Once his presence was approved, the receptionist cleared him to proceed to the third floor. He took the stairs and soon found the office of one Thomas Kendrick, a ranking partner chosen solely because of his undergraduate degree from Princeton. That was followed by two law degrees, first from Columbia and then from the Sorbonne. Mr. Kendrick was forty-eight years old, originally from Vermont but now with dual citizenship. He was married to a French lady and had never left Paris after the Sorbonne. He specialized in complex litigation of an international nature and, at least on the phone, had seemed reluctant to grant an appointment to a lowly bookshop owner. Monsieur Chappelle, though, had been persistent.
Speaking in French, they got through the rather stiff formalities and soon enough Mr. Kendrick said, “Now, what can I do for you?”
Monsieur replied, “You have close ties to Princeton University, having once served on its board of trustees. I assume you know its president, Dr. Carlisle.”
“Yes. I’m very involved with my school. May I ask why this is important?”
“It is very important. I have a friend who has an acquaintance who knows the man in possession of the Fitzgerald manuscripts. This man would like to return them to Princeton, for a price, of course.”
Kendrick’s professional, thousand-dollar-an-hour facade vanished as his jaw dropped slightly, his eyes bulged, and he looked as though he’d been kicked in the gut.
Chappelle continued, “I am just the intermediary, same as you. We need your assistance.”
The last thing Mr. Kendrick needed was another task, especially one that would pay him nothing and devour his valuable time. However, the appeal of getting involved in such a wonderfully unique transaction was almost overwhelming. If this guy could be believed, he, Kendrick, would play a vital role in bringing home a prize his beloved university treasured above all others. He cleared his throat and said, “The manuscripts are safe and still together, I take it.”
“Indeed.”
Kendrick smiled as his thoughts raced away. “And the delivery would take place where?”
“Here. Paris. The delivery will be carefully planned and all instructions must be strictly adhered to. Obviously, Mr. Kendrick, we’re dealing with a criminal who is in possession of priceless assets, and he prefers not to get caught. He is very clever and calculating, and if there is the slightest misstep or confusion or hint of trouble, the manuscripts will disappear forever. Princeton will have only this one chance to retrieve the papers. Notifying the police would be a grave mistake.”
“I’m not sure Princeton will get involved without the FBI. I don’t know this, of course.”
“Then there will be no deal. Period. Princeton will never see them again.”
Kendrick stood and stuffed his fine shirt deeper into his tailored slacks. He walked to a window, glanced out at nothing, and said, “What’s the price?”
“A fortune.”
“Of course. I have to give them some idea.”
“Four million per manuscript. And not negotiable.”
For a pro who wrangled with lawsuits worth billions, the amount of the ransom did not faze Kendrick. Nor would it scare Princeton. He doubted his university had that much mad money lying around, but there was a twenty-five-billion-dollar endowment and thousands of wealthy alumni.
Kendrick moved away from the window and said, “Obviously, I need to make some calls. When do we meet again?”
Chappelle stood and said, “Tomorrow. And I caution you again, Mr. Kendrick, that any involvement by the police here or in the U.S. would be catastrophic.”
“I hear you. Thanks for stopping by, Mr. Chappelle.” They shook hands and said good-bye.
At ten the following morning, a black Mercedes sedan stopped on Rue de Vaugirard in front of the Luxembourg Palace. From the backseat, Thomas Kendrick emerged and began walking along the sidewalk. He entered the famous gardens through a wrought-iron gate and drifted with a throng of tourists to the Octagonal Lake, where hundreds, both Parisians and visitors alike, whiled away the morning, sitting and reading, taking in the sun. Children raced their toy boats across the water. Young lovers sprawled and groped on the lake’s low concrete walls. Packs of joggers hustled about, talking and laughing. At the monument to Delacroix, Kendrick was joined without a greeting by Gaston Chappelle, briefcase in hand. They walked on, ambling along the wide pathways and moving away from the lake.
“Am I being watched?” Kendrick asked.
“There are people here, yes. The man with the manuscripts has accomplices. Am I being watched?”
“No. I assure you.”
“Good. I assume your conversations went well.”
“I leave for the U.S. in two hours. Tomorrow I will meet with the folks at Princeton. They understand the rules. As you might guess, Mr. Chappelle, they would like some type of verification.”
Without stopping, Chappelle pulled a folder from his briefcase. “This should suffice,” he said.
Kendrick took it as they walked. “May I ask what’s inside?”
Chappelle offered a wicked smile and said, “It’s the first page of chapter 3, The Great Gatsby. As far as I can tell, it is authentic.”
Kendrick stopped cold and mumbled, “Good God.”
9.
Dr. Jeffrey Brown practically jogged across the Princeton campus and bounded up the front steps of Nassau Hall, the administration building. As the director of the Manuscripts Division at the Firestone Library, he could barely remember his last visit to the president’s office. And, he knew for a fact that he had never been summoned for a meeting described as “urgent.” His job had never been that exciting.
The secretary was waiting and escorted him to the grand office of President Carlisle, who was also standing and waiting. Dr. Brown was quickly introduced to the university’s in-house counsel, Richard Farley, and to Thomas Kendrick. For Brown, at least, the tension in the room was palpable.
Carlisle gathered the four around a small conference table and said to Brown, “Sorry for the short notice, but we’ve been given something that needs verification. Yesterday, in Paris, Mr. Kendrick was handed a single sheet of paper that is said to be the first page of the third chapter of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s original manuscript of The Great Gatsby. Take a look.”
He slid over a folder and opened it. Brown, gasping, looked at the page, gently touched the top right corner, and buried his face in his hands.
10.
Two hours later, President Carlisle convened a second meeting at the same table. Dr. Brown had been excused, and in his chair sat Elaine Shelby. Next to her was Jack Lance, her client and the CEO of the insurance company with twenty-five million on the line. She was still smarting from her brilliant but botched scheme to nail Bruce Cable, but she was also rallying quickly with the hint that the manuscripts might be in play. She knew Cable was not on Camino Island but did not know he was in France. The FBI knew he had flown to Nice but had not followed him. They had not shared this information with Elaine.
Thomas Kendrick and Richard Farley sat opposite Elaine and Lance. President Carlisle handed over the folder and said, “This was given to us yesterday in Paris. It’s a sample from Gatsby and we have verified its authenticity.” Elaine opened the folder and took a look. Lance did too and neither reacted. Kendrick told the story of meeting with Gaston Chappelle and laid out the terms of the deal.
When he finished, Carlisle said, “Obviously, our priority is getting the manuscripts. Catching the crook would be nice, but right now that doesn’t really matter.”
Elaine said, “So, we’re not including the FBI?”