“But I do remember — it was the sort of thing — one of those situations where — well, you see, he was a customer and we did know him rather well — we preferred not to call the police. We called the gentleman’s office—by then of course we were quite certain—there could have been no question—that he ‘took’ the item. The gentleman didn’t respond; Henry-David might have sent a follow-up note. That would have been H.D.’s way. My brother was the least threatening of men, so the … communiqué referred to here couldn’t have been too — but the gentleman was outraged! We were doing him a favor, not calling the police. Finally, we had no recourse. And then—” A light shone in his eye; he cocked his head again. “The gentleman who wrote this letter. He was connected to … your grandfather, no?”
“That’s right,” said the cousin.
Mr. Tabori nodded and stared into space, his gaze falling somewhere over Samuel Johnson’s Lives of the Most Eminent English Poets. “There was a scandal, no? A marriage — he was … a flimflam.”
Tull spoke up. “Was it a book that was taken?”
“Yes. Nothing of excessive value.”
“Did you recover it?”
“I’m afraid that one got away.”
“A purloined antiquity!” huffed Lucy, authorial glands fairly salivating. “And you called the police?”
“We were about to … when a private investigator came out — who was it? Had a funny name. Employed by Louis Trotter. He asked a few questions, then made good on the amount that was in dispute.”
“If you could just tell us more about—”
Of a sudden, Emerson Tabori gave a great sigh, as if having reached a regretful conclusion. He sat down upon one of Tara’s chairs and bid the children do the same. Edward looked amazing against the high-backed red velvet throne; Pullman clambered from camp and resettled, a spotty bedouin dead to the world.
The dealer’s tone became intimate, avuncular, almost morose. “I see that perhaps you came for more than just the selection of a gift. I’m not a gossip and am afraid I’ve spoken too much. Your grandfather is a valued client and, I like to think, a friend. Whatever happened those many years ago was a private affair. I wish I could help, but simply don’t have the information — nor would I feel comfortable imparting it if I had.”
With that he stood, a kindly smile radiating from his face. The children, who looked more like children now than when they’d come in, were downcast. Tull and Lucy helped Edward stand; and were soon joined by Mr. Tabori and staff as in the raising of the Iwo Jima flag. The crestfallen trio began trudging to the door when Tull turned back to face their admonisher.
“Mr. Tabori … that ‘flimflam’—he was my father.” The boy stood tall, and his lip quaked with passion. “For all my life I thought he was dead, but it wasn’t true. Trinnie — that’s my mother — Katrina Berenice Trotter Weiner — both she and my grandfather told me this, that he was alive, at least to their knowledge. They told me it recently, Mr. Tabori. You can imagine the effect that had; imagine what effect it would have had on you. And, well, to be honest, sir, I am trying very hard to find him — as any son would — and I will, one way or the other, with or without anyone’s help. Yes, our buying a gift was a subterfuge and for that I am sorry. Truly, we apologize! This sort of thing is new to us — to me. But you have my word that we came here today in the strictest confidence and would never think of doing anything to breach your relationship or trust … with our grandfather, or ourselves. But even if Grandpa were to know we paid a visit—”
“And he never will,” interposed the cousin.
“—he would not object. He told me a story, something he said that a general once wrote. The general cautioned his troops never to attack men who were on their way home from battle; he said men on their way home were unvanquishable. Well, I wish to bring my father home, sir; I’m on my way home, too. And nothing will stop me from getting there — from finding him! So, if you please, sir, I’d like to ask once more: is there anything else you can tell us?”
Lucy and Edward were in tears.
Mr. Tabori, not unmoved, sat down again with a sigh and smiled sagaciously. “You are here for a gift then — no?”
The children, puzzled at first, got his drift and vociferously agreed. Pullman yawned, shuddering his jowls.
“Then how can I help?”
“The book that was taken,” said Tull. “What was it?”
“A work by William Morris—News from Nowhere. A utopian novel. Not my favorite of the man’s, if I may.”
“Do you mean the British designer William Morris?” asked Edward.
As always, Lucy was shocked by her brother’s casual erudition.
“Oh, he was much more than that!” offered Mr. Tabori. “A voluminous intellect. Poet, weaver, socialist—and publisher. He founded the Kelmscott Press.”
“Do you still have a copy?” asked Tull. “I mean, another copy? News from—”
“Afraid not. The Huntington has one, if you’d like to see it. Or the Clark.” He leapt up, hurrying to a cabinet. “These are all Kelmscott. This row’s vellum — calfskin. These, prenatal; those, live birth. Down here are the linens: blue-backed holland boards. That’s how the Kelmscott Chaucer was first done: blue holland.”
Blue maze, blue board, blue holland … what a blue mystery we weave! thought the pigtailed girl.
“So you don’t have News from No—”
“We do have a Chaucer.” The latter was already laid out on a table. “I hope your hands are clean,” warned Mr. Tabori. “It’s about ninety thousand. The cover’s by Birdsall.”
He showed them the prenatal pilgrims, setting out for Canterbury.
“Sir,” said Tull diffidently. “Did you ever meet Marcus Weiner?” He couldn’t bring himself to say “my father” again just yet.
“Oh, many times! Interesting character — wonderful sense of humor. Wordplay and all. Powerful voice. Great head of hair. Far-ranging mind. Now, mind you, it wasn’t uncommon for someone like him to have an ‘interest’; Hollywood’s always had a romance with collecting. Johnny Depp buys with us — he likes Hunter Thompson ‘firsts.’ Though we don’t usually carry that sort of thing. Ron Bass and Tim Burton, Whoopi and ‘Buffy the Vampire Slayer’—they all come through. But Mr. Weiner … well, at first I thought he was being a bit precious.”
What’s this? Was the man saying his father was a celebrity? Impossible—
“You said,” Tull stammered, “that it wasn’t uncommon for ‘someone like him’—”
“A Hollywood person. At first I thought it precious that he was only interested in Morris … though after a while, I must say he proved himself extremely knowledgeable.”
“And why would that be ‘precious’—”
“Well, you know. Because he was an agent.”
“Agent?”
“He worked there. Didn’t you know?”
“Worked where?”
“Why, at William Morris! The agency — he was a hotshot. You mean that you didn’t … but how could you not have—” Mr. Tabori was briefly distressed, thinking again that he’d told too much; but remembering the boy’s eloquent speech, moved on. He pointed to the embossed, intertwining initials of the letterhead the children had mistaken for Marcus Weiner’s. “You see? The William Morris logo.”