Today his slight build was clad in one of his typical preppy ensembles—a salmon-colored V-neck over a pressed white button-down, brown corduroy slacks, and polished penny loafers, with a heavily lined J. Crew windbreaker tossed on to combat the fall chill. I could see he wasn’t teaching today because he was sans tie (bow or any other kind). His straight brown hair was neatly trimmed, the bangs, which he could never decide what to do with, were today slicked back off the forehead of his patrician face.
“Yes, yes, it’s true,” Brainert conceded. “Seymour delivered the news with the gas bill. So which volume is it? Or do you have more than one.”
“I believe it’s a complete set.”
“Gad! Now I must see them. What’s their condition? How much are they worth?”
“A lot, I suspect. But the problem is…” I sighed. “Well, I feel a little funny about the whole deal now.”
Brainert blinked. “Whatever do you mean, Pen? You are selling them, aren’t you?”
“Well—”
I was about to tell Brainert all about last night, when Garfield flew out of the storage room, interrupting us.
“Mrs. McClure! Mrs. McClure!” he cried, waving around a bundle of yellowed papers. “I found these in one of those boxes of books. Letters, or papers, or something. The stuff ’s really old, too.”
Brainert’s eyes widened. “Is he speaking about the Phelps editions?”
I nodded, opened my mouth to speak, and the chimes rang over the front door once again.
The man who entered was such a striking figure, we all stared for a long rude moment. Tall as Lincoln and rail thin, the man’s short-cropped hair was completely silver, a stark contrast against his black suit and overcoat. He strode across the store and up to the counter, carrying a shiny black attaché case in one pale, long-fingered hand.
“Madame. Are you the proprietor of this establishment?”
His French accent was somewhat pronounced, but I had no trouble understanding him.
“Yes, I am. May I help—”
“I am Rene Montour. You are certainly familiar with my name, are you not?”
“Hello, Rene. I, um…w-well—”
He did not smile, nor did he acknowledge my clumsy stammering. Instead, the man frowned down at me, cutting me off with his even baritone. “I believe you have some property that belongs to my client. I am here to retrieve it posthaste.”
“Excuse me?” I replied.
“I am referring, of course, to a certain consignment of rare and valuable books.”
CHAPTER 7
The Accidentally Purloined Letter
He was a guy who talked with commas, like a heavy novel.
—Raymond Chandler, The Long Goodbye, 1953
WHILE I STOOD flabbergasted in front of the stranger, looking less than brilliant, my aunt arrived, looking sharp as a tack in a navy pantsuit, her reading glasses dangling from a sterling silver chain.
“Mr. Montour! I’m so happy to meet you at last.”
She crossed the selling floor with her hand extended, her features appearing rested despite our harrowing evening. “I’m Sadie Thornton. You and I have exchanged so many e-mails, I feel as if I know you.”
Unfortunately, my aunt’s welcoming smile did little to thaw Mr. Montour’s chilly countenance. He ignored her proffered hand, bowed stiffly instead. Unperturbed, Sadie gracefully withdrew her hand.
While Montour did cut a striking figure—from a distance—he was not particularly attractive up close, unless your taste ran toward ghouls. His flesh was pale pink against the night-black clothing, his face narrow with high cheekbones. Under a pair of circular, black-rimmed glasses his eyes were dark pits. Pencil-thin sideburns—white like his hair—reached from his ears to the hollow of his cheeks.
“I see you’ve met my niece, Penelope,” Sadie said. “And this fellow here is J. Brainert Parker, a professor at St. Francis College.”
The man jerked his head in a curt gesture I assumed to be a nod of acknowledgment.
“Mr. Montour has come from Montreal, Canada,” she informed me, “to accept delivery of a set of very valuable first editions. Isn’t that right?”
“Correct,” he replied.
Recovering from my shock, I realized Rene Montour’s arrival had absolutely nothing to do with Peter Chesley’s consignment. Montour was actually expected—just early. I quickly remembered that a pickup was scheduled for later this week, but not under the name of Rene Montour.
Rene was obviously representing his uncle, Jacques Montour, a Quebec-based, French-Canadian investment banker and collector of twentieth-century first editions—and I mentally kicked myself for not making the connection faster. As his uncle’s representative, Rene was here to take possession of a cache of Raymond Chandler rarities assembled by Sadie over the past several years.
“The arrangements were finalized months ago,” Mr. Montour said. “The books were to be made ready for my arrival this week, as I understood it; and, all the details have been worked out, therefore, I, of course, trust there will be no problem.”
All that yammering is giving me a headache where I don’t have one—a head, that is…
It was Jack Shepard, intruding into my thoughts for the first time today.
“Good morning, Jack.”
“Fortunately my business in New York City ended prematurely,” Mr. Montour continued. “So I rented an automobile and drove to Quindicott in order to secure the consignment for my uncle, who, as you might imagine, is very eager to make the acquisition.”
I’ll bet this squealing rattletrap is a high-priced mouthpiece. They all get paid by the word, like some low-rent pulp writer. Either that or Bela Lugosi here is really a mortician.
Mr. Montour’s eyes narrowed distrustfully. “I am, of course, well aware that my arrival was originally scheduled for Wednesday,” he said. “But as I said, my work was finished in New York City, and, as an attorney, my time is quite valuable.”
Didn’t I call it?!
“Therefore, because the price has been agreed upon and the books in question have been paid for, I decided it was in everyone’s mutual interest to make the journey to New England prematurely, in order to facilitate the transaction.” One of Montour’s long-fingered hands adjusted the rim of his black glasses. “I trust my early arrival has not inconvenienced you, or caused any delay in the culmination of our arrangement.”
The room was silent for a moment, until Sadie realized Mr. Montour had finally stopped talking.
“No, not at all,” she replied. “Your arrival does not trouble us in the least.” She touched the man’s arm. “If you’ll come with me, I will show you the books in question. I’m sure you’ll find their condition acceptable. After that, we’ll pack your purchase and draw up a receipt.”
As she led Mr. Montour to the storage room, Sadie called to me over her shoulder. “Could you help us, Pen?”
Brainert spoke up next.
“Excuse me. Since you’re heading to the back room, could I tag along and check out the Phelps editions you’ve been hiding? I’m dying to see them.”
Rene Montour’s head jerked around, and he flashed Brainert an intense glare. “Do you mean the Eugene Phelps volumes of Edgar Allan Poe?”
Brainert arched an eyebrow. “Apparently they have a complete set.”
Montour cleared his throat. “Do you have a buyer?” he asked, feigning only a mild interest. But the lawyer’s earlier eagerness had already tipped his hand.
Sadie, bless her little entrepreneurial heart, laid it on thick. “Well, we’ve only just acquired the editions. We haven’t even accessed their condition and salability. So I really can’t say if we’ll be offering them.”