The Collectors (Camel Club 2)

“You knew Jonathan?” Caleb asked.

“I wouldn’t call us friends, really. I had him over for one or two holiday parties. I knew he worked at the library and that he collected books. We’d occasionally pass each other on the street and chitchat. I was very stunned to hear of his death.”

“As we all were,” Caleb added somberly.

“So you’re his literary executor, you said,” Behan noted. “What does that mean?”

“It means I’ve been given the task of cataloging and appraising the collection and then selling it.”

“Anything good in here?” Behan asked.

“Are you a collector?” Stone inquired.

“Oh, I’ve been known to collect a good many things,” he answered vaguely.

“Well, it is a very good collection. It will be put up for auction,” Caleb explained. “At least the most prominent parts of it will be.”

“Right,” Behan said absently. “Any new developments on Jonathan’s death?”

Caleb shook his head. “So far it appears to be a heart attack.”

“And he seemed so healthy. I guess that’s a good reason to give it all we’ve got every day, because tomorrow . . . ?” He wheeled around and marched out, his men scurrying along in his wake.

As the sounds of the footsteps faded, Stone turned to Caleb. “Very considerate of him to come and check on the house of a man he occasionally chitchatted with.”

“He was his neighbor, Oliver,” Caleb pointed out. “He’s naturally concerned.”

“I didn’t like him,” Milton said. “He builds things that kill people.”

“Lots of people,” Reuben added. “In my book old CB’s a shifty little peckerhead.”

They spent hours going over the books and other articles until Caleb had a fairly complete list. Milton inputted these onto his laptop computer.

“Now what?” Milton asked as they closed the last book.

“Ordinarily, you’d bring in an appraiser from Sotheby’s or Christie’s,” Caleb answered. “But I have someone else in mind. And in my opinion he’s the best there is in the rare book field. And I want to find out if he knew that Jonathan had the Psalm Book.”

“Is he in New York?” Stone asked.

“No, right here in D.C. Maybe twenty minutes by car.”

“Who is it?” Reuben asked.

“Vincent Pearl.”

Stone checked his watch. “We’ll have to see him tomorrow, then. It’s already eleven o’clock.”

Caleb shook his head. “Oh, no, now is perfect. Vincent Pearl’s rare book shop is only open at night.”

CHAPTER 14

AS THE CAMEL CLUB LEFT DE-Haven’s home, two pairs of binoculars were trained on them. One was from an upper window of a house across from DeHaven’s and another held by a man in the back of a van parked down the street that had stenciled on its side “D.C. Public Works.”

When the motorcycle and Nova drove off, the van followed.

After the vehicles had disappeared, the pair of binoculars in the upper window of the house on Good Fellow Street continued to scan the area.

As Caleb predicted, it took twenty minutes to get to Vincent Pearl’s rare book shop. There was no name on the storefront, only a sign that read “Hours 8 PM to Midnight, Monday to Saturday.” Caleb marched up to the door and rang the bell.

Reuben looked around at the stout door and barred window. “I take it he’s not into advertising.”

“Anyone serious about book collecting knows exactly where to find Vincent Pearl,” Caleb replied matter-of-factly.

“You know him well?” Stone asked.

“Oh, no. I hardly operate at the level of a Vincent Pearl. In fact, in the last ten years I’ve only met him personally twice, both times here at his shop. I’ve heard him lecture before, though. He’s quite unforgettable.”

The lighted dome of the Capitol was visible to the west. The neighborhood they were in was lined with ancient moss-covered brick and stone row houses and other dwellings that had once been a focal point of the burgeoning capital city.

“You sure he’s here?” Milton asked just as a deep voice said in a demanding tone, “Who is it?”

Milton jumped, but Caleb spoke into a small loudspeaker barely visible under a strand of twisted ivy next to the door. “Mr. Pearl, it’s Caleb Shaw. From the Library of Congress.”

“Who?”

Caleb looked a little embarrassed and started speaking quickly. “Caleb Shaw. I work in the Rare Books reading room. We last met a few years ago when a collector of Lincoln memorabilia came to the library and I brought him around to you.”

“You don’t have an appointment for tonight.” The tone was one of mild annoyance. Apparently, Pearl wasn’t grateful for the referral Caleb had given him.

“No, but I come on some urgency. If you could just spare a few minutes.”

A few seconds later the door clicked open. As the others entered, Stone noted a tiny reflection from above. The small surveillance camera was staring right at them, ingeniously disguised as a birdhouse. The reflection was from the streetlight hitting the lens. Most people would have missed such a device, but Oliver Stone was not most people, certainly when it came to things that spied on you.

As they passed into the store, Stone also noted two other things. The door, although it looked old and wooden, was actually made of reinforced steel, set in a steel frame, and the lock, to Stone’s experienced eye, looked tamperproof. And the barred window was three-inch-thick polycarbonate glass.

The interior of the shop surprised Stone. He had expected to see a cluttered layout, with dusty books on bowed shelves and every crevice bursting with old parchments and tomes for sale. Instead, the place was clean, streamlined and well organized. The building itself was two stories in height. Tall ornate bookshelves lined every wall, and the books housed in them were behind locked sliding glass doors. A ladder on wheels ran on a long track tube attached to the tops of the nine-foot-high shelves. Three oval cherrywood reading tables with matching chairs sat in the middle of the long, narrow space. Overhead was a trio of bronze chandeliers that gave off surprisingly weak light. They must be on dimmers, Stone thought. A six-foot-wide spiral staircase led to the level above, which was partially open to the floor they were on. Up there Stone could see still more shelves, with a Chippendale-style banister running around the opening to the first floor.

A long wooden counter was at the end of the main room with still more shelves behind it. What Stone wasn’t seeing surprised him. No computers, not even a cash register was visible from where he stood.

Reuben said, “Feels like a place you’d want to smoke a cigar in and have a tumbler or two of whiskey.”

“Oh, no, Reuben,” Caleb said in a shocked tone. “Smoke is deadly to old books. And one spilled drop can ruin a timeless treasure.”

Reuben was about to say something when a heavily carved door behind the counter opened and an old man walked out. Everyone except Caleb did a double take because the gentleman’s silvery beard was long and flowed down across his chest, and his long white hair cascaded down past his shoulders. His costume was even more eye-catching. Over his tall, potbellied frame he wore a full-length lavender robe with gold stripes across the sleeve. His rimless oval glasses were perched on his long wrinkled forehead, where wisps of grizzled hair lay in an untidy fashion. His eyes were, yes, they were black, Stone decided, unless the poor light was playing a trick on him.

“Is he a monk?” Reuben whispered to Caleb.

“Shh!” Caleb hissed as the man came forward.

“Well?” Pearl said, looking at Caleb expectantly. “Are you Shaw?”

“Yes.”

“What is your matter of urgency?” Pearl suddenly glared at the others. “And who are these people?”

Caleb quickly introduced them, using only their first names.

Pearl’s gaze lingered the longest on Stone. “I have seen you in Lafayette Park, have I not? In a tent, sir?” he said with exagg

erated formality.

“You have,” Stone replied.

Pearl continued, “Your sign says, if I recall correctly, ‘I want the truth.’ Have you found it?”

“I can’t say that I have.”

Pearl said, “Well, if I were inclined to seek the truth, I don’t believe I would start my search across from the White House.” Pearl turned back to Caleb. “Now, your business, sir?” he said briskly.

Caleb hastily explained about his being appointed DeHaven’s literary executor and his request about the appraisal.

“Yes, it was certainly a tragedy about DeHaven,” Pearl said solemnly. “And you’ve been named his literary executor, have you?” he added in a surprised tone.

“I helped Jonathan with his collection, and we worked together at the library,” he answered defensively.

“I see,” Pearl replied tersely. “But you still require an expert’s eye, obviously.”