“There would have been, except that whoever burned this indulged in a little vandalism before he set fire to it. Look at these slashes on the spine ― and here. The book was mutilated with a sharp instrument before it was tossed into the grate.”
Keats looked up at Delia and Wallace, who were stooping over them. “Any idea what this book was?”
“Damn you! Are you two here again?”
Roger Priam’s wheelchair blocked the doorway. His hair and beard were threatening. His pajama coat gaped, exposing his simian chest; a button was missing, as if he had torn at himself in a temper. His chair was made up as a bed and the blankets trailed on the floor.
“Ain’t nobody going to open his mouth? Man can’t get any shut-eye in his own house! Alfred, where the hell have you been? Not in your room, because I couldn’t get you on the intercom!” He did not glance at his wife.
“Something’s happened down here, Mr. Priam,” said Wallace soothingly.
“Happened! What now?”
Ellery and Keats were watching Priam closely. The library desk and a big chair stood between the wheelchair and the fireplace; Priam had not seen the burned book.
“Somebody broke into your library here tonight, Mr. Priam,” rasped Keats, “and don’t think I’m happy about it, because I’m as sick of you as you are of me. And if you’re thinking of blasting me out again, forget it. Breaking and entering is against the law, and I’m the cop on the case. Now you’re going to answer questions about this or, by God, I’ll pull you in on a charge of obstructing a police investigation. Why was this book cut up and burned?”
Keats stalked across the room carrying the charred remains. He thrust the thing under Priam’s nose.
“Book... burned?”
All his rage had fled, exposing the putty color beneath. Priam glared down at the twisted cinder in Keat’s hand, pulling away a little.
“Do you recognize this?”
Priam’s head shook.
“Can’t you tell us what it is?”
“No.” The word came out cracked. He seemed fascinated by the binding.
Keats turned in disgust. “I guess he doesn’t know at that. Well―”
“Just a moment, Lieutenant.” Ellery was at the shelves, riffling through books. They were beautiful books, the products of private presses chiefly ― handmade paper, lots of gold leaf, colored inks, elaborate endpaper designs, esoteric illustrations, specially designed type fonts; each was hand-bound and expensively hand-tooled. And the titles were impeccable, all the proper classics. The only thing was, after riffling through two dozen books, Ellery had still to find one in which the pages had been cut.
The books had never been read. It was likely, from their stiff pristine condition, that they had not been opened since leaving the hands of the bookbinder.
“How long have you had these books, Mr. Priam?”
“How long?” Priam licked his lips. “How long is it, Delia?”
“Since shortly after we were married.”
“Library means books,” Priam muttered, nodding. “Called in a fancy dealer and had him measure the running feet of shelf space and told him to go out and get enough books to fill the space. Highbrow stuff, I told him; only the best.” He seemed to gain confidence through talking; a trace of arrogance livened his heavy voice. “When he lugged them around, I threw ‘em back in his face. ‘I said the best!’ I told him. ‘Take this junk back and have it bound up in the most expensive leather and stuff you can find. It’s got to look the money or you don’t get a plugged nickel.’ ”
Keats had dropped his impatience. He edged back.
“And a very good job he did, too,” murmured Ellery. “I see they’re in the original condition, Mr. Priam. Don’t seem to have been opened, any of them.”
“Opened! And crack those bindings? This collection is worth a fortune, Mister. I’ve had it appraised. Won’t let nobody read em.”
“But books are made to be read, Mr. Priam. Haven’t you ever been curious about what’s in these pages?”
“Ain’t read a book since I played hooky from public school,” retorted Priam. “Books are for women and longhairs. Newspapers, that’s different. And picture magazines.” His head jerked up with a belligerent reflex. “What are you getting at?”
“I’d like to spend about an hour here, Mr. Priam, looking over your collection. I give you my word, I’ll handle your books with the greatest care. Would you have any objection to that?”
Cunning pinpointed Priam’s eyes. “You’re a book writer yourself, ain’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Ever write articles like in the Sunday magazine sections?”
“Occasionally.”
“Maybe you got some idea about writing up an article on the Priam Book Collection. Hey?”
“You’re a shrewd man, Mr. Priam,” said Ellery with a smile.
“I don’t mind,” the bearded man said with geniality. There was color in his cheekbones again. “That bookdealer said no millionaire’s library ought to be without its own special catalogue. ‘It’s too good a collection, Mr. Priam,’ he says to me. ‘There ought to be a record of it for the use of bib-bib-’ ”
“Bibliophiles?”
“That’s it. Hell, it was little enough, and besides I figured it might come in handy for personal publicity in my jewelry business. So I told him to go ahead. You’ll find a copy of the catalogue right there on that stand. Cost me a lot of money ― specially designed, y’ know, four-color job on special paper. And there’s a lot of technical stuff in it, in the descriptions of the books. Words I can’t even pronounce,” Priam chuckled, “but, God Almighty, you don’t have to be able to pronounce it if you can pay for it.” He waved a hairy hand. “Don’t mind at all, Mister ― what was the name again?” ii Queen.
“You go right ahead, Queen.’’
“Very kind of you, Mr. Priam. By the way, have you added any books since your catalogue was made up?”
“Added any?” Priam stared. “I got all the good ones. What would I want with more? When d’ye want to do it?”
“No time like the present, I always say, Mr. Priam. The night is killed, anyway.”
“Maybe tomorrow I’ll change my mind, hey?” Priam showed his teeth again in what he meant to be a friendly grin. “That’s all right, Queen. Shows you’re no dope, even if you do write books. Go to it!” The grin faded as he turned his animal eyes on Wallace. “You push me back, Alfred. And better bunk downstairs for the rest of the night.”
“Yes, Mr. Priam,” said Alfred Wallace.
“Delia, what are you standing around for? Go back to bed.”
“Yes, Roger.”
The last they saw of Priam he was waving amiably as Wallace wheeled him across the hall. From his gesture it was apparent that he had talked himself out of his fears, if indeed he had not entirely forgotten their cause.
When the door across the hall had closed, Ellery said: “I hope you don’t mind, Mrs. Priam. We’ve got to know which book this was.”
“You think Roger’s a fool, don’t you?”
“Why don’t you go to bed?”
“Don’t ever make that mistake. Crowe!” Her voice softened. “Where’ve you been, darling? I was beginning to worry. Did you find your grandfather?”
Young Macgowan filled the doorway; he was grinning. “You’ll never guess where.” He yanked, and old Collier appeared. There was a smudge of chemical stain along his nose and he was smiling happily. “Down in the cellar.”
“Cellar?”
“Gramp’s fixed himself up a dark room, Mother. Gone into photography.”
“I’ve been using your Contax all day, daughter. I hope you don’t mind. I’ve got a great deal to learn,” said Collier, shaking his head. “My pictures didn’t come out very well. Hello there! Crowe tells me there’s been more trouble.”