This was my show; Yin and Davis stood off, waiting for my lead. I took a long look around, picturing the room as I’d first seen it after the shooting. The eight books were still on the couch, but the stack wasn’t quite as orderly; the inspectors or the techs must have moved them. The same book was still on top, though. The dried mess inside the fireplace had been sampled and dusted and sprayed-the techs again. In the rows of bookshelves alongside, the blood spatters shone dark and crusty, like rust spots, on the Mylar jacket protectors.
I went to those shelves first, donning the pair of white latex gloves Yin had given me, and spent a few minutes examining the authors and titles in the affected rows on each side. “The first time Pollexfen showed me around in here,” I said, “every book was arranged in alphabetical order by the author’s last name. The books on these two shelves were N, O, and part of P. Look at them now.”
Yin and Davis looked. “Out of order,” she said. “Some K ’s, L ’s, other letters mixed in.”
“You’ll have to take my word on this, but none of the replacements are particularly valuable. There’s only one reason a meticulous collector like Pollexfen would’ve switched the books around.”
Davis said, “Get the valuable ones out of the way. Protect them from possible splatter damage.”
“That’s it. The same reason he arranged the killing so that most of the blood and gore ended up inside the fireplace. He cares more about his first editions than anything else. Once he decided to stage the murder in here, protecting the books that can’t be easily replaced was his number-one priority.”
I moved over to the stack on the couch, sat down beside it. The book on top, its Mylar cover coated with a fine film of fingerprint powder, was The Talking Clock by Frank Gruber. I’d noted that on Wednesday because Gruber had been a frequent contributor to the pulp magazines in the ’30s and ’40s and I’d read dozens of his stories, one of them The Talking Clock as a magazine serial. With a forefinger, I lifted the front cover and the first couple of pages. Fine condition, but no author signature or inscription.
I leaned down to look at the spines of the others in the stack. Two were also by Gruber: The Navy Colt and The Hungry Dog. The rest: Bodies Are Where You Find Them, Brett Halliday. Death on the Door Mat, M. V. Heberden. Vivanti, Sydney Horler. The Corpse at the Quill Club, Amelia Reynolds Long. The Mandarin’s Sapphire, Dwight Marfield.
“Eight more books,” I said, “that we were supposed to think were targeted for theft by Cullrane. The first eight are ultrarare, some one-of-a-kind, the authors and titles recognizable to nonbibliophiles, and worth half a million on the collectors’ market. But these eight are just the opposite-more or less obscure titles by relatively minor writers.” I tapped the copy of The Talking Clock. “I looked this one up on the Internet. In fine condition, without an author inscription, it’s worth a maximum of two hundred dollars. The others here by the same writer can’t be worth any more. I don’t know about the other five, but I’d be surprised if their value is even a thousand dollars combined.”
Davis said, “Same purpose as the spatter rows. Protecting his valuables.”
“Right. He figured I wouldn’t notice and that no one on the investigating team would be enough of a bibliophile to tell the difference.”
“That makes two marks against Mr. Pollexfen,” Yin said.
Number three coming up: the eight stolen rarities.
Except that they hadn’t been stolen at all. They were right here in this room and had been all along.
It took the three of us more than an hour to find all of them. I’d told the inspectors what to look for and it was
Yin who made the initial discovery, the inscribed first edition of Ellery Queen’s The Roman Hat Mystery. I found the Doyle, Hammett’s The Maltese Falcon, and Christie’s The Murder of Roger Ackroyd; Davis the other Hammett and Chandler’s The Big Sleep; and Yin, Rex Stout’s Fer-de-Lance and the Cain.
They were scattered throughout the collection, among the A ’s, the E ’s, the G ’s, the R ’s, the T ’s, the V ’s, the W ’s. Mostly on the higher shelves, so they’d be even less easy to spot. Not that there’d been much chance I or anybody else, even a fellow bibliophile, would have found them by accident or on a cursory inspection; you had to know what you were looking for, and you had to examine nearly all of the thousands of books in the library.
Such a simple trick-a neat little variation on Poe’s “Purloined Letter.” All Pollexfen had done was take off the original dust jackets, wrap the books in different jackets of the exact same size from titles by lesser authors, and set them back on the shelves with the lesser authors’ other books. The Maltese Falcon, for instance, was hidden inside the jacket for The Fires at Fitch’s Folly by Kenneth Whipple. After all eight were hidden, it was easy for Pollexfen to slip the rare dust jackets out of the library in a briefcase and hide them in a safe place. The books by Whipple and the others he’d used were right there on his desk in plain sight-unjacketed copies mixed in with jacketed ones that I’d noticed on my first visit and assumed were new acquisitions. To complete the illusion of theft, Pollexfen had left gaps in the shelves where the “missing” valuables had originally stood.
“Three marks against him,” Yin said when we had all eight rarities. “You’ve been right on everything so far.”
Davis said, “Let’s go see if he’s right about the rest of it.”
Under the watchful eye of the patrolman, Pollexfen was stumping around the living room with the tip of his cane making hard, angry noises on the rug-covered tiles. He stopped when he saw the three of us come in, started to say something that didn’t get out of his throat. It was the eight books I was carrying, spines outward, that checked him. His brows and his mouth pulled down into a bunched grimace.
“What have you got there?” he demanded. “How dare you remove books from my library without my permission?”
I said, “You should be glad to see these. Familiar even from where you’re standing, aren’t they?”
He came stumping toward me. “Give me those!”
I said, “No, you don’t,” and Davis stepped between Pollexfen and me to stop his advance. “They’re evidence now.”
“Evidence-bah! Where are the dust wrappers?”
“Wherever you hid them.”
He waved that away. “The books-where did you find them?”
“Same answer. Where you hid them. Inside jackets by other authors, filed under those authors’ names on the shelves.”
Another dismissive wave. Brazen it out, that was his style. Contemptuously spin and deny and manipulate to the end. He’d’ve been right at home in the nation’s capital. “Is that what Jeremy did? Hid them right under my nose until he could find a way to remove them later on?”
“Your scheme, not his. One of several.”
“Nonsense.”
“Fact. Here’s another: the eight books on the couch Cullrane was supposed to’ve gathered before he was shot. There’s not a highly prized first edition among them.”
“No? I told you he didn’t know books, didn’t I?”
“Then how did he happen to pick eight of the most valuable the first time around? Blind luck? No, you chose the second batch because you didn’t want to risk damage to expensive books. The same reason you replaced expensive ones with inexpensive ones on the shelves alongside the fireplace.”
He glared at me; there was hate in his eyes now, black as midnight. “I did no such thing. If books were moved around in there, Jeremy did it. Or Angelina.”
“They’d have no reason to. Only you.”
“Blatantly false accusations. You can’t prove any of them.”
“Except for felony insurance fraud,” I said. “All the police need to prove that is the missing dust jackets. You wouldn’t risk damage to the valuable ones, so they have to be some place secure. Your safe deposit box-that’s a good bet.”
A muscle twitched under his right eye. I’d made the right guess.