach. What do you want?”
“I’m doing fine, thanks for asking. And how are you?”
“Great. How’d you find me?”
“You’re not exactly hiding. Mort Gasper had lunch with your agent, who told the sad story of Wally Starke dropping dead the day after Christmas. They needed a pinch hitter this spring for the writer in residence, and here you are. You like this place?”
“It’s okay. It’s cold and the wind blows a lot.” She took a sip of coffee. Neither looked away.
“So how’s the novel coming along?” he asked, smiling.
“Good. Half-finished and writing every day.”
“Zelda and Ernest?”
She smiled and seemed amused. “No, that was a stupid idea.”
“Quite stupid, but you seemed to like it, as I recall. So what’s the story?”
Mercer took a deep breath and glanced around the room. She smiled at him and said, “It’s about Tessa, her life on the beach, and her granddaughter, and her romance with a younger man, all nice and fictionalized.”
“Porter?”
“Someone very similar to him.”
“I like it. Have they seen it in New York?”
“My agent has read the first half and is quite enthusiastic. I think it’s going to work. I can’t really believe this, Bruce, but it’s nice to see you. Now that the shock is wearing off.”
“And it’s nice to see you as well, Mercer. I wasn’t sure it would ever happen.”
“Why is it happening now?”
“Unfinished business.”
She took a sip and wiped her lips with a napkin. “Tell me, Bruce, when did you first suspect me?”
He looked at her coffee, some variety of a latte with too much foam and what appeared to be caramel squirted on top. “May I?” he asked as he reached for it. She said nothing as he took a sip.
He said, “The moment you arrived. At that time, I was on high alert and watching every new face, and with good reason. You had the perfect cover, the perfect story, and I thought it might be true. I also thought it might be a brilliant plan, hatched by someone. Whose idea was it, Mercer?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“Fair enough. The closer we got the more suspicious I became. And, at the time, my gut was telling me that the bad guys were closing in. Too many strange faces in the store, too many fake tourists poking around. You confirmed my fears, so I made the move.”
“A clean getaway, huh?”
“Yes. I got lucky.”
“Congratulations.”
“You’re a great lover, Mercer, but a lousy spy.”
“I’ll take both as a compliment.” She took another sip and handed him the cup. When he gave it back, she asked, “So what’s the unfinished business?”
“To ask why you did it. You tried to put me away for a long time.”
“Isn’t that a risk all crooks take when they decide to deal in stolen goods?”
“You’re calling me a crook?”
“Of course.”
“Well, I think you’re a sneaky little bitch.”
She laughed and said, “Okay, we’re even. Any more names to call me?”
He laughed too and said, “No, not at the moment.”
She said, “Oh, I can think of a lot of things to call you, Bruce, but the good outnumber the bad.”
“Thanks, I guess. So, back to the question. Why did you do it?”
She took a deep breath and looked around again. Her friend was sitting in a corner, checking his phone. “Money. I was broke, in debt, vulnerable. A lot of excuses, really. It’s something I’ll always regret, Bruce. I’m sorry.”
He smiled and said, “That’s why I’m here. That’s what I wanted.”
“An apology?”
“Yes. And I accept it. No hard feelings.”
“You’re awfully magnanimous.”
“I can afford to be,” he said and both chuckled.
“Why did you do it, Bruce? I mean, looking back, it was worth it, but at the time it was incredibly risky.”
“It wasn’t planned, believe me. I’ve bought and sold a few rare books on the black market. I guess those days are over now, but at the time I was just minding my own business when I got a call. One thing led to another and the plot gained momentum. I saw an opportunity, decided to seize it, and in short order I had possession. But I was in the dark and I had no idea how close the bad guys were until you came along. Once I realized I had a spy in the house, I had to make a move. You made it happen, Mercer.”
“Are you trying to thank me?”
“Yes. You have my sincerest gratitude.”
“Don’t mention it. As we know, I’m a lousy spy.”
Both were enjoying the conversation as they took another sip. She said, “I gotta tell you, Bruce, when I read that the manuscripts were back at Princeton, I had a good laugh. I felt sort of foolish, to get played like that, but I also said, ‘Go, Bruce.’ ”
“It was quite the adventure, but I’m one and done.”
“I doubt that.”
“I swear. Look, Mercer, I want you to come back to the island. The place means a lot to you. The cottage, the beach, the friends, the bookstore, Noelle and me. The door is always open.”
“If you say so. How’s Andy? I think about him all the time.”
“Sober, and fiercely so. He attends AA twice a week and is writing like a madman.”
“That’s wonderful news.”
“Myra and I were talking about you last week. There were questions about your abrupt departure, but no one has a clue. You belong there and I want you to feel free to come see us. Finish your novel and we’ll throw a huge party.”
“That’s very gracious, Bruce, but with you I’ll always be suspicious. I might go back, but no more fooling around.”
He squeezed her hand, stood, and said, “We’ll see.” He kissed her on the top of her head and said, “Good-bye for now.”
She watched him ease between the tables and leave the coffeehouse.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Allow me to apologi
ze to Princeton University. If its website is accurate, and I have no reason to believe it is not, then the original handwritten manuscripts of F. Scott Fitzgerald are indeed housed in the Firestone Library. I have no firsthand knowledge of this. I have never seen that library, and I certainly stayed away from it while writing this novel. As far as I’m concerned, these manuscripts could be in the basement, the attic, or a secret tomb