Bill Pronzini: Schemers

“They are. Most of the things in here belonged to Damon’s father. We brought the trunk over here after he died.”

The father again. Runyon asked, “Can you tell if anything’s been taken?”

“Not for sure. But… one or two of the albums, maybe… I seem to remember there were more than five. The letters and other stuff… I don’t know. Damon should be able to tell you. Or Cliff.”

“Do me a favor? Call Cliff tonight and ask him to come over, take a look, and then let me know what’s missing.”

“Yes, I’ll do that.”

“These letters. What type are they?”

“Oh, you know. Personal correspondence. From Lloyd to his wife when they were courting and when he was in the army in Korea. From the boys when they were away at camp.”

“Same with the photos?”

“Yes. Snapshots and family portraits. Nothing… provocative. Nothing that would interest anyone outside the family. Why would the stalker steal letters and old photos? He couldn’t have been looking for them. How could he know about the trunk? We’ve never told anybody we keep it in here.”

Runyon was silent. He had no answers for her. Not even any guesses, at this point.

I n the car he used his cell to call the agency. Tamara answered and he reported what he’d learned so far. She had nothing of interest to give him on the Henderson brothers and their families. He suggested that she shift the focus to Lloyd Henderson and his ex-wife, see if that avenue led anywhere.

“I’m on it,” she said. “You through for the day up there?”

If he’d picked up any hot leads, even a warm lead, he’d have said no, he’d stay on it a while longer. If this had been a few months ago, before he met Bryn Darby and what lay ahead of him tonight was nothing more than four cold apartment walls, he’d have said the same thing. Push ahead, try to brace strangers in their homes, work as late as possible. But as things stood now…

“I’m through,” he said. Until tomorrow morning, early.

Tonight there was Bryn.

The pile owned by Gregory Pollexfen was typical of the homes in Sea Cliff, one of the city’s wealthiest residential neighborhoods: imposing, ornately stylish, and probably worth upwards of five million even in the current real estate market. The architecture had a Spanish influence without actually being Spanish-a broad mix of beige stucco, red tile, wrought iron, and polished woodwork, with a variety of small trees and plants in huge terra-cotta urns on a balustraded front terrace, and gardens on both sides. Some ultraelitist types might not consider it among the premier houses along Sea Cliff Avenue; it loomed on the low inland hillside, rather than perched on the cliffs above China Beach on the seaward side. But to my jaundiced eye, it would do in a pinch.

A middle-aged, stoic-featured woman who was probably the housekeeper, though she wasn’t outfitted that way, let me in and deposited me in a front parlor, all without uttering a word. I had just enough time to note that the undraped, floor-to-ceiling windows provided a sweeping view of the Golden Gate Bridge and the Marin headlands, and that the furnishings were expensive modern and the pictures on the walls all hunting and sporting scenes, before Pollexfen himself stumped in.

Stumped is the right word. He wasn’t much older than me, but he moved in a slow, stiff, old man’s way with the aid of a blackthorn cane, as if his joints pained him at every step. Arthritis, probably.

As we got the introductions out of the way, we sized each other up. He seemed to like what he saw; the faint smile he’d come in with widened a little and his eyes, steady on mine, reflected approval. As for me, I reserved judgment. You could see that once he’d been a powerful man, likely an athlete in his youth: an inch or so over six feet, thick-trunked and broad through the shoulders. Time and the afflictions that had invaded his body had taken their toll, as they do on all of us; his color wasn’t good and his breathing had a little whistling catch in it. Still, he projected an aura of intensity and inner strength. His body may not be holding up well to the passing years, but I sensed that his mind was as sharp as ever. Those gray eyes radiated intelligence. Final analysis, based on first impression: a man who would make a staunch friend and a formidable enemy.

“I expect you’d like to see the library first thing,” he said.

“Yes, I would.”

“Follow me, then.” The smile had faded; he was all business now. “I was pleased to hear that we share the collecting gene. Fascinating hobby, isn’t it, the acquisition of old books and magazines.”

“And expensive, these days.”

“Oh, yes. But I’m fortunate-the price of any given book or item of ephemera is not an issue with me. It’s the rarity and availability. Certain titles have eluded me for years. They simply aren’t available, no matter what one is willing to pay for them. Very frustrating. But then, the hunt is everything. If one could acquire everything one wanted, the game would lose some of its pleasure and excitement, don’t you think?”

“I do, yes.”

“Do you have much knowledge of antiquarian detective fiction?”

“A limited amount.”

“But you do have an appreciation.”

“If you’re asking if I’ll appreciate your collection, I’m sure I will.”

“You may just be overwhelmed by it. My collection is one of the finest in the world.” He said that without braggadocio. Just a proud statement of fact.

We went down a wide, tile-floored hallway, the ferrule tip of Pollexfen’s cane making little hollow clicking sounds. Tile-inlaid archways opened at intervals into rooms on both sides. As we approached one of these near the end, I could hear another sound-the clicking of computer keys. Pollexfen turned in there, stepping aside to let me follow. Small office, a brunette in her mid-thirties ensconsed behind a functional gray metal desk. Attractive, but severe-looking, as if she’d never found much to smile about in her life or work.

Pollexfen introduced us. Brenda Koehler, his secretary “and general factotum.” She said through an impersonal smile, “I hope you’re able to find out what happened to the missing books. The theft has everyone baffled.” The words seemed impersonal, too, as if she didn’t really care one way or the other.

“He has excellent credentials,” Pollexfen said to her. “If anyone can get to the bottom of this, I’m sure he’s the man.”

She nodded. “I have the letter to Mr. Phillips ready for you to sign, Mr. Pollexfen.”

“It can wait.” He looked at me, said, “Business matter,” and led me out into the hallway again. “Brenda’s been with me for years. Handles my personal and household affairs. Indispensable.”

“Which means she’s also trustworthy.”

“Absolutely. Even if she knew anything about antiquarian books, which she doesn’t, she isn’t permitted in the library alone.”

“I understand none of the other members of your household is a bibliophile.”

“That’s right. Mrs. Jordan, the housekeeper, has been with me for years. Not even a reader and not overly bright, but above reproach. My wife’s primary interest is in spending money on herself. My brother-in-law’s hobby is making grandiose schemes and cheap women. If anyone in this house devised a way to steal those books, it’s Jeremy Cullrane.”

“Why do you say that?”

“We’ll discuss it after you’ve seen the library.”

At the end of the corridor was a set of double doors of some polished wood that might have been Philippine mahogany. Two locks, both deadbolts. Pollexfen used a key attached to a heavy silver ring to release the locks-the same key, I noticed, for both-and then reached inside to switch on the lights.