Дэвид Балдаччи - The Collectors

“Well, we know how he died,” Caleb countered. The others looked at him in surprise. “I just found out this morning,” he said quickly. “A friend from the library called me at home. Jonathan died as the result of cardiopulmonary arrest, that’s what the autopsy reported.”

Milton said, “That’s what everybody dies of. It just means your heart stopped.”

Stone looked thoughtful. “Milton’s right. And that also means the medical examiner doesn’t know what actually killed DeHaven.” He stood and looked down at Caleb. “I want to go into the vault this morning.”

“Oliver, you can’t just show up unannounced as some scholar.”

“Why not?”

“It’s just not done. There are protocols, procedures to follow.”

“I’ll say I was in town for a visit with family and wanted very much to see the world’s greatest collection of books; a spur-of-the-moment thing.”

“Well, that might work,” Caleb grudgingly conceded. “But what if they ask you some question you don’t know the answer to?”

“There’s no one easier to impersonate than a scholar, Caleb,” Stone assured him. Caleb looked very offended at this remark, but Stone disregarded his friend’s annoyance and added, “I’ll be at the library at eleven o’clock.” He wrote something on a piece of paper and handed it to Caleb. “This is who I’ll be.”

Caleb glanced down at the paper and then looked up in surprise.

With that, the meeting of the Camel Club was adjourned, although Stone took Milton aside and started talking to him quietly.

A few hours later at the library Caleb was handing a book to Norman Janklow, an elderly man and reading room regular.

“Here it is, Norman.” He handed him a copy of Ernest Hemingway’s A Farewell to Arms. Janklow was a Hemingway fanatic. The novel he was holding was a first edition, inscribed by Hemingway.

“I would die to own this book, Caleb,” Janklow said.

“I know, Norman, me too.” A signed Hemingway first edition would fetch at least $35,000, Caleb knew, certainly beyond his financial means and probably Janklow’s too. “But at least you can hold it.”

“I’m getting started on my biography of Ernest.”

“That’s great.” Actually, Janklow had been “getting started” on his Hemingway biography for the last two years. Still, the notion seemed to make him happy, and Caleb was more than willing to play along.

Janklow carefully fingered the volume. “They’ve repaired the cover,” he said irritably.

“That’s right. Many of our first-edition American masterpieces were housed in less-than-ideal conditions before the Rare Books Division really got up to speed. We’ve been going through the backlog for years now. That copy was long overdue for restoration, an administrative error, I guess. That happens when you have nearly a million volumes under one roof.”

“I wish they’d keep them in their original condition.”

“Well, our chief goal is preservation. That’s why we have this book for you to enjoy, because it’s been preserved.”

“I met Hemingway once.”

“I remember you telling me.” Over a hundred times.

“He was a piece of work. We got drunk together at a café in Cuba.”

“Right. I remember the story very well. I’ll let you get to your research.”

Janklow slipped on his reading glasses, took out his pieces of paper and a pencil and lost himself in the adventurous world of Ernest Hemingway’s prodigious imagination and spare prose.

Promptly at eleven o’clock Oliver Stone arrived at the Rare Books reading room dressed in a rumpled three-piece tweed suit and holding a cane. His white hair was neatly combed, and he sported a very trim beard along with large black glasses that made his eyes buglike. That coupled with his walking with a stoop made him appear twenty years older than he was. Caleb rose from his desk at the back of the room, hardly recognizing his friend.

As one of the attendants at the front desk approached Stone, Caleb hurried forward. “I’ll take care of him, Dorothy. I... I know the gentleman.”

Stone made an elaborate show of producing a white business card. “As promised, Herr Shaw, I am here to see the books. ” His accent was thick and Germanic, and very well done.

As Dorothy, the woman behind the front desk, looked at him curiously, Caleb said, “This is Dr. Aust. We met years ago at a book conference in... Frankfurt, was it?”

“No, Mainz,” Stone corrected. “I remember very clearly, because it was the season of Spargel, the white asparagus, and I always go to the Mainz conference and eat the white asparagus.” He beamed at Dorothy, who smiled and went back to what she was doing.

Another man came into the reading room and stopped. “Caleb, I wanted to talk to you for a minute.”

Caleb turned a shade paler. “Oh, hello, Kevin. Kevin, this is, uh, Dr. Aust from Germany. Dr. Aust, Kevin Philips. He’s the acting director of the Rare Books Division. After Jonathan’s—”

“Ah, yes, the very untimely death of Herr DeHaven,” Stone said. “Very sad. Very sad.”

“You knew Jonathan?” Philips said.

“Only by reputation. I think it clear that his paper on James Logan’s metrical translation of Cato’s Moral Distichs was the final word on the subject, don’t you?”

Philips looked chagrined. “I must confess I haven’t read it.”

“An analysis of Logan’s first translation from the classics to be produced in North America, it is well worth exploring,” Stone advised kindly.

Philips said, “I’ll be sure to add it to my list. Ironically, sometimes librarians don’t have a lot of time to read.”

“Then I will not burden you with copies of my books,” Stone said with a smile. “They’re in German anyway,” he added with a chuckle.

“I invited Dr. Aust to take a tour of the vaults while he’s in town,” Caleb explained. “Sort of a spur-of-the-moment thing.”

“Absolutely,” Philips said. “We’d be honored.” He lowered his voice. “Caleb, you heard the report about Jonathan?”

“Yes, I did.”

“So that means he just had a heart attack, then?”

Caleb glanced at Stone, who, out of Philips’ line of sight, gave a slight nod.

“Yes, I think that’s exactly what it means.”

Philips shook his head. “God, he was younger than me. It gives one pause, doesn’t it?” He looked over at Stone. “Dr. Aust, would you like me to give you the fifty-cent tour?”

Stone smiled and leaned heavily on his cane. “No, Herr Philips, I would much prefer you to take that time and begin your friend’s paper on Moral Distichs. ”

Philips chuckled. “It’s good to see that distinguished scholars can retain a healthy sense of humor.”

“I try, sir, I try,” Stone said with a slow bow.

After Philips had left them, Caleb and Stone headed into the vault.

“How did you find out about Jonathan’s scholarly work?” Caleb asked once they were alone.

“I asked Milton to dig around. He located it on the Internet and brought me a copy. I scanned it in case someone like Philips showed up, to prove my scholarly pedigree.” Caleb looked disgruntled. “What’s the matter?” Stone asked.

“Well, it’s a little deflating to one’s ego to see how easily a scholar can be impersonated.”

“I’m sure your validation of my pedigree made all the difference to your boss.”

Caleb brightened. “Well, I’m sure it contributed somewhat to the success,” he said modestly.

“All right, take me through your exact movements that day.”

Caleb did so, ending on the top floor. He pointed at a spot. “That’s where his body was.” Caleb shivered. “God, it really was terrible.”