Дэвид Балдаччи - The Collectors

“But if all the Psalm Book s are in institutions?” Stone said.

Caleb glanced at him, a look of trepidation on his face. “I guess there’s the possibility, however rare, that there are unaccounted-for Psalm Book s out there. I mean, someone found half of the handwritten manuscript for Huckleberry Finn in her attic. And someone else turned up an original copy of the Declaration of Independence behind a picture in a frame, and then there was the discovery of some of Byron’s writings in an old book. Over hundreds of years anything’s possible.”

Though the room was cool, Caleb wiped away a bead of perspiration from his forehead. “Do you know the enormous responsibility this entails? We’re talking about a collection with a Psalm Book in it. A Psalm Book, for God’s sake!”

Stone put a calming hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I’ve never met anyone better qualified to do this than you, Caleb. And whatever we can do to help, we will.”

“Yeah,” Reuben said. “In fact, I’ve got a few bucks on me if you want to get a couple books out of the way before the real heavyweights start circling. What’ll you take for that Divine Comedy thing? I could use a few laughs.”

Milton piped in, “Reuben, none of us could even afford to buy the auction catalog they’ll print the collection in.”

“Well, that’s just great,” Reuben exclaimed in mock fury. “Now, I guess the next thing you’ll tell me is I can’t quit my crappy job at the loading dock.”

“What the hell are you people doing here!” a voice cried out.

They all turned to look at the intruders who were standing just outside the vault door. There were two burly men in the uniforms of private security, their guns pointed at the Camel Club. The man in front of the two guards was short and thin with a shock of red hair, a trim beard of matching color and a pair of active blue eyes.

“I said what are you people doing here?” the redhead repeated.

Reuben growled, “Maybe we should be asking you the same thing, buddy.”

Caleb stepped forward. “I’m Caleb Shaw with the Library of Congress, where I worked with Jonathan DeHaven. In his will he appointed me as his literary executor.” He held up the house and vault keys. “I was given permission from Jonathan’s lawyer to come here and look over the collection. My friends came along to help me.” He reached in his pocket and presented his library ID to the man, whose demeanor quickly changed.

“Of course, of course, I’m sorry,” the man said after gazing at Caleb’s ID before handing it back to him. “I just saw people entering Jonathan’s house, and the door was unlocked, and I suppose I jumped to conclusions.” He nodded to his men to put away their guns.

“We never did catch your name,” Reuben said, eyeing the man suspiciously.

Before he could answer, Stone said, “I believe we’re in the company of Cornelius Behan, CEO of Paradigm Technologies, the country’s third largest defense contractor.”

Behan smiled. “Soon to be number one if I get my way, and I usually do.”

“Well, Mr. Behan,” Caleb began.

“Call me CB, everybody does.” He took a step forward and glanced around the room. “So this is DeHaven’s book collection.”

“You knew Jonathan?” Caleb asked.

“I wouldn’t call us friends, really. I had him over for one or two holiday parties. I knew he worked at the library and that he collected books. We’d occasionally pass each other on the street and chitchat. I was very stunned to hear of his death.”

“As we all were,” Caleb added somberly.

“So you’re his literary executor, you said,” Behan noted. “What does that mean?”

“It means I’ve been given the task of cataloging and appraising the collection and then selling it.”

“Anything good in here?” Behan asked.

“Are you a collector?” Stone inquired.

“Oh, I’ve been known to collect a good many things,” he answered vaguely.

“Well, it is a very good collection. It will be put up for auction,” Caleb explained. “At least the most prominent parts of it will be.”

“Right,” Behan said absently. “Any new developments on Jonathan’s death?”

Caleb shook his head. “So far it appears to be a heart attack.”

“And he seemed so healthy. I guess that’s a good reason to give it all we’ve got every day, because tomorrow...?” He wheeled around and marched out, his men scurrying along in his wake.

As the sounds of the footsteps faded, Stone turned to Caleb. “Very considerate of him to come and check on the house of a man he occasionally chitchatted with.”

“He was his neighbor, Oliver,” Caleb pointed out. “He’s naturally concerned.”

“I didn’t like him,” Milton said. “He builds things that kill people.”

“ Lots of people,” Reuben added. “In my book old CB’s a shifty little peckerhead.”

They spent hours going over the books and other articles until Caleb had a fairly complete list. Milton inputted these onto his laptop computer.

“Now what?” Milton asked as they closed the last book.

“Ordinarily, you’d bring in an appraiser from Sotheby’s or Christie’s,” Caleb answered. “But I have someone else in mind. And in my opinion he’s the best there is in the rare book field. And I want to find out if he knew that Jonathan had the Psalm Book. ”

“Is he in New York?” Stone asked.

“No, right here in D.C. Maybe twenty minutes by car.”

“Who is it?” Reuben asked.

“Vincent Pearl.”

Stone checked his watch. “We’ll have to see him tomorrow, then. It’s already eleven o’clock.”

Caleb shook his head. “Oh, no, now is perfect. Vincent Pearl’s rare book shop is only open at night.”

As the Camel Club left DeHaven’s home, two pairs of binoculars were trained on them. One was from an upper window of a house across from DeHaven’s and another held by a man in the back of a van parked down the street that had stenciled on its side “D.C. Public Works.”

When the motorcycle and Nova drove off, the van followed.

After the vehicles had disappeared, the pair of binoculars in the upper window of the house on Good Fellow Street continued to scan the area.

As Caleb predicted, it took twenty minutes to get to Vincent Pearl’s rare book shop. There was no name on the storefront, only a sign that read “Hours 8 PM to Midnight, Monday to Saturday.” Caleb marched up to the door and rang the bell.

Reuben looked around at the stout door and barred window. “I take it he’s not into advertising.”

“Anyone serious about book collecting knows exactly where to find Vincent Pearl,” Caleb replied matter-of-factly.

“You know him well?” Stone asked.

“Oh, no. I hardly operate at the level of a Vincent Pearl. In fact, in the last ten years I’ve only met him personally twice, both times here at his shop. I’ve heard him lecture before, though. He’s quite unforgettable.”

The lighted dome of the Capitol was visible to the west. The neighborhood they were in was lined with ancient moss-covered brick and stone row houses and other dwellings that had once been a focal point of the burgeoning capital city.

“You sure he’s here?” Milton asked just as a deep voice said in a demanding tone, “Who is it?”

Milton jumped, but Caleb spoke into a small loudspeaker barely visible under a strand of twisted ivy next to the door. “Mr. Pearl, it’s Caleb Shaw. From the Library of Congress.”

“Who?”

Caleb looked a little embarrassed and started speaking quickly. “Caleb Shaw. I work in the Rare Books reading room. We last met a few years ago when a collector of Lincoln memorabilia came to the library and I brought him around to you.”