Ian Sansom - The Case of the Missing Books

'Er…'

'Cost me a fortune.'

'The dog?'

'No, the divorces. Had to get rid of a lot of the ormolu. My first wife, she was a terrible one for the Persian bowls, and the African tribal art: influence of Picasso, and the other fella. What was he called? God…Weird little man. Obsessed with sex? Beard.'

'Erm.'

'Yes, yes, anyway, that was him. Used to collect Elizabethan crewel-work myself. Had to sell it all off, mind. The Art Deco I'm trying to hang on to: I've got a bit of a thing about the Art Deco. Had to let some of it go, of course. Like losing a child.'

'Oh dear.'

'To Bullimore actually. I thought you were with him.'

'No.'

Pearce Pyper dropped his voice. 'Dreadful man. Bumptious, to be honest, if you know what I mean. Buys the stuff, carts it off to his shop, or down south, wherever, I don't know. Bit of a shit, actually.'

'Oh.'

'But you know, upkeep of the house and everything. Beggars can't be choosers. Difficult keeping on top of it all.'

'I'm sure.'

'But we do our best. "Go muster thy servants; be captain thyself."'

'Right.'

'Another sherry?'

'No, I'm fine, thanks.'

'I shouldn't really, but I shall.'

Pearce poured himself another sherry and took Israel by the arm.

'Come on, let's get your books from the library. Tenax propositi and what have you.'

The library was adjacent to the drawing room, divided only by a set of heavy, ornate, satiny-white doors; thrown open, the two rooms might have once been a magnificent ballroom, but now separated they were like two halves, two varieties of exquisiteness. Leaving the densely furnished drawing room they now entered the ordered calm of the library. Simple mahogany shelves reached up high to the ceiling and at both ends of the room-which was at least forty or fifty feet long-were two beautiful desks, with carved legs showing rampant lions. Sofas and rugs and small occasional tables piled high with books were all around.

A man sat in the centre of this magnificent room, surrounded by boxes.

'Ah, Mr Bullimore, this is my young friend, Israel Armstrong.'

'How do you do?' said Israel.

'Mr Bullimore here is culling for me. Weeding, eh, Bullimore?'

P. J. Bullimore struggled to his feet. He looked uncomfortable and incongruous in the surroundings-a ruddy, stout-faced man with a huge, heaving stomach. He sported finger rings, and a chunky watch and wore the clothes of someone who looked like they'd just been practising their chip shots, and who had enjoyed a couple of gin and tonics, and who was warming up to tell you an amusing story that wouldn't be suitable for the ladies.

'Pleased to meet you,' he said, shaking Israel's hand.

The cardboard boxes all around Bullimore were packed with books and marked on the side either 'Poetry', or 'Philosophy', or 'History', or 'Religion'.

Pearce Pyper stood by the boxes.

'Now, what was it we agreed?'

P. J. Bullimore was silent.

'Mr Bullimore? Was it fifty pounds per box?'

Bullimore was looking silently ahead.

'That's pretty reasonable, isn't it, Israel? He's a librarian, you know,' Pearce said to Bullimore.

'Sounds very reasonable,' said Israel, assuming that Pearce Pyper's library might be similar in kind and in value to his own: a rainforestful of dampening paperbacks.

But then he took a book from the top of the box marked 'Poetry'.

'T. S. Eliot?' he said.

'Yes,' said Pearce. 'He was a cold fish. Friend of my first wife's. Used to send us all his books.'

'You knew Eliot?'

'Well. I wouldn't go that far. He was friendly with my sister as well. Little too friendly, actually. Bertrand Russell, he was the same.'

'But this is…'-Israel opened up the book, The Waste Land, and looked at the flyleaf-'signed by Eliot?'

'Is it? Yes. Probably.'

'Hmm.'

Israel then moved on to another box, which was marked 'Cookery'.

'The Alice B. Toklas Cook Book?'

'Ah yes. Too French for my tastes.'

Israel examined the flyleaf. 'Signed by Alice B. Toklas.'

'Yes. God, she was a handful, let me tell you. And the woman, what was the other woman…?'

'Gertrude Stein?'

'Good God, yes. Like a bloody prize-fighter. Forearms the size of my thighs.'

Israel had moved on to 'Fiction' and had taken the first book off the top of that box.

'The Great Gatsby.'

'Lovely book. Nice man. Never liked his wife. Highly strung.'

'You know, Mr Pyper-'

'No, no. Call me Pearce.'

'Pearce, some of these books are…they're priceless, you know.'

'Well, I don't know about that,' said Pearce Pyper modestly.

'I really think I should be the judge of that, Mr, what did you say your name was?' said Bullimore suspiciously.

'Armstrong.'

'Mr Armstrong. I don't know if you know much about the book trade.'

'I'm a librarian.'

'Ah. But the book trade? The trade?'

'A little.' Israel didn't mention that the little he knew about the book trade was from his experience working as a deputy store manager in the Bargain Bookstore in the Lakeside Shopping Centre in Thurrock in Essex.

'Yes. I'm sure,' said Bullimore. 'But you should really leave the valuation to us experts. Look,' he said, picking up another volume from the 'Fiction' box. 'For example. This probably looks fine to the untrained eye. But if you look closely you'll see that here there's some water damage.' He pointed to a brown fleck. 'And the covers are torn. And the binding is loose.'

'Right,' said Israel, taking the book from his hands and opening it up. 'But it's signed by James Joyce. It's a copy of Ulysses.'

'Yes, well, obviously, once I've gathered all the worthwhile items together I was going to put the higher value items aside and price them separately.'

Israel doubted that very much.

'Anyway, Mr Pearce,' said Bullimore. 'I'm just about done for the day here. I'll leave you and your young friend and perhaps call back later next week to finish off?'

'Yes, of course. Finish things off. That'd be marvellous. Let me-'

'No. It's OK. I can see myself out.'

And he left, rather quickly.

'Mr Pyper?' said Israel, once Bullimore had left the library and closed the door behind him.

'Do call me Pearce.'

'Sorry. Pearce. I don't mean to speak out of turn or anything, but if I was you I think I'd be careful of him.'

'Who?' said Pearce Pyper, finishing his sherry.

'Bullimore, Mr Pyper.'

'Do call me Pearce. Sorry, what did you say?'

'Mr Bullimore. I think you should be very careful.'

'Really?'

'Yes. Really.'

'I've been dealing with him for years now. Furniture and what have you.'

'He was offering you a pittance for those books.'

'Well, they're no good to me now.'

'Some of those books are worth thousands.'

'Well, I'll talk to Bullimore about it. I'm sure we'll come to some agreement that is amenable to all parties. But now, we mustn't forget what you came for.'

They went to a small console table beside a velvet-upholstered chaise-longue, which had a tartan rug folded upon it, beneath one of the big windows.

'Very important to support your local library,' said Pearce.

'Yes.'

'Here we are then,' he said, grandly presenting Israel with half a dozen plastic dust-jacketed paperbacks, as out of place in Pearce's library as they belonged in the mobile. 'I always keep them separate.'

Israel glanced at the titles.

'Damon Runyon?'

'Oh yes. Dashiell Hammett. Raymond Chandler. I do like the American hard-boiled. Chandler was at school with one of my cousins. Lunatic, apparently.'

'Right,' said Israel, 'well, it's good to have them back. Thank you.'

'Not at all.'

'It's a wonderful garden you have there,' said Israel, nodding towards the view of sculptures and trees outside.