Bearded Emerson, youngest of the brethren, stood no taller than Tull; though his satyric countenance put one in mind of that other Toulouse — he of Montmartre cabarets — it was impossible to think of him in the diminutive. His unflagging energy, passionate apprehension and sheer-rock-face intellect (he was a well-known monographist and prolific contributor to The Dickens Newsletter, The Dickens Project, The Doughty Street Dickens and The Dickens Universe) made him appear like a great turbine from the dawn of the industrial age, a turbine overseen, if you will, by a pair of cool blue-gray eyes from which no textual footnote might escape. His memory was prodigious and phantasmagoric: he could still quote by heart the little van Gogh — penned poem he’d sold Louis Trotter (for $700,000) along with a letter to Theo wherein the hapless artist bitched about having no money to purchase oils.
The bell at the side door rang and there was a stir among employees, as the musketeers standing at the entrance — four, including Pullman — were fairly unforgettable. Edward, outfitted in a rather demure diaphanous Gigli cape, embroidered linen hood and the sort of delicate white cotton gloves with which one handles rare photographs, leaned like a holy invalid on both Lucy and his cousin. (Sling Blade, who had no interest at all in entering the sanctum sanctorum, stood under the gull wing of the Mauck and smoked, while Epitacio remained at Saint-Cloud, otherwise engaged.) The Great Dane made the usual unheralded, regal entrance and lay down, stretching his muscular spotted self on the terrazzo floor at the foot of a suite of chairs renowned for having once been featured in Gone with the Wind. A nervous employee sashayed over to suggest the dog remain outside; before she had the chance, Mr. Tabori brought her up short with an acrid little smile. She backed off.
“How marvelous to meet you all!” he exclaimed, with retailer’s outstretched arms. But that is unfair, for he cared nothing of money.
Introductions were made and genealogy silently noted: These two belong to Dodd, son of Louis — this one to Katrina, beloved, famously jilted, drug-addicted daughter of same.
He took them on tour and showed them folios and autographs, and rows of buttery bindings decorated in gilt, with watered-silk endleaves. He had no idea what they had in mind, yet planted seeds in the several-thousand-dollar range according to his sense of what the old man might enjoy, such as a 1900 edition of Days of the Dandies, an anthology of British court life.
The curious titanium-braced fashionista pointed to this and that while his braided sister explored the shop as if it were a fabulous tree house. The one called Tull seemed saturnine, and looked as if about to flee.
They passed a vitrine of handwritten folios.
“Bret Harte,” said Mr. Tabori, gnomishly enthused. “Tiny handwriting, no? That’s just a fragment; what’s actually called a blad — short for ‘blotting pad.’ You should see Poe’s! He had two styles of handwriting, one for manuscripts, the other for correspondence. When he wrote his stories, he usually tried to approximate the typeface of a book. And Brontë! Charlotte Brontë is worse—almost pathological. You need a magnifying glass!”
“Mr. Tabori,” began Lucy, circling back. The boys turned in anticipation. “Do you — do you have any Nancy Drew?”
All faces registered disappointment.
“I’m afraid not! Though we do have Edgar Rice Burroughs — in fact, we have the entire work. May I ask what you have in mind, if you do have anything in mind, for your grandfather?”
She smiled devilishly at her compadres; it was the moment of truth. They would now take up the challenge like men — or forever keep their mousy peace.
“Well,” said Edward, uncharacteristically tongue-tied. He theatrically cleared his throat while swiveling toward his cousin. “Do you have … the list?” He meant the letter, which Tull simply wasn’t ready to extend. Seeing he’d get nowhere with the flummoxed boy, Edward stalled for time, and turned back to Mr. Tabori. “How about Dickens?”
The girl detective frowned at their timidity.
“For me, Dickens is the most marvelous — and one of the easiest to collect.” He walked them to a section of which Lucy had thought, before setting off again on her investigations, contained the most beautiful volumes imaginable. “The interesting thing about Dickens is, printers had certain requirements. You see, most of his books were 624 pages long for a reason — they came in sixteen-page gatherings, or ‘quires.’ Look: this one’s an ‘octavo,’ that’s eight leaves to a quire — a total of sixteen pages with inner and outer forms. When people read Dickens and say this or that passage is hurried or belabored, it’s because, you see, he was customizing. It’s the same for certain Mozart pieces, no? Were you interested in Dickens? I mean, for your grandfather? Because if I’m not mistaken, he already has the Nonesuch—”
“We’re interested in everything!” shouted Lucy from the long hall, where autographs of historical figures were hung. With that, she threw the boys the evil eye, to egg them on.
“Well!” said Mr. Tabori, figuratively licking his chops. “I strongly suggest A Christmas Carol.” He plucked it from the shelf and turned it over with caressing hands. “Chapman and Hall, first edition, first issue: i.e., ‘Stave I’—foolscap octavo, green-coated endpapers, blue half-title, red and blue title. Four inserted hand-colored steel-engraved plates by and after Leech and four black-and-white text wood-engravings by W. J. Linton after Leech. Original cinnamon vertically ribbed cloth, all edges gilt, with the tiniest interval between blind-stamped border and gilt wreath equal to fourteen millimeters — with a perfect D in ‘Dickens.’ The slightest perceptible fading to the spine, with an early provincial bookseller’s label on the front pasted down. Spectacular! At fifty thousand dollars, it’s quite simply the best and brightest we’ve seen.” He cleared his throat, realizing he’d gone too far; these were children after all. “But I’m sure that’s in excess of your budget.”
Lucy returned, emboldened. The toddlers clearly needed her help — if she was going to stick this episode somewhere in Blue Maze, a dallying narrative would never do.
“Mr. Tabori,” she said forthrightly. “Have you ever had anything stolen? From the shop?”
Tull and Edward refused to look at her, sharpening their attention on the host, who was amiably taken aback.
“Oh, once or twice. An autograph from the wall … George Bernard Shaw. A Kerouac. Some American ‘firsts’ were stolen — Hammett and Chandler. But we got them back.”
“This,” said Edward, following her lead, “would have been about thirteen years ago.”
“ ‘This’?” said Mr. Tabori, cocking his head.
Tull reached in his pocket for the letter, which he handed to Mr. Tabori.
“Yes,” said the bookseller, nodding his head as he examined. “I remember.”
“Was it by any chance written to you?” asked Tull.
“No — that would have had to have been my brother Henry-David. He died two years ago. Colorectal cancer.”
“We’re so sorry,” said Lucy, and she really was.