Lawrence Block - The Burglar in the Library

He came back and carried the books to the counter. “I thought about it,” he said, “and it struck me that a complete set would cost a good deal more.”

“No question.”

“And if I ever locate the missing volume, I can probably pick it up for a couple of bucks, and then I’d be way ahead of the game.”

“You would indeed.”

“So I’ll have something to look for, and I’ll enjoy that. And if I never complete the set, well, who cares? They’ll look fine on the shelf the way they are, and as far as reading them is concerned, hey, who am I kidding? I had to read Moll Flanders in college, and I read the Cliff’s Notes instead. Aside from the Classic Comic of Robinson Crusoe, that’s as far as I ever got with Defoe.” He patted the stack of books. “I intend to have a go at these,” he said, “but I’ll wait until I’ve read all seven volumes before I start pissing and moaning because the eighth volume is missing.”

So I bagged the books and took his money, feeling for all the world like virtue rewarded, and a little later the door opened again, and a familiar voice said, “Raymond Chandler.” And I looked up and it was Carolyn.

“The book,” she said. “The reason we went to Cuttleford House in the first place.”

“ The Big Sleep. ”

“Right. We saw it on the shelf, and it was still there after Jonathan Rathburn was murdered, and then a little later it was missing. What happened to it?”

“I took it.”

“You took it?”

“For safekeeping,” I said. “And so I’d have something to read.”

“Something to read?”

“In Rathburn’s room. I knew I was going to hole up there, and I didn’t know what I’d find on the bookshelves, so I stowed The Big Sleep in the top drawer of his dresser. It’s a good thing I brought it, too. The only books in there were Victorian romance novels by women with hyphens in their names.”

“And you actually read the book?”

“What’s so remarkable about that? Chandler ’s still a good read.”

“I guess it wasn’t the Hammett copy, huh?”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Well, you wouldn’t actually read it if it was, would you? A book worth so much money?”

I opened a drawer, withdrew a book, opened the cover. “Nowadays,” I said, “most authors use the title page for a simple signature, or the half-title page for a full inscription. But Chandler didn’t do this sort of thing often enough to care about the proper form. Here’s what he wrote on the flyleaf: ‘To Dashiell Hammett, who put homicide in the mean streets where it belongs. I trust you’ll give this little volume a place on the shelf next to your own. With appreciation and friendship, Raymond Chandler.’”

“Wow! Talk about literary history. Can I see, Bern? That’s what it says, all right. But what’s this?”

“Can you make it out?”

“It’s a real scrawl, isn’t it? Did Chandler write this, too? It doesn’t look like his handwriting.”

“It’s not.”

“‘What a pretentious bore. Let him take his book and shove it up his prissy hero’s ass. Come to think of it, they’d probably both enjoy it.’ It’s not signed, Bern.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Don’t tell me, Bern. Is it…”

“It’s Hammett’s handwriting,” I said. “More of a scrawl than usual, but that’s how he wrote when he was drunk, and he must have been pretty far gone to write something like that. He certainly didn’t like the book enough to take it home with him, and I guess somebody stuck it on a shelf.”

“Raymond Chandler’s first book,” she said, “in nice condition, with an intact dust jacket. Inscribed by the author to Dashiell Hammett, and counter-inscribed by Hammett. And what an inscription!”

“It’s something, all right.”

“I guess it must be the ultimate association copy in American literature.”

“Well, if you found a copy of Tamerlane inscribed by Poe to the young Abraham Lincoln, it’d probably put this volume in the shade. Barring that, I guess it’s way up there.”

“What’s it worth, Bern?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “A fortune, but how big a fortune? I couldn’t even guess. You’d need to hold an auction to answer the question. It would depend on who showed up and just how badly they wanted it.”

“Wow.”

“But it doesn’t matter,” I said. “I can’t sell it.”

She stared at me.

“Lots of things didn’t come to light up at Cuttleford House,” I said. “We never did find out what became of the real Mr. Pettisham, or what Rathburn and Wolpert were hoping to get from him. And I kept Lettice’s secret, and there were probably other people keeping other secrets. But one thing that did come out was my two occupations. Millicent Savage had already told everybody that I was a burglar-”

“Because you’d made the mistake of telling her.”

“Well, yes. But now Ray told them, too, and they had to believe it. Besides, that explained how I’d been able to get into various rooms and unearth various facts. But it also came out that I was a bookseller.”

“So?”

“So after the dust had settled and before you and I could head for home, Nigel Eglantine took me aside. Ever since they bought the place he’d known they ought to do something about the books. He’d hesitated approaching a dealer because he didn’t know who would prove trustworthy. But he could tell I was an honest chap-”

“Hadn’t he just learned you were a burglar?”

“I guess he figured I must be an honest burglar. Anyway, he wanted to know what I’d charge to go through the entire library, pull the books that were worth selling and the junk that ought to be disposed of, and arrange the remainder into some semblance of order. I told him I’d spotted a fair number of collectible books on his shelves, and that I’d broker them for a split of the net receipts. And while I was at it I’d clear out the obsolete travel guides and world almanacs, the Reader’s Digest condensed books, the theme cookbooks from the Junior League of Chillicothe, Ohio. All the junk you can’t unload at a yard sale. When I was done he’d have a nice piece of change, an orderly library, and a lot less clutter.”

“And you’d have a few days in the country and a fair return on your time.”

“It’ll take more than a few days,” I said. “I’ll have to close the store for at least a week, and probably two. But I’ll do it in August, when it’ll be so hot here in town I’ll be able to talk myself into going to the country. And yes, I’ll be well paid for my time. He’s got a lot of books there, and some of them’ll bring decent money.”

She frowned, thinking it through. “But what about The Big Sleep? He never knew it was there, and it’s not there anymore. Can’t you just consign it at Christie’s or Sotheby’s without saying where it came from?”

I shook my head. “With something like this,” I said, “provenance is everything. What really authenticates the handwriting is the passage from Lester Harding Ross’s memoir that indicates the meeting of the two men took place, and that there was a book signed and presented. If I want to get top dollar for the book, I have to be able to say where it came from. Even if I don’t say a word, anyone who walks the cat back is going to wind up at Cuttleford House, and once the book is connected to Cuttleford House I’m on the spot.”

Raffles put his forepaws out in front of him and stretched, humping his back to show what he thought of the prospect of being walked back to Cuttleford House.

“So when you go there in August you take it along in your suitcase,” Carolyn said, “and you discover it there. You’d have to split the money with Nigel and Cissie, but your share still would be a decent sum, wouldn’t it?”