Bill Pronzini - Schemers

“I take it the door and windows are the only ways in and out of this room.”

“Certainly. Were you thinking of secret panels or hidden nooks?”

“No. Asking questions, covering all the bases.”

“Thorough man. I like that.”

I went to examine the door locks. They were the kind that could be keyed from both sides, so Pollexfen could seal himself inside when he didn’t want to be disturbed. No scratches or marks on them or anywhere on the door and jamb to indicate that they might have been forced.

As I started over to the desk, light reflecting off the barrels of the mounted shotgun caught my eye. Pollexfen took my upward glance as a sign of interest in the weapon. “A beauty, isn’t it?” he said. “Nineteen twenty-six Parker GHE, twelve-gauge. Twenty-eight-inch uncut barrels, dual triggers, pistol grip stock, loads two-and-a-half-inch shells.”

I didn’t say anything. I’m not big on guns, even though-or maybe because-I own one and have had occasion to use it more than once.

“Inherited from my father,” Pollexfen said. “We used to go hunting together-birds, mostly. Angelina and I did, too, when we were first married. She’s a very good shot for a woman.”

I had no comment on that, either.

“My only other hobby, hunting,” he said. “Until a few years ago. Too old and arthritic now to tramp around the countryside.”

Another pass. The hunter gene was left out of me; I like blood sports even less than guns. I gave my attention to the desk. Computer, telephone, a stack of what appeared to be auction catalogs, a pile of unused Mylar jacket protectors. The books stacked there, some with dust wrappers, some without, were apparently new acquisitions, awaiting shelving-not that there was much room left for them on any of the shelves.

“You do all the book buying yourself?” I asked.

“All the ordering, yes. Mainly from auction catalogs, a handful of antiquarian dealers, and through trades with other collectors. I used to haunt secondhand bookshops until the Internet put so many out of business.”

“You handle the payments as well?”

“No, Brenda does that, unless a large bank transfer is necessary.”

“So she has some knowledge of the collecting market.”

“Some. But as I told you, she is completely trustworthy.”

I did some more prowling, looking at the rows of books. The shelves were all solid, the books on them loosely arranged so as to make for easy removal of any volume. I couldn’t help looking at authors and titles along the way. Many more were familiar, including several who had contributed to pulp magazines as well as written novels: Leigh Brackett. Fredric Brown. Agatha Christie. John Dickson Carr. George Harmon Coxe. Norbert Davis. Erle Stanley Gardner. Ross Macdonald. John D. MacDonald. Frederick Nebel. Ellery Queen. Dorothy Sayers. Mickey Spillane. Rex Stout. Cornell Woolrich. Complete or near complete runs, evidently, of the works of these writers and hundreds more.

I asked, “Has anyone in this household, or any visitor, ever been in the library when you weren’t here? For any reason?”

“No, never. I don’t allow it.”

“And you have the only key?”

“Yes. Which I keep in my possession at all times.”

“Even while you sleep?”

“I put the key ring on my nightstand. And I’m a light sleeper. No one could have slipped in or out of the bedroom with it.”

“While you shower or bathe, then.”

“I’m never in the shower for more than five minutes.”

“It doesn’t take long to make a wax impression of a key.”

“A possibility, I suppose,” he conceded. “But that would leave a wax residue on the key, wouldn’t it? I would have noticed.”

“Not necessarily. The house alarm-who knows the code besides you?”

“My wife, her brother, Brenda, and the housekeeper.”

“Written down anywhere?”

“No. I have it changed periodically, and I never forget anything as important as an alarm code.”

“The alarm has never been breached?”

“Never.”

“Then with all of that security and your precautions with the key, it doesn’t seem possible anyone could have gotten in here, does it?”

Pollexfen’s smile flickered back on, then off again. “The Holmesian dictum. If you eliminate the impossible, then whatever is left, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.”

“So somebody must’ve found a way to use or duplicate your key.”

“Or some other devilishly clever method. And not somebody, Jeremy Cullrane.”

“There is one other explanation.”

The smile flickered on and off again. “That I must have done it myself? Is that what you’re thinking?”

“I’m not thinking anything yet, Mr. Pollexfen.”

“I did not steal my own books,” he said. “Why would I? What conceivable reason could I have?”

“There’s the half million dollars’ insurance.”

“I don’t need half a million dollars. I have more money than I can ever spend. Check into my finances, you’ll find the absolute truth of that statement. I don’t indulge in stocks or real estate or any other kind of speculation, I don’t gamble, I don’t have any of the usual vices. I collect vintage detective fiction. That’s the one and only passion in life I have left. I’m the last person on earth who would spirit away eight of my most prized possessions, the cornerstones of a collection it has taken me forty years and quite a lot of money to assemble.”

“So it would seem.”

“I don’t care about the insurance money,” Pollexfen said. “I want my first editions back on the shelves where they belong. I wouldn’t have filed the claim at all if the police had shown any real interest in finding them and my attorney hadn’t insisted.”

“What’s your attorney’s name?”

“Paul DiSantis. Wainright and Simmons.”

I’d heard of the firm. High-powered corporate lawyers and ultrarespectable. “I’ll want to talk to your wife, your brother-in-law, and your secretary.”

“Certainly, but I suggest again, strongly, that you focus on Jeremy.”

“Neither he nor your wife is here at the present, I take it.”

“No. Jeremy spends little time under this roof, I’m happy to say, and Angelina is out indulging in one or more of her favorite activities. She should be back soon. Shopping tires her out, poor baby, and she likes to rest before going out on her evening rounds.”

“Evening rounds?”

“Parties. She loves to party. I don’t.”

“Where can I find your brother-in-law?”

“Holding court at the Bayview Club downtown, or at his current lady friend’s apartment.” The emphasis he put on the word “lady” indicated he thought she was just the opposite. “A singer named Nicole Coyne. Brenda can give you her address.”

“I’ll talk to Brenda first, then. Alone, if you don’t mind.”

“Go right ahead.” His mouth bent again at one corner. “You may have the dubious pleasure of meeting Angelina by the time you’re done.”

Dubious pleasure. Shopping always tires her out, poor baby. Out on her evening rounds. And he’d put the same emphasis on her name as he had on “lady,” as if he considered it a misnomer and Angelina anything but angelic. He didn’t seem to care for her any more than he did Jeremy Cullrane, had already removed her as beneficiary of his life insurance policy, and yet he continued to tolerate the marriage. The “we feed on our dislike for each other” statement must have included her, too.

Some household.

Brenda Koehler didn’t have much to tell me. If she knew or suspected anything, she was keeping it to herself out of loyalty or fear of losing her job. Probably the latter; the whole time we talked in her office she kept glancing at the closed door, as if she thought her employer might be lurking and listening outside. Mostly she answered my questions with monosyllables.