Allison Bartlett - The Man Who Loved Books Too Much - The True Story of a Thief, a Detective, and a World of Literary Obsession

You want to fight? he thought. His challenge was directed at the world, with particular aim at rare book dealers. Then it’s war.

7

Trilogy of Kens

With four months until Gilkey was to begin his sen tence, he and his father drove up and down the coast of California, staying for days at a time in Lake Tahoe, San Francisco, Los Angeles, San Diego, sometimes making stops at the family’s home in Modesto. It was an extended vacation with an impending end, paid for with Gilkey’s father’s savings and stolen credit card numbers.

On March 14, they stayed at a hotel at the San Francisco airport, because parking was cheaper than at hotels downtown. It was a lovely day, and they set out in a rental car to the Westin Hotel. There, Gilkey opened the Yellow Pages and turned to the listings for rare book stores. He had already done preliminary research on his computer in Modesto and was especially impressed by the extensive collection of the Brick Row Book Shop. As he dialed their number, he pulled a credit card receipt from his pocket.

Gilkey identified himself as Dan Weaver and spoke with Andrew Clark, who was impressed with “Weaver” and treated him with respect because he seemed to be just the sort of person who might become a good customer.

“I’m looking for a gift,” said “Weaver,” in his polite voice. “Something in the two-thousand-to-three-thousand-dollar range. Maybe Thackeray’s Vanity Fair .”

“I’m afraid we haven’t got it,” said Clark. “But I’ve got another nineteenth-century novel you might be interested in: The Mayor of Casterbridge , by Thomas Hardy.”

“Hmm . . .” “Weaver” seemed to be considering.

“It’s a two-volume set,” added Clark, “with brown half morocco by Riviere, marbled sides, gilt decorated and lettered spines. A first edition, fine copy, twenty-five hundred.”

“Well, I think that fits the bill,” said “Weaver,” who then read his credit card number to Clark and said he would pick up the book later that afternoon.

Clark carefully wrapped The Mayor of Casterbridge in plain brown paper and, before heading out to lunch, informed owner John Crichton that someone was going to stop by and pick it up.

Later that day, a man in his late seventies rushed into the store. He told Crichton he was there to pick up a book for his son, Dan Weaver.

“I’m in a hurry”—he scowled—“double-parked. I gotta get the book.”

Crichton checked to make sure the credit card charge had been authorized. It had, so he handed over the book with a copy of the invoice.

Gilkey’s father rode the elevator down, climbed into the rental car, and gave the book to him.

Gilkey would later explain to me that the reason his father picked up the book was that he needed to use a bathroom, so Gilkey sent him in to take care of his needs and do the pickup. He insisted that his father did not know that he (Gilkey) had purchased the book with a stolen credit card number. But his father had said he was there to pick up a book for Dan Weaver; there was no way he was unaware of his complicity. Again, Gilkey’s fierce denial of his father’s role was more perplexing than his father’s involvement, although both continued to bewilder me.

To Gilkey, having a book like The Mayor of Casterbridge —old and fine, a piece of literary history — in his hands, felt deeply satisfying. There was nothing like it. He held it, knowing that it was worth something, that “everyone wanted it,” but that he was the only one who owned it. It was thrilling. When he was done examining it, he carefully laid it down in the backseat. He was a little nervous during the pickup, but his father had come through fine. They were both relieved as they drove away.

A month later, the real Dan Weaver, legitimate owner of the credit card, called Crichton and demanded, “Why did you charge me twenty-five hundred dollars—and for a book ?!” Crichton looked into it and discovered that the order was indeed fraudulent. How could this have happened? He had once been security chair of the ABAA, and he was careful. At once, he e-mailed Sanders and gave him the details. Sanders immediately sent an e-mail to the ABAA and ILAB, noting the content of the thief’s phone calls to Brick Row, the physical particulars of the stolen copy of The Mayor of Casterbridge , and most important, a description of the thief: elderly, pretty shabby-looking, gruff voice.

Now everyone could be on the lookout.

A couple of months later, Gilkey was eager to get a book from another county. He had been having one success after another and was feeling bold, confident. He called Heldfond Book Gallery in San Anselmo, a small town in Marin County, just north of San Francisco. He spoke with proprietor Lane Heldfond, telling her he was on the road and wanted to buy a couple of gifts: a children’s book and an autographed book. Heldfond suggested The Patchwork Girl of Oz , listed at $1,800, and Joseph in Egypt , a book by one of Gilkey’s favorite authors, Thomas Mann, autographed and priced at $850. He said that he was, at that moment, looking at their website, which was a careless slip, since he had just said he was calling from the road, 1but Heldfond, who noticed the slip, didn’t call him on it. Gilkey told her his cousin would pick up the books the next day.

The next day was sunny and clear, so Gilkey decided to take a ferry across the Bay. San Anselmo is a sleepy little town, one of the few in wealthy Marin County that still benefits from the charm of disheveled thrift stores and coffee shops that pour coffee-to-go into cups without logos. Occupying the angled end of a wedge-shaped building, Heldfond Gallery is a triangular shop with a small cushioned window seat at its tightest corner. Heldfond is a petite woman in her forties, with olive skin, long, wavy dark hair, and a disarming smile. In addition to working as a bookseller, she is a sculptor, and her visual sense is reflected on the shelves. Heldfond and her husband, Erik, had both been lifelong collectors when they opened the store in 1991. They bought what they could afford and hoped prices would rise; they were usually right, because despite the tough climate for mom-and-pop stores, the business grew.

After Gilkey placed his order for the two books, Heldfond hung up and called to her husband.

“Something’s not right,” she said. She had a bad feeling about the order. It had been too easy.

“Was the charge authorized?” he asked.

It was, so he assured her there was nothing to worry about.

Heldfond pulled the books from the shelves— Joseph in Egypt in its somber black covers, The Patchwork Girl of Oz in its vibrantly illustrated dust jacket—wrapped them in paper, and set them under the counter.

When Gilkey arrived in San Anselmo, he walked to the post office a block away from the store and placed another call to Heldfond to make sure the order had gone through. It had.

At the threshold of Heldfond Book Gallery, Gilkey looked around to make sure there weren’t any undercover cops’ cars parked on the street, then walked in with one hand covering his mouth.

“I’ve just come from the dentist,” he said to Heldfond, talking out of the side of his mouth in an effort to distort his voice so that she would not recognize it as the caller’s. He knew it was a gamble and began to feel agitated. After all, he was supposed to be the caller’s cousin. He decided to skip the small talk; he stayed in the doorway and left as soon as he got the books, making a run for the bus stop once he was out of view. Now he had two more books to deliver to the storage facility.

On a wall in Heldfond Gallery hung a bookmark with a quotation from Oscar Wilde: “I can resist everything except temptation.”