“And what would be in that for the college?” I asked.
“I believe I could arrange for another collection to be donated to St. Benignus, one with greater prestige and monetary value but of less interest to my institution.”
“Quite a scenario,” I said. “Machiavelli would be green with envy. You should bounce the idea off of our provost.”
Post looked at me as if he had smelled something bad and I was it. “You have no authority to negotiate?” “None.”
“Then you have wasted my time. We have nothing to discuss.” He started to walk away.
“I was hoping you could tell me - us - a little about the market for those parts of the collection that were stolen last night,” I called after him.
That stopped him cold. “Stolen? What the devil are you talking about?”
“Didn’t you read about it in the local paper this morning?” Lynda asked.
“I only read the New York Times and I find it appalling that I was unable to purchase a copy at my hotel this morning.”
While Lynda looked daggers at the blowhard, fuming silently, I told Post what had been taken.
“Virtually priceless,” Post gasped. “Of course they have a very high monetary value, hundreds of thousands of dollars or more, but that is quite beside the point. Those are one-of-a-kind items - and stolen right out from under your nose. I assure you nothing like that could ever happen at the Library of Popular Culture!”
“I bet you can’t wait to give Chalmers the same assurance,” Lynda said. “You’d probably even pay for some legal talent to help him withdraw his donation. Then he could give the collection to an institution where it would be safe - yours, for example.”
“That is... preposterous,” Post sputtered. “It would be highly unethical for us to take advantage of this unfortunate situation.”
Lynda snorted. “That’s not the worst thing you might be suspected of before this is all over.”
Post’s jaw obeyed the law of gravity. He fixed Lynda with eyes of ice. “Are you daring to imply that I might be connected in any way with this criminal activity?”
“She’s saying some people might think so,” I interpreted, trying to unruffled his feathers a bit. “It’s awfully convenient that you just happened to be in Erin the day that stuff was stolen.”
“I have a perfectly good reason for being in this insufferable little burg,” Post said.
After an awkward pause, I prodded him: “Care to tell us what it is?”
“No, I would not! It’s a highly confidential matter, as many of our acquisitions are.”
“I can appreciate that,” I said with what I hoped was a gracious nod.“But I’m sort of working with Campus Security in this matter, and I’m sure it would help them to rule you out of any possible involvement if you’d reveal why you’re in town.”
“No.”
“I’m just afraid that if Campus Security calls you in for an interview the press might get wind of it,” I said. I was playing good cop/bad cop against the hypothetical media. “You know how they are,” Lynda chimed in.
“Oh, all right, then,” Post snapped. “But only if you agree to keep this strictly confidential.” We agreed, although I could read the reluctance in Lynda’s eyes as if it were a newspaper headline. She was agreeing to go off the record without the slightest idea of what she was going to hear. “I am in Erin negotiating with a man named Jaspers to acquire the largest privately held collection of Harvey Comics, some issues going back to the beginnings of the company in 1940.”
The smug look on his face told me this was something special, but I didn’t get it. I mean, everybody knows Superman. Spider-Man and Batman I’d read as a kid. X-Men I was familiar with from the movies. But who was Harvey, other than an invisible bunny in an old movie?
“Harvey Comics is Casper the Friendly Ghost,” Post explained, “as well as Richie Rich, Baby Huey, Little Audrey - virtually a treasure house of popular culture.”
It was the mission of the Library of Popular Culture to acquire popular forms of literature for public display and for the use of scholars, Post explained. In pursuit of that mission he’d been trying for years to convince Alfred Jaspers, Sr., to sell his Harvey Comics collection, but without success. Jaspers had died last fall, however, and his son was willing to cash out. The younger Jaspers had invited Post to Erin to discuss the price on Friday. The bargaining was hard and carried over to today, when a deal was struck.
The story seemed plausible and checkable. Post did have a good reason for being in Erin other than the presence of the Chalmers Collection. He readily admitted, however, that he had visited Gene Pfannenstiel on Friday - unaware that the young man had no bargaining authority - before keeping his appointment with Jaspers.
“We have tens of thousands of comics at the Library of Popular Culture, but little Sherlockiana,” Post said. “It would be a tremendous coup to fill that gap by acquiring one of the largest and most prestigious Sherlock Holmes collections in private hands.”
“What you’re saying is, you were hungry,” Lynda pointed out. “So hungry you weren’t going to give up even after Chalmers had decided on his donation to the college. Who knew that?”
Post shrugged. “Assorted bibliophiles, I suppose. Word gets around. Why?”
“Because no ordinary thief took that stuff in hopes of fencing it,” I said, catching her reasoning right away. “It was either a Sherlockian who wanted to gloat over the books in private or somebody who knew where the market was for things like that. And it looks like you’re the market.”
Post drew himself up in a dignified posture reminiscent of the ramrod-straight Woollcott Chalmers. “I am not a receiver of stolen goods, Mr. Cody!”
“Of course not,” I agreed, visions of a slander suit dancing in my head. “But please get in touch with me or with Lieutenant Decker of our Campus Security if you even suspect that someone is trying approach you with those books.” I gave him my card.
“You may be certain that I will do so,” Post said stiffly, without a glance at the card.
He carried his injured dignity away in a late model BMW, midnight blue.
“What do you think?” I asked as he drove off.
Lynda shook her honey-colored curls all over the place. “No way he’s the thief - he’d be too afraid of getting lint on his suit. And stolen goods would be no good to his library-cum-museum anyway because they couldn’t be displayed or made available to scholars. A professional thief would know that, so the idea that somebody took the stuff to sell to Post doesn’t wash, either.”
We climbed into the Mustang. It was six o’clock and we’d spent nearly half an hour going nowhere with Post.
A collector as thief still made the most sense - somebody like Hugh Matheson, Lynda’s newfound friend. But I didn’t say that. I didn’t say much at all until Lynda pulled the Mustang behind Muckerheide Center, right where my bike was parked. She left the motor running.
“You aren’t staying for the banquet?” I asked, my hand on the door. Maybe that was wishful thinking - because if she were coming to the banquet, she probably wouldn’t be sitting alone.
“I’m coming back for it,” Lynda said, adjusting the rear-view mirror. “First I’m going home to play with my hair a little, change my clothes.”
“You look fine to me.”
“Thank you, but Victorian dress is optional and I plan to take the option.”
“You could wear that frilly thing you had on at that Halloween party two years ago. Remember the moon and the music and-”
“Jeff,” she cut in, “the cocktail hour begins in half an hour. I’d better go.”
I sighed. “It’s been good to be around you again. Whatever happened to us, Lynda?”