Mr. Reisinger turned out to be a smooth-looking man crowding fifty. A little on the heavy side. A colored butler led Peel into a huge library, that was literally plastered with dime novels, hundreds and hundreds of them tacked to the walls and additional thousands crammed into book shelves.
Reisinger gave a plump hand to Joe Peel. “Always glad to meet a fellow collector.”
“Thanks,” Peel replied. He looked at the walls. “You’ve got more dime novels than I have.”
“How many have you got?”
Joe Peel took the book from his pocket. “This one — and one other.”
Reisinger looked curiously at the book in Peel’s hand. “I thought you said you were a collector…”
Peel shook his head. “I said I wanted to talk to you about dime novels.”
Reisinger frowned.
Peel said quietly, “My other dime novel is called… Malaeska…”
Reisinger looked at him curiously. “Are you the man who telephoned about a month ago… offering to sell me Malaeska?”
“Why, no.”
“You’re here to sell?”
Peel shook his head. “I don’t want to sell anything. I called because I’m interested in dime novels.”
Reisinger brightened. He crossed to his desk and pulling open a drawer took out a black binder. “I’ve got as good a copy of Malaeska here as you’ll ever see. It’s the prize of my entire collection.”
He opened the binder and exposed a dime novel — between celluloid sheets — that was a twin of the one Peel had at his hotel. Peel scrutinized it closely.
“Mine is in as good condition.”
Reisinger frowned a little. “I find that hard to believe. I’ve never seen another copy of Malaeska in as good condition. This is virtually mint…”
“So’s mine.”
“Then you’ve got a treasure.” Reisinger scowled. “I wish you’d brought your copy along.”
“I was afraid of damaging it.”
“I should think you would be.” Reisinger took back the binder containing Malaeska and put it away. He turned back to Peel, his attitude indicating that as far as he was concerned the interview was over.
Peel smiled, putting a little schmalz into it. “This is a real treat to me, Mr. Reisinger, I’m so interested in dime novels, yet know so little about them. I’d heard that you had the greatest collection in existence…”
Reisinger’s enthusiasm returned. “I’ve got a complete set of Beadles, the Frank Starrs from Number One on, the Munros and even the rare ‘Ten Cent Novelettes’ put out by Elliott, Thornes and Thompson of Boston. Besides a complete set of eight hundred and fifty Tip Top Weeklies. Name me a man whos’ got more than that.”
“Charles Bragin of Brooklyn.”
“Bragin’s a dealer — THE dealer in dime novels. He helped me get my collection together.” The frown came back to Mr. Reisinger’s face. “About this Malaeska you have…”
“Yeah… great story, isn’t it?”
“Are you kidding? Malaeska is the worst bilge that ever found its way into print.”
“Then why’s it worth so much money?”
“Because it’s the first dime novel ever published and there are only a few in existence…”
“How many would you say?”
Reisinger shrugged. “Not more than half a dozen. And most of those only in fair condition. I would have sworn that mine was the only one in mint…” He came to a sudden decision. “How much do you want for your copy?”
“Why, I’d rather not sell…”
“I’ll give you three hundred dollars for it… provided it’s in as good shape as the one I already have.”
“Well, perhaps it isn’t in quite as good condition…”
Reisinger exhaled heavily. “Ah now we’re getting down to cases. Well, suppose we say two hundred…”
“How much did the man who phoned you a while ago ask?”
“Five hundred. But that’s why I didn’t buy it. Mind you, I would have paid five hundred for it if I hadn’t already had a copy — a mint copy. But since I did have one…”
Peel nodded. “The trick then is to find a collector who hasn’t already got a copy of Malaeska…”
“That’s right. You’re sure your copy isn’t as good as mine?”
“Yes. As a matter of fact, the edges are kinda frayed. But, uh, if you didn’t have a copy of Malaeska already, how much would you offer me for mine?”
“Oh, six-seven hundred. Maybe even a thousand.” Reisinger chuckled. “Naturally, I’d pay more for a book I didn’t have then for one I already owned.”
“I can see that. Take you quite a while to catch up on your reading as it is.”
“Oh, I don’t read these books. Drive a man crazy. But once in awhile I look at one…” he walked to a shelf and searching for a moment brought out a large pamphlet. “Frank Reade — printed 1892. He had airships, armored tanks, submarines — years before they were actually invented. He tossed atomic bombs at the Indians.”
“Is that so? I never read him. I was a Frank Merriwell fan when I was a kid…”
Nostalgia came into Reisinger’s eyes. “So was I. I followed Frank all through college, and then his brother, Dick and finally Frank, Jr…” He shook his head. “But try reading one of the stories today!”
“Ever read Old Cap Collier? Or Nick Carter?”
“Did I!” Reisinger chuckled. “And both Young and Old King Brady. Wonderful stories — but utterly ridiculous. You know I’ve often wondered what a real modern detective would say about those old-timers.”
“Be interesting to know. I read Nick Carter when I was a kid and that’s what I wanted to be… a detective…”
Reisinger smiled fondly. “And what did you become?”
“A detective.”
“Eh?” The mellowness faded from John Reisinger’s face. “You’re a detective… naw?”
“That’s why I’m here.”
“Come again.”
“A man was killed yesterday. He collected dime novels.”
Reisinger was no longer the genial bibliophile. His eyes had narrowed to slits and his facial muscles drooped sullenly.
“Who was it?”
“Man named Wilbur Jolliffe.”
“Never heard of him. He couldn’t have been much of a collector.”
“He owned a copy of Malaeska.”
“The one you were talking about — that you claimed you owned?”
Peel nodded. “And it’s in just as good shape as yours.”
“I don’t get it!” Reisinger scowled and picked up the binder containing his own treasured dime novel. “I thought I knew every prominent collector in the country.”
“You’re sure you never heard of Wilbur Jolliffe?”
“Quite sure.”
“His picture was in the papers this morning.”
“I never read the newspapers.”
“…Ever hear of a man named Oscar Eisenschiml?”
“Of course. He’s a rare book dealer, down on Hollywood Boulevard.”
“Ever hear of Marcy Holt?” Reisinger shook his head. “William Gray?” Peel tried.
“Who are they?”
“I don’t know. They’re mixed up in Jolliffe’s murder. But I don’t know how.”
Reisinger exhaled. “Sorry I can’t help you.”
“Oh, it’s all right. I was just taking a shot in the dark.”