Bill Pronzini: Schemers

It was like walking into an exclusive bookshop, the kind that caters to well-heeled customers. Or a special exhibit in a library or museum. The room seemed to take up most of the back half of the house. It was thickly carpeted in some light blue weave; there were two overstuffed chairs with side tables, two floor lamps, an oak library table, a small desk, a gas-log fireplace with what looked to be an antique double-barreled shotgun mounted above it, and two sets of windows with heavy drapes in the back wall. The rest of it was books. Floor to ceiling on lacquered mahogany shelves. In stacks on the tables and here and there on the carpet. The upper shelves were reachable by one of those rolling library ladders strung on a brass rail that encircled the room.

Most of the volumes had bright dust jackets in Mylar protectors, the rest colorful bindings. That was my second impression of Pollexfen’s library: color, much of it primary color. You were surrounded by it and the effect, enhanced by indirect ceiling light glinting off the Mylar, was almost dazzling.

Pollexfen was watching me and my reaction pleased him. He said, “Didn’t I tell you, you might be overwhelmed?”

“You did and I am. Very impressive.”

“Upwards of fifteen thousand volumes, catalogued and in alphabetical order. My primary interest is detective fiction of the last half of the nineteenth century and the first half of the twentieth. There is also a fair representation of post-1950 authors and titles, to the present day.”

“All different types, I take it.”

“Oh, yes. Sherlockiana. Whodunits, whydunits, howdunits. Hardboiled, police procedurals, spy novels, comic mysteries, category and mainstream thrillers-a sampling of every subgenre. Many are signed and inscribed. Six of those that were stolen are of that rarity.”

“ The Maltese Falcon, Red Harvest, The Big Sleep, Fer-de-Lance, The Postman Always Rings Twice, and The Roman Hat Mystery.”

“Correct. Very good.”

He led me to one section of shelves, pointed to a gap in the row of Hammett titles where the missing books had rested. “The Falcon is the most valuable because it was inscribed to a fellow Black Mask writer and mystery novelist, George Harmon Coxe. I’m sure you know his name.”

I admitted that I’d read quite a few of Coxe’s Flashgun Casey pulp stories.

“It’s one of only two such association copies known,” Pollexfen said, “the other being inscribed to another Black Mask writer, Frederick Nebel. I paid sixty thousand dollars for it twenty years ago. It’s worth three to four times that amount in today’s collecting market. One-of-a-kind volume.”

Some of his collector’s zeal gave way to melancholy as he pointed out the empty places belonging to the Doyle, Christie, Stout, Cain, and Queen titles. “ Red Harvest, Roman Hat, Fer-de-Lance, and Postman were inscribed to private individuals, so they’re not quite as valuable as the Falcon. Nor are the Doyle and Christie. But all are high five-figure items and virtually irreplaceable because of their rarity, the inscriptions and signatures, and the fact that they were all in near fine to fine condition. The 1892 Newnes first edition of The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes is the best copy any dealer or collector of my acquaintance has ever seen. As a collector yourself you can imagine how upset I was to find them missing.”

“According to the insurance company report, you have no idea how they were taken or who took them.”

His mouth quirked wryly. “A man I know suggested the Borrowers.”

“The what?”

“Characters in a series of fantasy novels by Mary Norton. A secret race of tiny folk, descendants of the folkloric Little People, who ‘borrow’ things from humans. When something goes missing from inside your home and you can’t figure out what happened to it, blame the Borrowers. That was Julian’s smart-ass explanation.”

“Who would Julian be?”

“Julian Iverson. A fellow bibliophile with a sometimes inappropriate sense of humor.”

“You told him about the theft?”

“I needed a sympathetic ear, and there’s none in this household.”

“So you don’t consider him a possible suspect?”

“Julian? My God, no. He’s a collector, yes, but his tastes in literature differ greatly from mine. Fine bindings and children’s books are his specialty. He has no interest in or knowledge of detective fiction.”

“Would he know how valuable the missing titles are?”

“He would, but he’s an old friend.”

“Wealthy? Half a million dollars is a lot of money.”

“His net worth is around four million,” Pollexfen said. “Believe me, he’s not the person responsible for this outrage.”

“Have you told anyone else about the theft? Anyone outside this house?”

“Great Western, of course. My attorneys. A dozen or so other collectors and high-end booksellers-to alert them to be on the lookout for the missing titles. If anyone tries to sell the Falcon or any of the others to a reputable source, I’ll be notified immediately.”

“The operative word being ‘reputable.’ There must be collectors and sellers who’d buy prized items no questions asked.”

“Too damn many,” Pollexfen said. “That’s my greatest fear. That one or all of these treasures will simply disappear into private hands.”

“You mentioned your brother-in-law. Why do you think he might be responsible?”

“He has the scruples of a Washington lobbyist. Always in need of money for his schemes and his women and doesn’t care how he gets it.”

“What does he do for a living?”

Pollexfen laughed cynically. “He calls himself a promoter, but what he is, is a leech and a gigolo. He talks people into financing his get-rich-quick schemes. No doubt his various lady friends do the same behind their husbands’ backs.”

“But he doesn’t get any from you.”

“There was a time when I was foolish enough to fall for his line, but that time is long past.”

“The two of you don’t get along, then.”

“Hardly. Jeremy can’t stand me any more than I can stand him. He would steal the gold fillings out of my teeth if he thought he could get away with it.”

“If that’s the way it is, why do you let him live here?”

“Oh, I’ve come close to throwing him out half a dozen times. I would have, long ago, if it weren’t for my wife.”

“You mean she asked you not to?”

“On the contrary. She doesn’t get along with Jeremy either.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s a complicated situation. You might say we feed off our dislike for one another.”

That didn’t sound too healthy to me. More to it than that? None of my business unless it had a bearing on my investigation, and too soon to press Pollexfen about it in any case.

I asked him, “Did you confront your brother-in-law about the theft?”

“If you mean did I accuse him, no, not without evidence. I did suggest that if I found out he was guilty, he would pay dearly for it. He laughed in my face.”

“Does he know anything about rare books?”

“Very little, so far as I’m aware.”

“Then how would he know which ones to steal? And where to sell them?”

“It wouldn’t be difficult to find out. The Internet, booksellers, other collectors-the information is available to anyone who cares to do a little research.”

I went across to the windows, drew the drapes aside on both. Barred. Sashes locked down tight.

“The drapes are always closed,” Pollexfen offered. “Sunlight fades dust jacket backstrips. Even natural light will cause fading to some colors.”

“I know. I have a similar arrangement in my home.”

“Ah, yes. Pulp magazine spines fade, too, of course.”