Bill Pronzini: Schemers

We sat down and did some mutual measuring across his big blond-wood desk. He looked the same except for a little less hair and a little more gray at the temples of what was left-a roly-poly little bastard with a cherub’s face, a pit bull’s heart, and a borderline sadist’s sense of humor. The same glass bowl of peppermints was on the desktop; he had an addiction to the things.

“So,” he said, lacing his hands across his paunch. “Been quite a while.”

“Yeah. Quite a while.”

“Lots of happenings in your life since the last time we saw each other. Married, adopted a kid, took in a partner and expanded operations.”

“Been keeping tabs, have you?”

“Nah. But word gets around.”

“Then you know I’m semiretired now.”

He chuckled. “Sure you are. Just like me. What’d you think of Margot?”

“Your assistant? Seems competent.”

“Bet your ass.” Wink, wink. “In the office and in bed, both.”

I didn’t say anything.

“No lie,” he said. “I’m laying her.”

Twice today, people telling me about their sex lives. I didn’t mind it so much from Tamara. From Rivera, it set my teeth on edge. He might or might not have been BS’ing; he’d always had a certain amount of success with women, the type who need somebody to mother. He’d once told me he’d slept with over three hundred women in his life. Even if that were true, which I doubted, he’d had enough conquests to give legitimacy to his bragging. And brag he did, often, to anybody who’d listen, with no consideration whatsoever for the women’s feelings or reputations.

He winked at me again and popped a peppermint, and I thought: You little prick, how could I have ever considered you a friend?

“You didn’t crawl out of the woodwork after five years to tell me about you and your assistant,” I said. “What is it you want, Barney?”

He wasn’t offended. You couldn’t offend him without the aid of a needle twice as big as the one he used. “A job I figured you’d be interested in,” he said. “Soon as the claim came across my desk last Friday, I thought of you. Right up your alley.”

“Why is that?”

“Has to do with books, for one thing. Rare books.”

“I don’t know anything about rare books.”

“Collect them, don’t you? Mystery books?”

“No, I collect pulp magazines. Big difference.”

“Valuable, though, right? Old and valuable.”

“I suppose so. In the collector’s market.”

“The policyholder in this case collects vintage firstedition mysteries dating back more than a hundred years. Owns some fifteen thousand volumes, appraised at more than seven million and insured for that amount.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope. His collection’s one of the three or four largest in the world.”

“He must be a multimillionaire.”

“Inherited money. His old man was the inventor of some gadget used in early jet planes. He’s been with Great Western for twenty years, one of our biggest clients-personal property, accident, three life policies. Never missed a payment on any of them, never filed a claim before this one.”

“And this one is for?”

“Eight books allegedly stolen from his library a week ago,” Rivera said, “worth a cool half a million bucks.”

“Eight books, half a million?”

Rivera used his computer to consult the case file. “ The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, Arthur Conan Doyle, British first edition. The Maltese Falcon and Red Harvest, Dashiell Hammett. The Big Sleep, Raymond Chandler. The Postman Always Rings Twice, James M. Cain. The Roman Hat Mystery, Ellery Queen. The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, Agatha Christie, British. Fer-de-Lance, Rex Stout. All inscribed and signed copies in dust jackets except the Doyle and Christie.”

“My God,” I said.

“Impressed, huh?”

“From what I know, those are not only rare first editions but virtually impossible to replace even for a multimillionaire.”

“That’s what Pollexfen says. Gregory Pollexfen. Name mean anything to you?”

Poll- ex — fen. Odd name. “No. Where does he live?”

“Right here in the city. Sea Cliff.”

“He must be beside himself. I would be if some of my rarest pulps had been swiped.”

“If the books were swiped,” Rivera said.

“If?”

“There’s some question about that. That’s how come you’re here.”

“Why doubt him, if he’s been such a good risk for twenty years?”

“The books were taken from his locked library, he says. Double locks on all the windows and the only door, a special security alarm on his house.”

“Who else has access to the library? Wife, children?”

“Two other people live in the house-his wife, her brother. A secretary and a housekeeper come in weekdays. But according to Pollexfen, none of them is allowed in the library except in his presence. Same with fellow bibliophiles and any other visitors.”

“And I suppose he’s the only one with a key to the library.”

“According to him.”

“Keys can get stolen or misplaced or copied.”

“He says that couldn’t have happened.”

“So if the books really were stolen…”

“Right, the only person who could’ve done it was Pollexfen. Which he vehemently denies, of course.”

“If he’s lying, why make up a story like that? There’re dozens of more plausible explanations.”

“The circumstances, maybe,” Rivera said. “Library locked up and nobody else with access.”

“That doesn’t quite fly. He could’ve convinced the rest of the household to lie about the security precautions.”

“Unless he figured they wouldn’t go along or he couldn’t trust them.”

I said, “Only one reason I can think of why a passionate collector would steal from himself and then file an insurance claim.”

“Sure. He needs the half mil. Except that Pollexfen doesn’t need it. He’s as financially solid as a rock.”

“But you still don’t want to give him the benefit of the doubt.”

“With a half mil payoff at stake? Hell no. Not without a full investigation. Which he says he welcomes. Send out the best investigator we’ve got, he said. But I thought of you anyway.”

I let that pass. “Did Pollexfen file a police report?”

“Right away. They haven’t found zip. Incompetents, Pollexfen called them. He’s probably right on that score. What do cops know about rare books?”

“He told you the books were stolen a week ago, but his claim came in last Friday. Why the delay?”

“Waiting to see what the police turned up.”

“All right. Assuming the books were stolen, does Pollexfen have any idea who did it or how it was done?”

“Nope. It’s impossible, he says, and yet it happened.” Another peppermint disappeared into the Rivera maw. “Hey, I just had a thought. Maybe it was the Invisible Man.”

I ignored that, too.

“Locked room, impossible crime-you got lucky with that kind of thing a couple of times, as I recall. That’s the second reason you’re here. If somebody besides Pollexfen did manage to five-finger eight valuable books from a locked library, you’re the only genius I know who can figure out how it was done.”

Genius. Sure. The needle again.

He sat there sucking on the peppermint, grinning at me-a grin with an edge of malice. The smug bastard had me hooked and he knew it. And he didn’t waste any time saying so.

“Irresistible, eh?”

“Depends. What’re you offering for the job?”

“Usual rates.”

“Ours have gone up in five years. We don’t come cheap anymore.”

He shrugged. “I don’t mind inflation.”

“You’re one of the few who doesn’t.”

“Tell you what, old buddy. If you find those missing books and save us the half mil, I’ll authorize a bonus for you.”