Дэвид Балдаччи - The Collectors

“You’re fortunate indeed, Jewell,” Caleb said. “It just came back from the conservation department. It needed some TLC.” He retrieved the book, chatted with her for a few minutes over the untimely death of Jonathan DeHaven and then returned to his desk. He watched for a few moments as the elderly woman slowly put on her thick glasses and looked through the old volume, copying down notes on a few pieces of paper she’d brought with her. For obvious reasons only pencils and loose-leaf paper were allowed in here, and patrons had to allow their bags to be checked before they left the room.

As the door of the reading room opened, Caleb glanced over at the woman entering. She was from the administrative department. He rose to greet her.

“Hi, Caleb, I’ve got a note here for you from Kevin.”

Kevin Philips was the acting director, having taken DeHaven’s place after his death.

“Kevin? Why didn’t he just call or e-mail?”

“I think he tried, but either the line was busy or you didn’t answer. And for some reason he didn’t want to e-mail.”

“Well, I have been pretty busy today.”

“I think it’s fairly urgent.” She handed him the envelope and left. Caleb carried it back to his desk and promptly tripped over the bent-up edge of his chair mat, knocked his glasses off his desk and then accidentally stepped on them, crunching the lenses.

“Oh, good grief, how clumsy can I get.” He looked down at the envelope as he picked up his destroyed spectacles. Well, he couldn’t read it now. Without his glasses he couldn’t read a damn thing. And it was urgent, the woman had said.

“You’ve tripped over that mat several times before, Caleb,” Jewell reminded him helpfully.

“Thanks for the observation,” he said between clenched teeth. He suddenly looked over at her. “Jewell, can I borrow your glasses for a minute so I can read this note?”

“I’m as blind as a bat. They may not work for you.”

“Don’t worry; I’m as blind as a bat too, at least when it comes to reading.”

“Why don’t I just read the note for you?”

“Um, no. I mean, it might be, you know.”

She clapped her hands together and whispered, “You mean it might be classified? How thrilling.”

He glanced down at the note as Jewell handed him her glasses. He put them on, sat at his desk and read through it. Kevin Philips was asking Caleb to come right away to the division’s administrative offices located on a secure floor of the building. He’d never been summoned to the admin offices before, at least not in this way. He slowly folded the note up and put it in his pocket.

“Thanks, Jewell, I think you and I have the same prescription, they worked fine.” He handed the glasses back to her, steeled himself and headed off.

In the administrative office he found Kevin Philips sitting with a man in a dark suit. The man was introduced to Caleb as Jonathan DeHaven’s attorney.

“Under the term of Mr. DeHaven’s will you’ve been appointed the literary executor of his book collection, Mr. Shaw,” the attorney said, pulling out a piece of paper and handing it to Caleb. He also gave him two keys and a slip of paper.

“The large key is to Mr. DeHaven’s home. The smaller key is to the vault at his home where the books are kept. The first number on the paper is the pass code to the alarm system at Mr. DeHaven’s house. The second number is the combination to the vault. It’s protected by both key and combo locks.”

Caleb looked dumbly at the articles he’d been handed. “His literary executor?”

Philips spoke up. “Yes, Caleb. As I understand it, you helped him acquire some volumes for his collection.”

“Yes, I did,” Caleb acknowledged. “He had enough money and informed taste to build a very good collection.”

“Well, he apparently thought a lot of your assistance,” the attorney said. “Under the terms of the will you are to be given full and unfettered access to his book collection. Your instructions are to properly inventory the collection, have it appraised, carve it up as you see fit and sell it, with the proceeds going to several charities identified in the will.”

“He wanted me to dispose of his books? What about his family?”

“My firm has represented the DeHaven family for many years. He has no living relatives,” the attorney answered. “I remember one of the retired partners telling me that he was married once, years ago. Apparently, it didn’t last long.” He paused, seeming to search his memory. “Annulled actually, I think he said. It was before my time with the firm. Anyway, there were no children, so no one to make a claim. You’re to be paid a percentage of the sales price of the collection.”

Philips added, “That might come to a fair amount of money.”

“I’d do it for free,” Caleb said quickly.

The attorney chuckled. “I’ll just pretend I didn’t hear that. It might be more work than you think. So you accept the commission?”

Caleb hesitated and then said, “Yes, I’ll do it. For Jonathan.”

“Good. Sign right here to acknowledge your acceptance and receipt of the keys and codes.” He slid a one-page document toward Caleb, which he signed with a little difficulty, not having his glasses.

The attorney ended by saying, “Well, it’s all there waiting for you.”

Caleb returned to his office and stared down at the keys. A few minutes later he made up his mind. He called Milton, Reuben and then Stone. He didn’t want to go to Jonathan’s house alone, he told them. They all agreed to accompany him that night.

That evening Reuben and Stone drove to DeHaven’s house on the Indian motorcycle, the tall Stone crammed into the sidecar. Caleb and Milton pulled up right behind them in Caleb’s ancient and sagging pewter-gray Chevy Nova with a finicky tailpipe. Caleb was wearing his backup pair of glasses; he assumed he’d be reading a lot tonight.

“Nice digs,” Reuben said as he tugged off his helmet and goggles and looked at the massive house. “Pretty ritzy for a government salary.”

“Jonathan came from money,” Caleb answered.

“Must be nice,” Reuben said. “All I ever came from was trouble. And that’s also where I always seem to be headed with you mates.”

Caleb unlocked the front door, turned off the alarm system, and they all stepped inside. He said, “I’ve been in the vault before. We can take the elevator down to the basement level.”

“Elevator!” Milton exclaimed. “I don’t like elevators.”

“Then you can walk down the stairs,” Caleb advised, pointing to the left. “They’re over there.”

Reuben looked around at the antique furniture, tasteful artwork on the walls and sculptures in classically styled presentation niches. He rubbed the toe of his boot on the beautiful Oriental rug in the living room. “Do they need a house sitter until everything’s settled?”

Caleb said, “That would be a no.”

They rode the elevator down and met Milton in a small anteroom.

The vault door was a monster, two-foot-thick steel with a computerized keypad and a slit for the special security key. The key and combo had to be inputted at the same time, Caleb told them. “Jonathan let me go in the vault with him on several occasions.”

The door slid open on silent powered hinges, and they went inside. The space was about ten feet wide, nine feet high, and looked to be about thirty feet long. As soon as they walked in the vault, specialized low lighting came on, enabling them to see reasonably well.

“It’s fire- and bombproof. And it’s also temperature-and-humidity-controlled,” Caleb explained. “That’s a must with rare books, particularly in basements, where those levels can fluctuate drastically.”