Schemers

5

The pile owned by Gregory Pollexfen was typical of the homes in Sea Cliff, one of the city’s wealthiest residential neighborhoods: imposing, ornately stylish, and probably worth upwards of five million even in the current real estate market. The architecture had a Spanish influence without actually being Spanish-a broad mix of beige stucco, red tile, wrought iron, and polished woodwork, with a variety of small trees and plants in huge terra-cotta urns on a balustraded front terrace, and gardens on both sides. Some ultraelitist types might not consider it among the premier houses along Sea Cliff Avenue; it loomed on the low inland hillside, rather than perched on the cliffs above China Beach on the seaward side. But to my jaundiced eye, it would do in a pinch.

A middle-aged, stoic-featured woman who was probably the housekeeper, though she wasn’t outfitted that way, let me in and deposited me in a front parlor, all without uttering a word. I had just enough time to note that the undraped, floor-to-ceiling windows provided a sweeping view of the Golden Gate Bridge and the Marin headlands, and that the furnishings were expensive modern and the pictures on the walls all hunting and sporting scenes, before Pollexfen himself stumped in.

Stumped is the right word. He wasn’t much older than me, but he moved in a slow, stiff, old man’s way with the aid of a blackthorn cane, as if his joints pained him at every step. Arthritis, probably.

As we got the introductions out of the way, we sized each other up. He seemed to like what he saw; the faint smile he’d come in with widened a little and his eyes, steady on mine, reflected approval. As for me, I reserved judgment. You could see that once he’d been a powerful man, likely an athlete in his youth: an inch or so over six feet, thick-trunked and broad through the shoulders. Time and the afflictions that had invaded his body had taken their toll, as they do on all of us; his color wasn’t good and his breathing had a little whistling catch in it. Still, he projected an aura of intensity and inner strength. His body may not be holding up well to the passing years, but I sensed that his mind was as sharp as ever. Those gray eyes radiated intelligence. Final analysis, based on first impression: a man who would make a staunch friend and a formidable enemy.

“I expect you’d like to see the library first thing,” he said.

“Yes, I would.”

“Follow me, then.” The smile had faded; he was all business now. “I was pleased to hear that we share the collecting gene. Fascinating hobby, isn’t it, the acquisition of old books and magazines.”

“And expensive, these days.”

“Oh, yes. But I’m fortunate-the price of any given book or item of ephemera is not an issue with me. It’s the rarity and availability. Certain titles have eluded me for years. They simply aren’t available, no matter what one is willing to pay for them. Very frustrating. But then, the hunt is everything. If one could acquire everything one wanted, the game would lose some of its pleasure and excitement, don’t you think?”

“I do, yes.”

“Do you have much knowledge of antiquarian detective fiction?”

“A limited amount.”

“But you do have an appreciation.”

“If you’re asking if I’ll appreciate your collection, I’m sure I will.”

“You may just be overwhelmed by it. My collection is one of the finest in the world.” He said that without braggadocio. Just a proud statement of fact.

We went down a wide, tile-floored hallway, the ferrule tip of Pollexfen’s cane making little hollow clicking sounds. Tile-inlaid archways opened at intervals into rooms on both sides. As we approached one of these near the end, I could hear another sound-the clicking of computer keys. Pollexfen turned in there, stepping aside to let me follow. Small office, a brunette in her mid-thirties ensconsed behind a functional gray metal desk. Attractive, but severe-looking, as if she’d never found much to smile about in her life or work.

Pollexfen introduced us. Brenda Koehler, his secretary “and general factotum.” She said through an impersonal smile, “I hope you’re able to find out what happened to the missing books. The theft has everyone baffled.” The words seemed impersonal, too, as if she didn’t really care one way or the other.

“He has excellent credentials,” Pollexfen said to her. “If anyone can get to the bottom of this, I’m sure he’s the man.”

She nodded. “I have the letter to Mr. Phillips ready for you to sign, Mr. Pollexfen.”

“It can wait.” He looked at me, said, “Business matter,” and led me out into the hallway again. “Brenda’s been with me for years. Handles my personal and household affairs. Indispensable.”

“Which means she’s also trustworthy.”

“Absolutely. Even if she knew anything about antiquarian books, which she doesn’t, she isn’t permitted in the library alone.”

“I understand none of the other members of your household is a bibliophile.”

“That’s right. Mrs. Jordan, the housekeeper, has been with me for years. Not even a reader and not overly bright, but above reproach. My wife’s primary interest is in spending money on herself. My brother-in-law’s hobby is making grandiose schemes and cheap women. If anyone in this house devised a way to steal those books, it’s Jeremy Cullrane.”

“Why do you say that?”

“We’ll discuss it after you’ve seen the library.”

At the end of the corridor was a set of double doors of some polished wood that might have been Philippine mahogany. Two locks, both deadbolts. Pollexfen used a key attached to a heavy silver ring to release the locks-the same key, I noticed, for both-and then reached inside to switch on the lights.

It was like walking into an exclusive bookshop, the kind that caters to well-heeled customers. Or a special exhibit in a library or museum. The room seemed to take up most of the back half of the house. It was thickly carpeted in some light blue weave; there were two overstuffed chairs with side tables, two floor lamps, an oak library table, a small desk, a gas-log fireplace with what looked to be an antique double-barreled shotgun mounted above it, and two sets of windows with heavy drapes in the back wall. The rest of it was books. Floor to ceiling on lacquered mahogany shelves. In stacks on the tables and here and there on the carpet. The upper shelves were reachable by one of those rolling library ladders strung on a brass rail that encircled the room.

Most of the volumes had bright dust jackets in Mylar protectors, the rest colorful bindings. That was my second impression of Pollexfen’s library: color, much of it primary color. You were surrounded by it and the effect, enhanced by indirect ceiling light glinting off the Mylar, was almost dazzling.

Pollexfen was watching me and my reaction pleased him. He said, “Didn’t I tell you, you might be overwhelmed?”

“You did and I am. Very impressive.”

“Upwards of fifteen thousand volumes, catalogued and in alphabetical order. My primary interest is detective fiction of the last half of the nineteenth century and the first half of the twentieth. There is also a fair representation of post-1950 authors and titles, to the present day.”

“All different types, I take it.”

“Oh, yes. Sherlockiana. Whodunits, whydunits, howdunits. Hardboiled, police procedurals, spy novels, comic mysteries, category and mainstream thrillers-a sampling of every subgenre. Many are signed and inscribed. Six of those that were stolen are of that rarity.”

“ The Maltese Falcon, Red Harvest, The Big Sleep, Fer-de-Lance, The Postman Always Rings Twice, and The Roman Hat Mystery.”

“Correct. Very good.”

He led me to one section of shelves, pointed to a gap in the row of Hammett titles where the missing books had rested. “The Falcon is the most valuable because it was inscribed to a fellow Black Mask writer and mystery novelist, George Harmon Coxe. I’m sure you know his name.”

I admitted that I’d read quite a few of Coxe’s Flashgun Casey pulp stories.

“It’s one of only two such association copies known,” Pollexfen said, “the other being inscribed to another Black Mask writer, Frederick Nebel. I paid sixty thousand dollars for it twenty years ago. It’s worth three to four times that amount in today’s collecting market. One-of-a-kind volume.”

Some of his collector’s zeal gave way to melancholy as he pointed out the empty places belonging to the Doyle, Christie, Stout, Cain, and Queen titles. “ Red Harvest, Roman Hat, Fer-de-Lance, and Postman were inscribed to private individuals, so they’re not quite as valuable as the Falcon. Nor are the Doyle and Christie. But all are high five-figure items and virtually irreplaceable because of their rarity, the inscriptions and signatures, and the fact that they were all in near fine to fine condition. The 1892 Newnes first edition of The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes is the best copy any dealer or collector of my acquaintance has ever seen. As a collector yourself you can imagine how upset I was to find them missing.”

“According to the insurance company report, you have no idea how they were taken or who took them.”

His mouth quirked wryly. “A man I know suggested the Borrowers.”

“The what?”

“Characters in a series of fantasy novels by Mary Norton. A secret race of tiny folk, descendants of the folkloric Little People, who ‘borrow’ things from humans. When something goes missing from inside your home and you can’t figure out what happened to it, blame the Borrowers. That was Julian’s smart-ass explanation.”

“Who would Julian be?”

“Julian Iverson. A fellow bibliophile with a sometimes inappropriate sense of humor.”

“You told him about the theft?”

“I needed a sympathetic ear, and there’s none in this household.”

“So you don’t consider him a possible suspect?”

“Julian? My God, no. He’s a collector, yes, but his tastes in literature differ greatly from mine. Fine bindings and children’s books are his specialty. He has no interest in or knowledge of detective fiction.”

“Would he know how valuable the missing titles are?”

“He would, but he’s an old friend.”

“Wealthy? Half a million dollars is a lot of money.”

“His net worth is around four million,” Pollexfen said. “Believe me, he’s not the person responsible for this outrage.”

“Have you told anyone else about the theft? Anyone outside this house?”

“Great Western, of course. My attorneys. A dozen or so other collectors and high-end booksellers-to alert them to be on the lookout for the missing titles. If anyone tries to sell the Falcon or any of the others to a reputable source, I’ll be notified immediately.”

“The operative word being ‘reputable.’ There must be collectors and sellers who’d buy prized items no questions asked.”

“Too damn many,” Pollexfen said. “That’s my greatest fear. That one or all of these treasures will simply disappear into private hands.”

“You mentioned your brother-in-law. Why do you think he might be responsible?”

“He has the scruples of a Washington lobbyist. Always in need of money for his schemes and his women and doesn’t care how he gets it.”

“What does he do for a living?”

Pollexfen laughed cynically. “He calls himself a promoter, but what he is, is a leech and a gigolo. He talks people into financing his get-rich-quick schemes. No doubt his various lady friends do the same behind their husbands’ backs.”

“But he doesn’t get any from you.”

“There was a time when I was foolish enough to fall for his line, but that time is long past.”

“The two of you don’t get along, then.”

“Hardly. Jeremy can’t stand me any more than I can stand him. He would steal the gold fillings out of my teeth if he thought he could get away with it.”

“If that’s the way it is, why do you let him live here?”

“Oh, I’ve come close to throwing him out half a dozen times. I would have, long ago, if it weren’t for my wife.”

“You mean she asked you not to?”

“On the contrary. She doesn’t get along with Jeremy either.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s a complicated situation. You might say we feed off our dislike for one another.”

That didn’t sound too healthy to me. More to it than that? None of my business unless it had a bearing on my investigation, and too soon to press Pollexfen about it in any case.

I asked him, “Did you confront your brother-in-law about the theft?”

“If you mean did I accuse him, no, not without evidence. I did suggest that if I found out he was guilty, he would pay dearly for it. He laughed in my face.”

“Does he know anything about rare books?”

“Very little, so far as I’m aware.”

“Then how would he know which ones to steal? And where to sell them?”

“It wouldn’t be difficult to find out. The Internet, booksellers, other collectors-the information is available to anyone who cares to do a little research.”

I went across to the windows, drew the drapes aside on both. Barred. Sashes locked down tight.

“The drapes are always closed,” Pollexfen offered. “Sunlight fades dust jacket backstrips. Even natural light will cause fading to some colors.”

“I know. I have a similar arrangement in my home.”

“Ah, yes. Pulp magazine spines fade, too, of course.”

“I take it the door and windows are the only ways in and out of this room.”

“Certainly. Were you thinking of secret panels or hidden nooks?”

“No. Asking questions, covering all the bases.”

“Thorough man. I like that.”

I went to examine the door locks. They were the kind that could be keyed from both sides, so Pollexfen could seal himself inside when he didn’t want to be disturbed. No scratches or marks on them or anywhere on the door and jamb to indicate that they might have been forced.

As I started over to the desk, light reflecting off the barrels of the mounted shotgun caught my eye. Pollexfen took my upward glance as a sign of interest in the weapon. “A beauty, isn’t it?” he said. “Nineteen twenty-six Parker GHE, twelve-gauge. Twenty-eight-inch uncut barrels, dual triggers, pistol grip stock, loads two-and-a-half-inch shells.”

I didn’t say anything. I’m not big on guns, even though-or maybe because-I own one and have had occasion to use it more than once.

“Inherited from my father,” Pollexfen said. “We used to go hunting together-birds, mostly. Angelina and I did, too, when we were first married. She’s a very good shot for a woman.”

I had no comment on that, either.

“My only other hobby, hunting,” he said. “Until a few years ago. Too old and arthritic now to tramp around the countryside.”

Another pass. The hunter gene was left out of me; I like blood sports even less than guns. I gave my attention to the desk. Computer, telephone, a stack of what appeared to be auction catalogs, a pile of unused Mylar jacket protectors. The books stacked there, some with dust wrappers, some without, were apparently new acquisitions, awaiting shelving-not that there was much room left for them on any of the shelves.

“You do all the book buying yourself?” I asked.

“All the ordering, yes. Mainly from auction catalogs, a handful of antiquarian dealers, and through trades with other collectors. I used to haunt secondhand bookshops until the Internet put so many out of business.”

“You handle the payments as well?”

“No, Brenda does that, unless a large bank transfer is necessary.”

“So she has some knowledge of the collecting market.”

“Some. But as I told you, she is completely trustworthy.”

I did some more prowling, looking at the rows of books. The shelves were all solid, the books on them loosely arranged so as to make for easy removal of any volume. I couldn’t help looking at authors and titles along the way. Many more were familiar, including several who had contributed to pulp magazines as well as written novels: Leigh Brackett. Fredric Brown. Agatha Christie. John Dickson Carr. George Harmon Coxe. Norbert Davis. Erle Stanley Gardner. Ross Macdonald. John D. MacDonald. Frederick Nebel. Ellery Queen. Dorothy Sayers. Mickey Spillane. Rex Stout. Cornell Woolrich. Complete or near complete runs, evidently, of the works of these writers and hundreds more.

I asked, “Has anyone in this household, or any visitor, ever been in the library when you weren’t here? For any reason?”

“No, never. I don’t allow it.”

“And you have the only key?”

“Yes. Which I keep in my possession at all times.”

“Even while you sleep?”

“I put the key ring on my nightstand. And I’m a light sleeper. No one could have slipped in or out of the bedroom with it.”

“While you shower or bathe, then.”

“I’m never in the shower for more than five minutes.”

“It doesn’t take long to make a wax impression of a key.”

“A possibility, I suppose,” he conceded. “But that would leave a wax residue on the key, wouldn’t it? I would have noticed.”

“Not necessarily. The house alarm-who knows the code besides you?”

“My wife, her brother, Brenda, and the housekeeper.”

“Written down anywhere?”

“No. I have it changed periodically, and I never forget anything as important as an alarm code.”

“The alarm has never been breached?”

“Never.”

“Then with all of that security and your precautions with the key, it doesn’t seem possible anyone could have gotten in here, does it?”

Pollexfen’s smile flickered back on, then off again. “The Holmesian dictum. If you eliminate the impossible, then whatever is left, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.”

“So somebody must’ve found a way to use or duplicate your key.”

“Or some other devilishly clever method. And not somebody, Jeremy Cullrane.”

“There is one other explanation.”

The smile flickered on and off again. “That I must have done it myself? Is that what you’re thinking?”

“I’m not thinking anything yet, Mr. Pollexfen.”

“I did not steal my own books,” he said. “Why would I? What conceivable reason could I have?”

“There’s the half million dollars’ insurance.”

“I don’t need half a million dollars. I have more money than I can ever spend. Check into my finances, you’ll find the absolute truth of that statement. I don’t indulge in stocks or real estate or any other kind of speculation, I don’t gamble, I don’t have any of the usual vices. I collect vintage detective fiction. That’s the one and only passion in life I have left. I’m the last person on earth who would spirit away eight of my most prized possessions, the cornerstones of a collection it has taken me forty years and quite a lot of money to assemble.”

“So it would seem.”

“I don’t care about the insurance money,” Pollexfen said. “I want my first editions back on the shelves where they belong. I wouldn’t have filed the claim at all if the police had shown any real interest in finding them and my attorney hadn’t insisted.”

“What’s your attorney’s name?”

“Paul DiSantis. Wainright and Simmons.”

I’d heard of the firm. High-powered corporate lawyers and ultrarespectable. “I’ll want to talk to your wife, your brother-in-law, and your secretary.”

“Certainly, but I suggest again, strongly, that you focus on Jeremy.”

“Neither he nor your wife is here at the present, I take it.”

“No. Jeremy spends little time under this roof, I’m happy to say, and Angelina is out indulging in one or more of her favorite activities. She should be back soon. Shopping tires her out, poor baby, and she likes to rest before going out on her evening rounds.”

“Evening rounds?”

“Parties. She loves to party. I don’t.”

“Where can I find your brother-in-law?”

“Holding court at the Bayview Club downtown, or at his current lady friend’s apartment.” The emphasis he put on the word “lady” indicated he thought she was just the opposite. “A singer named Nicole Coyne. Brenda can give you her address.”

“I’ll talk to Brenda first, then. Alone, if you don’t mind.”

“Go right ahead.” His mouth bent again at one corner. “You may have the dubious pleasure of meeting Angelina by the time you’re done.”

Dubious pleasure. Shopping always tires her out, poor baby. Out on her evening rounds. And he’d put the same emphasis on her name as he had on “lady,” as if he considered it a misnomer and Angelina anything but angelic. He didn’t seem to care for her any more than he did Jeremy Cullrane, had already removed her as beneficiary of his life insurance policy, and yet he continued to tolerate the marriage. The “we feed on our dislike for each other” statement must have included her, too.

Some household.