The Beastly Island Murder. Carol W. HazelwoodЧитать онлайн книгу.
had a gentleman’s demeanor which seemed at odds with his position as groundskeeper.
She poured a small amount of tea into the china cup and held it in both hands to savor the warmth before she took a sip. Setting the cup down, she walked over and unlocked the glass doors to the bookcase. After donning the white gloves, she began her work, starting at the top row to keep them in the order of Wedgeworth’s acquisition dates. With meticulous care, she removed the first book, The Blackboard Jungle by Evan Hunter. She placed it on the desk, careful not to crack its spine back too far.
Inspecting the copyright page to see if it was a first edition was more difficult than people thought. Different publishers used different numbering systems and stating that the book was a first edition didn’t make it true. In this case Simon & Schuster had printed it as a first with a date of 1954. She checked the numbering system to be sure. Publishers used a set of numbers 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 and the lowest number in the series dictated whether it was a first edition. In this case the number 1 was present and that helped verify the edition as a first. She transcribed the data into her computer before perusing the book to determine its condition. Checking for foxing or spots showing water damage or age was her first priority. It was a hardback with a pristine dust jacket, which upped its value. When she was finished inspecting it, she typed in VF to F next to the title, meaning the book was in very fine or fine condition. There was no crumpling at the head of the spine, no sign of binding repair; the jacket price had not been clipped off, but it had no other defects that she could determine.
Returning the book to the shelf she continued the same process with each book. Most were in fine condition although two had to be listed as VG, meaning very good. In one the previous owner had signed the back end paper and the other had a small spot in the center page, probably from an insect stuck between the pages. That could be repaired. The hours ticked by and she stopped occasionally to stretch and walk around.
She was transcribing data from Life of George Washington by John Corry published in London in 1800, when she heard the lock turn, but continued to log into her computer the long title: Late President and Commander in chief of the Armies of the United States of America – Interspersed with Biographical Anecdotes of the most Eminent Men who effected the American Revolution. By the time she’d finished, Harold had put a tray on the table with another pot of tea and a plate of round cheese biscuits with nuts on top.
She looked up, noticed the time on the wall clock, and said, “You came at a good time. I was getting hungry.” She leaned back and took off the gloves.
“These biscuits are Mr. Wedgeworth’s favorites. They’re rather spicy. I’m afraid there isn’t much else to eat.” He took away the pot of cold tea and replaced it with the hot one. Steam drifted from its spout.
“I only have nine books to go, so it shouldn’t be much longer. Do I just hit this button?” She pointed to the one that said intercom, “or pick up the phone?”
“Push the button and I’ll respond. The rain’s letting up, so your drive home should be pleasant.”
“Glad of that.” She watched him leave, then poured a fresh cup of tea and picked up one of the biscuits. As she bit into it, her eyes watered at the sharp tang of the cayenne-laced cheddar. Clifford Wedgeworth’s taste in food was as sharp as his eye for collectable books. Warmed by the hot tea and the spicy food, she returned to her work.
Once again she donned the gloves and studied the book she’d been working on. The cover was new, as it had been rebound. That plus the discoloration and tattered pages devalued its worth. Still, it was a handsome little piece and could bring a good price to the right buyer. She returned the book to its proper place and took out the next one. Swiveling around in the chair to face the desk, she laid the book next to her laptop, then stared at the cover.
The Big Sleep by Raymond Chandler! Carla’s book?
Her fingers trembled as she opened the cover. Holding her breath, she turned the page—a first edition published by Alfred A Knopf 1939 with the author’s signature. Of course there were many copies, but how many autographed first editions? She squinted as if to bring the book into focus and stroked the signature. Was it authentic?
From research she’d done on Chandler, she knew that if the book was in near fine or fine condition it could bring over eighteen thousand. That wasn’t enough to kill for, was it? Jennifer knew there were many book collectors who stole books, but had never heard of anyone committing murder to obtain one.
Alex had notified the American Antiquarian Bookseller’s Association that the book was missing and they in turn made book collectors aware if it turned up for sale. Jennifer had no information about any copies of The Big Sleep up for sale in the past two years. Some collectors never sold their rare books, but kept them for the pleasure of owning them.
Her gloved fingers hovered over the title page. Could this be Carla’s copy? If so, could she prove it? Carla’s had come from the Helen Jacobi estate that had donated books to the Friends of the Library. Inspecting the dust cover, she found the initials H. J. clearly written in script on the flyleaf.
“My God. This has to be it. I found it!” Her words bounced off the walls. The initials would devalue the book, but she didn’t care. This book was gold to her. Without thinking, she picked up the book and held it to her chest.
How had Wedgeworth acquired it? From whom? When? Questions rolled through her mind. If she knew how to contact him, she’d call him this minute. Her shoulders slumped. She’d have to wait till he returned. She’d waited two years. Two weeks longer shouldn’t matter.
But it did.
Slowly she placed the book back on the desk. Her stomach churned. Carla had held this book, valued it, and it had been wrenched from her dead body. Jennifer’s heart swelled. She stood and paced around the room unable to contain her feelings and her excitement. Now what? What was so important about this book that someone would kill for it? It’s worth alone could not explain murder.
Sitting again at the desk, she caressed the cover. She thought a moment, before removing a soft bristled brush from her briefcase and placed a colored sheet of paper under the book. Anything dislodged would fall onto the paper. With meticulous care, she began to scrutinize every page and brushed the crease near the binding. Three quarters of the way through, her effort yielded a few grains of sand. She closed her eyes and exhaled, then continued page by page. There was a smudge at the bottom of one page—a blood stain? Only a special light could determine that. The stain would devalue the book, but her sole concern was finding anything that would solidify the identify of this book as Carla’s.
She continued her meticulous search through to the back cover. At first she thought pen scratches had marred the end page. She brought the desk lamp closer. The markings were faint black letters scrawled backward at an angle. Through her magnifying glass, she studied the smeared ink. The spacing was odd; the script difficult to read. The handwritten entries seemed to be notations on the margins of a piece of paper that had been wedged between the pages. More letters in block print were in the center of the page. These must have been smears from an old typewriter. The carbon from the ribbon allowed some words and letters to leach onto the book’s paper. Due to the transfer, all these read backward.
There were a few legible words and in other places there were only imprints of letters with spaces in between. She remained hunched over the book, scrutinizing every line. At the bottom of the page there was an incomplete signature. She took out a mirror and placed it at an angle to the writing, puzzling over it. When she at last made out the signature, her hand flew to her mouth. A. Einstein. “My God, could it be? Albert Einstein.”
She leaned back and gave a triumphant smile, and almost yelled, “Yes!”
Her heart pounded. Awed by her discovery, she squinted over the page again with the magnifying glass. On a separate sheet of paper, she wrote the words she could decipher: “Lotti … Presi … en … S … ilar … ucl … ar … chai ... r … sorr … writ … future … respo … confe … A … Einstein.”
For a time, she sat frowning at this new mystery. A letter or a document must have