The room appeared to be completely self-enclosed, with rows of shelves against cinder-block walls, a concrete floor with a slick finish, and a lowered ceiling made of some fibrous material Mercer had no chance of describing. But she filmed it for her experts. Within the hour they would speculate that the room was forty feet in width and about the same in depth; a spacious room with a handsome table in the center; eight-foot ceilings; tight joints; every indication of a room that was airtight, secure, and fireproof.
Bruce said, “Books are damaged by light, heat, and moisture, so all three must be controlled. In here there’s almost no humidity and the temperature is always fifty-five degrees. No sunlight, obviously.”
The shelves were made of thick metal with glass doors so the spines of the books were visible. There were six shelves in each unit with the bottom about two feet off the floor and the top a few inches above Mercer’s head, so about six feet, she guessed. Rick and Graham would agree.
“Where are Tessa’s first editions?” she asked.
He stepped to the back wall and put a key into a narrow side panel next to the shelves. When he turned it, something clicked and all six glass doors were released. He opened the second shelf from the top. “Right here,” he said, removing the copies of The Convict and Blood Meridian. “They are safe and sound in their new home.”
“Very safe,” she said. “This is impressive, Bruce. How many books are down here?”
“Several hundred, but they’re not all mine.” He pointed to a wall by the door and said, “Those I store for clients and friends. A few are here sort of on consignment. I have one client who’s going through a divorce and he’s hiding his books right there. I’ll probably get a subpoena and get hauled into court, and not for the first time. But I always lie to protect my client.”
“And what’s that?” she asked, pointing to a tall, bulky, oversized cabinet standing in a corner.
“It’s a safe and it’s where I keep the really good stuff.” He punched in a code on its keypad — Mercer was careful to properly look away — and a thick door unlatched itself. Bruce swung it open. At the top and center there were three shelves, all lined with what appeared to be the spines of fake books, some with titles in gold print. Bruce gently pulled one off the middle shelf and asked, “Are you familiar with a clamshell?”
“No.”
“It’s this protective box, custom made for each book. Obviously, these books were printed in different sizes, so the clamshells vary. Step over here.”
They turned around and moved to the small table in the center of the room. He placed the clamshell on it, opened it, and gently removed the book. Its dust jacket was encased in a clear laminate cover. “This is my first copy of The Catcher in the Rye. Got it from my father’s estate twenty years ago.”
“So you have two copies of it?”
“No, I have four.” He opened to the front endpaper and pointed to a slight discoloration. “A little fading here, and a chip or two on the jacket, but a near-fine copy.” He left the book and the clamshell on the table and stepped back to the safe. As he did, Mercer turned to it so Rick and Graham would have their full frontal view. At its bottom, below the three shelves of the rarest of books, were what appeared to be four retractable drawers, all closed tightly at the moment.
If Bruce indeed had the manuscripts, then that’s where they are. Or so she thought.
He placed another clamshell on the table and said, “This is my most recent edition of the four, the one actually signed by Salinger.” He opened the clamshell, withdrew the book, and turned to the title page. “No dedication, no date, just his autograph, which, as I said, is quite rare. He simply refused to sign his books. He went crazy, don’t you think?”
“That’s what they say,” Mercer replied. “These are beautiful.”
“They are,” he said, still caressing the book. “Sometimes when I’m having a lousy day I sneak down here and lock myself in this room and pull out the books. I try to imagine what it was like being J. D. Salinger in 1951, when this was published, his first novel. He had published a few short stories, a couple in The New Yorker, but he wasn’t well known. Little, Brown printed ten thousand of these at first, and now the book sells a million copies a year, in sixty-five languages. He had no idea what was coming. It made him rich and famous and he couldn’t handle the attention. Most scholars believe he sort of cracked up.”
“I taught it in my class two years ago.”
“So you know it well?”
“It’s not my favorite. Again, I prefer female writers, preferably those still alive.”
“And you would like to see the rarest book I have by a woman, dead or alive, right?”
“Sure.”
He returned to the safe, with Mercer filming every step and even moving away slightly for another clear frontal assault with her little camera. He found his book and returned to the table. “How about Virginia Woolf, A Room of One’s Own?” He opened the clamshell and removed the book. “Published in 1929. First edition, near-fine copy. I found it twelve years ago.”
“I love this book. I read it in high school and it inspired me to become a writer, or at least give it a shot.”
“It’s quite rare.”
“I’ll give you ten thousand for it.”
They shared a laugh and he politely said, “Sorry. It’s not for sale.” He handed it to her. She gently opened it and said, “She was so brave. Her famous line is ‘A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.’ ”
“She was a tortured soul.”
“I’ll say. She killed herself. Why do writers suffer so much, Bruce?” She closed the book and handed it back to him. “So much destructive behavior, even suicide.”
“I can’t understand the suicide, but I sort of get the drinking and bad habits. Our friend Andy tried to explain it years ago. He said it’s because the writing life is so undisciplined. There’s no boss, no supervisor, no time clock to punch or hours to keep. Write in the morning, write at night. Drink when you want to. Andy thinks he writes better with a hangover, but I’m not sure about that.” Bruce was fitting the books back into their clamshells. He returned them to the safe.
Impulsively, she asked, “What’s in the drawers?”
Without the slightest hesitation, he replied, “Old manuscripts, but they’re not worth a lot, not when compared to these books. John D. MacDonald is a favorite of mine, especially his Travis McGee series, and a few years ago I was able to buy two of his original manuscripts from another collector.” He was closing the door as he said this. Obviously, the drawers were off-limits.
“Seen enough?” he asked.
“Yes. This is fascinating stuff, Bruce. It’s another world I know nothing about.”
“I seldom show off these books. The rare book trade is a quiet business. I’m sure no one knows that I have four copies of Catcher, and I’d like to keep it that way. There is no registry, no one is looking, and many transactions take place in the dark.”
“Your secrets are safe. I can’t think of a soul I would want to tell.”
“Don’t get me wrong, Mercer. This is all legitimate. I report the profits and pay the taxes, and if I dropped dead my estate would include these assets.”
“All of them?” she asked with a smile.
He returned the smile and said, “Well, most of them.”
“Of course.”
“Now, how about a business lunch?”
“I’m starving.”
14.
The team dined on carryout pizza and washed it down with soft drinks. At the moment, food was not important. Rick, Graham, and Elaine sat at the condo’s dining table and reviewed dozens of still photos taken from Mercer’s video. She had produced eighteen minutes of footage from Noelle’s store and twenty-two from Bruce’s; forty minutes of precious evidence they were thrilled to now possess. They had studied it, but more important it was being analyzed by their lab in Bethesda. Facts were being established: the size of his vault, the dimensions of his safe, the presence of surveillance cameras and security sensors; dead bolts on doors; push-button entry panels. The safe weighed eight hundred pounds, was made of eleven-gauge steel, and had been manufactured fifteen years earlier by a factory in Ohio, sold online, and installed by a contractor out of Jacksonville. When locked, it was secured by five dead bolts made of lead and sealed by hydraulics. It could withstand heat of 1,550 degrees for two hours. Opening it would not be a problem, but the obvious challenge was getting to it without ringing bells.