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

Later, I learned that there was nothing legal about this practice, but that it was not uncommon. The more expensive the book, the more likely it is that someone may have tampered with the binding. Such fraud is hardly new. In the eighteenth century, for example, facsimiles of pages, or “leaves,” of ancient texts were sometimes created by hand, and to near-perfect effect. Of course, these efforts did not always go undetected, particularly when the pages were printed on eighteenth-century paper with an identifiable watermark. Even now, dealers come across pages of books that have been washed to give them a uniform appearance. Reputable dealers judiciously examine books for telltale signs of rebinding, but there are less upstanding dealers who don’t. “You see a lot of that sort of thing on eBay,” one dealer remarked, “but you’ll never see it from an ABAA member. They’d be kicked out of the organization.”

As we inched down Brick Row’s bookshelves, Gilkey pointed to another book on his list. “Kurt Vonnegut,” he said. “I’d like something from him, too. And D. H. Lawrence. He’s also good.”

Crichton looked stunned and turned his back to us, then turned around again to face Gilkey. A few seconds later, while Gilkey was explaining to me which books he might like to look for, Crichton asked, “What’s your name?”

“John.”

John —as though Crichton would be satisfied with a first name! I looked down at my notes while my heartbeat threatened to drown out everything around me.

“John what?”

“Gilkey.”

Crichton waited a moment, glanced down at his desk, then looked up. He didn’t take his eyes off us as Gilkey pointed to various books and whispered, as one does in a library or museum, informing me about additional authors he was interested in: Vladimir Nabokov, Willa Cather. He commented that he stays away from Bibles.

“And who are you?” Crichton asked me.

I explained that I was a journalist writing a story about book collectors. Crichton stared a moment. He seemed to be trying to decipher the situation. He handed me his business card and asked me to call him.

“For further interviews, if you’d like,” he offered.

I couldn’t wait to get out of there. I was desperate to explain myself to Crichton, and also to hear what he had to say in Gilkey’s absence.

Surveying a row of ancient-looking tomes, resplendent with gilt titles, Gilkey said, “I think in the last ten years, a lot of rare books have just skyrocketed. If I was going to buy, I’d probably be looking for something like Salman Rushdie and Jack London and Booth Tarkington.

“See these cases,” he said, pointing to the wall of locked cases with metal screens. “You can’t really see through them.” After trying to peer through, Gilkey said, “I think they have mostly nineteenth-century literature here, so no Kurt Vonnegut.”

My tape recorder was running, and I took notes, but sporadically. I couldn’t concentrate through the tension, and prayed the tape recorder was getting it all. Crichton came closer. I realized that he might be thinking that I, too, might be a thief, because as a reporter, I was asking too few questions. I was letting Gilkey go on, undirected.

“How is the shop organized?” I asked Crichton.

Curtly, he waved his hand in one direction. “These three or four tiers are nineteenth-century English literature.” He waved it in another. “That’s twentieth-century, English and American,” he said. “And there’s some other, more valuable first editions over here, organized the same way. Everything behind here is . . . uh . . . reference . . . Uh—sorry,” he said, clearly distracted, “I’m right in the middle of doing several things today, so why don’t you give me your number so I can call you. I do a lot of interviews with people.”

In a tone that was somewhat louder, Gilkey then told me how at age nine he bought his first rare book, a first edition of The Human Comedy by William Saroyan, published in 1943, for $60, an unlikely story from the start. “And what happened was they actually cheated me,” he said. “I found out six or seven years ago that it wasn’t a first edition, first printing, which is how they sold it. So that’s why I do a lot of research with bibliographies, check the details.”

Not only was Gilkey’s voice louder, but it had also taken on a bravado I had heard before, when he’d described thefts he’d gotten away with. He started in on another story, about buying a $3,500 book that was supposed to have been sent with a dust jacket, but wasn’t, which made its value drop by half.

Gilkey had made a habit of sharing grievances with me during our meetings. He once told me that in his research, he had come across several companies that sell library books.

“I’ve been researching this at the library, because it coincides with some of my work. I was looking under certain titles and I kept coming up with ‘missing,’ ‘missing.’ The librarian said people are stealing books from the library.”

Gilkey said this with indignation and explained his theory: “Book dealers are paying people to steal them. I think they’re having someone go in and check the book out and not return it.”

There may in fact be a few sleazy book dealers paying equally sleazy scouts to do dirty work in libraries, but I found no record of such activity, and libraries sometimes sell collections, which is how dealers often acquire them. If dealers are offered a book stamped with the mark of the library but not the “De-accessioned” stamp that should accompany it, they will contact the library to make sure the volume is not stolen. Gilkey’s suggestion was in keeping with his general tendency to implicate anyone he might have victimized.

Gilkey continued to rail against the book trade throughout our meetings, and yet, as a reporter, I was in no position to contradict him. But sometimes it was hard to hold my tongue, as when Gilkey said, “It’s a very frustrating thing for me, because I just wanted to check out a bunch of those first-edition books at the library, just out of curiosity, and they were missing.”

Just out of curiosity? Did he consider me a fool?

“Have you ever taken a book from the library?” I asked.

Gilkey looked incredulous. “No,” he said. “That would be stealing.”

I had no idea what to say.

At Brick Row, the soft green carpet was lush, the kind of flooring that generously accepts your footsteps and makes them inaudible. It encourages quiet talk, but in an even louder voice, Gilkey went on to describe buying books at book fairs, only to discover later that he’d been cheated. It was obvious that these stories were for Crichton’s ears as much as mine, and it pained me to listen.

We continued a few feet farther down the shelf.

“Theodore Dreiser,” said Gilkey. “He’s another one. He wrote The Financier , and they might have a copy.” He scanned the nearest shelf.

My hands began to tremble. I dropped my pen.

Gilkey seemed to be enjoying himself. This was a dream of his, I realized, to show off rare books and broadcast his knowledge of them. “Here is my ideal world, here is what I know,” he seemed to be saying to me. “And here is what I will one day own.”

Gilkey walked a couple of steps to his right, where there were a few maps mounted on cardboard and covered in plastic. “A lot of stores also have maps, too. Here’s one of San Francisco,” he said, reaching for one, then adding in a raised voice, “What they do is, I guess they rip them out of books.”