Chapter 9

Philadelphia

June 31: Philadelphia

Thirty six hours later, I landed in Philadelphia. There was a train into the city but I decided to rent a car in case I needed to be mobile. My hotel was downtown, near Washington Square and Independence Hall, a short drive from the airport along the industrialized banks of the Delaware River. I exited the expressway when my phone told me to, rolled my windows down, and drove slowly along tree-lined Market Street. A liquid shimmer glistened in the still air which seemed to ooze rather than flow into the car. Golden sunlight lit up the brick facades of buildings old and new lining the street. Everything looked a little blurry—simultaneously close and distant, vast and tiny like in a tilt-shift photograph. I soon felt damp and lethargic from the heat but I didn’t mind. I always hated air conditioning more than being hot.

I found my hotel, turned the car over to a valet, and checked in. My room was on a high floor with a view over the historic old town and the river. I would have been happy to sit in my generic box of a room, enjoying the view and reading some more of Cellini’s tales of random violence and goldsmithing—the more I read, the more he struck me as a Holden Caulfield type but instead of just complaining about phonies he punched or stabbed them and instead of getting kicked out of prep schools, he got banished from Italian city-states—but, rather than loaf around the hotel, I decided to get started on tracking down Lester Dworkin. I felt a sense of urgency to get on with the investigation. That intuition of being on a promising track I had felt on the way to Seattle was beginning to drift. I needed to re-center and find the trail before it disappeared.

The bookstore where Dworkin worked was called Eldritch Tomes and was only a few blocks away. Ashna had not been successful in finding his work schedule. She said the bookstore didn’t appear to even have an internet connection. The owner probably wrote the schedule out by hand and tacked it to a bulletin board in the stock room. I would have to stake the shop out if I wanted to nail down Dworkin.

I walked slowly down Chestnut Street, sauntering in the heat, until I reached the old city with its eighteenth century row houses and historic buildings. Eldritch Tomes occupied the bottom floor of a narrow, two-story building on a cobbled street just wide enough for two cars to pass in opposite directions. Brick sidewalks rose in waves like ribbons around the roots of big old zelkova and ginkgo trees. I paused for a moment, scoping out the neighborhood. A four story tenement squatted atop a coffee shop across the street from the bookshop. They had a chalkboard sign advertising sandwiches and smoothies and a few tables out on the sidewalk. I was hungry so I decided to sit, eat lunch, and watch the store for a while.

I had just found a table outside and set my iced coffee and plate down on it when I heard a tinkling of bells and glanced across the street to see the door of the bookstore open and a man emerge. I knew immediately that he was Dworkin. Ashna had shown me his social media profile photo. A tall and paunchy guy, with big, heavy limbs, sloping shoulders and curly, sandy-blond hair cut short, he walked with a kind of side to side amble. He wore all black despite the heat—a long sleeved button up and jeans, a wide belt with two rows of silver grommets, black combat boots with the cuffs of his jeans tucked in. He looked like an aging punk whose heyday was in the nineties. I watched him lumber across the street and enter the café. Through the open patio doors that let out onto the sidewalk seating I saw him order, wait for his food, then collect it. He walked back across the street carrying his lunch in a brown paper sack. The underarms and back of his shirt were soaked with sweat. The front door of the shop banged shut behind him.

I left the second half of my desultory sandwich and crossed to the bookstore. From the outside, it looked ragged around the edges. The sign—perhaps painted sometime in the nineteen-seventies—was faded and dirty. I couldn’t see much through the one large window but vague piles of books stacked on a counter. Inside it was dim, oppressively warm, and filled with the musty, mildew odor of old pages and leather bindings. Eldritch tomes indeed. A wooden counter supported what looked like a hundred year old cash register made of tarnished brass and ebony. Dworkin sat behind it, eating his lunch and drinking a sweating can of soda. Another worker lurked behind the counter too—a shorter guy wearing a Hawaiian shirt and cargo shorts. They both had open books and barely glanced up when I entered. A small boom box on the counter played The Pixies at low volume while a slow fly orbited the geographic center of the shop in senseless circles. I wandered toward the back and began to browse, taking random books from the shelves and pretending to peruse them. They had sections for science fiction, fantasy, occult, some classic literature, and rare books in glass cases near the front. After a couple of minutes Hawaiian shirt guy raised his head.

“Les. Did you decide whether or not you’re going to the Boston book fair? Klein wants to know.”

Dworkin raised his head and focused his eyes on his co-worker. “Yes. I’m going,” he answered in a deep voice. “Of course I’m going. I’m the buyer.”

“I know you’re the buyer. I was just asking.”

“You don’t know any of the vendors. I’ve been dealing with them for years. They respect my knowledge.”

“Fine. I was just asking.”

They both went back to reading their books. I didn’t want to try to speak with Dworkin in front of the other guy so I put down the volume I was pretending to read and slipped out the front door. Hawaiian shirt looked up as I left, an expression of mild surprise pinching his eyebrows as if he had completely forgotten that I was in the store.

Outside, I wandered down to the end of the block where there was a sports bar on one corner and a mini-mart on the other. It was almost one PM. Eldritch Tomes closed at six. My guess was that one of the workers opened the shop and one closed it, overlapping shifts in the middle. That meant one of them would probably leave around three PM. I didn’t know which one so I would have to be watching. I wanted to approach Dworkin when he was alone. So, I needed to either wait until Hawaiian shirt guy left or, if Dworkin left first, be there so I could follow him.

Instead of waiting around until three, I walked back to my hotel for a quick shower, and a change of clothes. It was just after two-thirty when I got back. I strolled slowly past the book shop and glanced in the window. Dworkin and Hawaiian shirt were both still at the counter, reading. I bought another iced coffee and sat down again outside the café. At two forty-five on the dot Dworkin emerged from Eldritch Tomes, turned right, and headed up the block. My guess had been right. I was glad I didn’t have to wait until five o’clock.

I waited for him to get halfway up the street, then stood and followed. He turned right at the end of the block and disappeared from sight. I hurried after him and turned the corner, expecting to see him not too far ahead but he was gone. An elderly woman was coming toward me, walking a small rat-like dog. A guy with enormous biceps wearing a white tank top sat on a stoop close by. But Dworkin was gone. I scanned the block again and noticed that a garage door just ten feet ahead was open. I began walking toward it but a van backed out, forcing me to stop. I could see through the open passenger window that Dworkin was at the wheel. The van was white and stenciled on the side was the logo of the book shop. Dworkin punched a garage door remote clipped to the visor, finished backing into the street, and drove off. I couldn’t very well follow him on foot so I stood still for a moment, thinking about my options. I could try again the next day. I could stake out Dworkin’s apartment. Or, I could go back to the shop and question Hawaiian shirt guy. Maybe I could get him to tell me where Dworkin was headed, if he knew. It seemed unlikely that Dworkin drove a van with the bookstore logo on it unless he was on business for the shop. Ashna had not found any record of him owning a car. Deciding on the third option, I turned and walked slowly back toward the shop, conducting some quick research on my phone as I strolled.

By the time I got back, I was ready. I thought it was unlikely that Dworkin’s co-worker would recognize me from earlier. I was wearing different clothes and he had barely seen me. Also, one of my most useful features was my generally generic appearance. Few people, seeing me for the first time, could pinpoint my ethnicity or find any distinguishing features to focus on. I had relied on this many times in the past and felt confident I could rely on it this time as well. Still, I was prepared to adapt my approach if he did remember me. The bells tinkled again as I entered the shop. I approached the counter, glancing around as if appreciating the vast array and selection, then turned my attention to Hawaiian shirt guy. I reached a hand out, offering to shake.

“Hello. I’m Ray Stevenson. Looking for Lester Dworkin if he’s here today.”

Hawaiian shirt guy looked confused for a moment, then answered. “Sorry. I’m Jeff. Farnsworth. Les left for the day.”

“Oh, too bad. I’m helping to organize the speakers for the Boston book fair. I’m in Philly for the day and just thought I’d drop by. I wanted to see if he would give a talk. Was he headed home?”

“A talk?”

“Yes. A session during the conference. We need people with his level of expertise to share their knowledge with the other attendees.”

“I see. Um…he wasn’t headed home. He was going to an estate sale in Ambler. An old college professor’s house who he thought might have a decent collection.”

“Oh. Perfect. Maybe I can catch him there. If not, I can at least look at the merchandise. Do you know the location?”

“No. He found it online though. Estate sales dot com I think. Or dot net maybe. I think it was over at four PM though. Don’t know if you’ll get there in time…”

Jeff Farnsworth’s voice trailed off as I waved and ducked out the door. I needed to hurry if I was going to catch Dworkin. I called the hotel and asked them to bring my car up then searched for the estate sale while walking fast. It wasn’t hard to find. It was the last day of the sale which had started on Saturday.

My gray sedan was waiting for me out front when I got to the hotel driveway. I handed the doorman a tip which he palmed expertly, proffering my keys in exchange. Soon, I was on Interstate seventy six, headed northwest out of the city. My phone said it would take forty minutes. About halfway, I exited seventy six, crossed the Schuylkill River and got on a smaller, two-lane country highway bordered by trees on either side. Through the trees I could see big old farm houses, fields, and patches of forest.

At last, the pleasant robotic voice told me I was approaching my destination. I turned into a driveway and saw a two-story gambrel-roofed house squatting atop a rise perhaps a hundred yards away, framed by trees. There were several cars parked in the circular drive in front of the house. One of them was the white van with the bookshop logo. I had made it in time. I parked next to the van and stepped out into the heat. The front door of the house was open so I wandered inside and found a large entry hall with a flagstone floor and high ceiling with exposed beams.

“Nearly cleaned out. You’re a little late.”

I turned and saw a middle aged man sweating through a blue button up shirt. “Just hoping to look at whatever books are left,” I said.

“Through that doorway,” he said, pointing to an arched opening to my right. “That’s the library. Some in the basement too. Door to the basement through the kitchen. Not much left I’m afraid and someone from a bookstore going through them now.”

“Okay. I’ll just take a look. Thanks.”

“My pleasure. Come find me outside if you want to buy anything.”

I poked my head through the doorway to the library but the room and the shelves were nearly empty. I wandered in for a moment, the sound of my footsteps on hardwood echoing around the space. Dark wood, high ceiling, crown moldings—it reminded me a bit of Carlu Ortoli’s library. That had been a quick job. I had known the framework from the outset and just filled in the details. This one was beginning to drag on me. Normally when I planned and executed, I could see the whole. I could project possible outcomes and problems and design around them. With Wolhardt’s missing notes I had no firm idea of how things would go or where I would be next. It was like a fog I had to blunder through as best I could. I turned away from the empty library. It was too much like a mocking metaphor for my clueless state. Dworkin had to be in the basement.

I found my way to the kitchen. An open door next to the pantry revealed a narrow stairway winding down to a small cellar where shelves lined the walls, heavy with preserves, canned food, canisters, and boxed MREs. The professor must have been planning for Armageddon. A doorway opposite the stairs led from the cellar into a short hallway. I heard the sound of a cardboard box sliding on a concrete floor and followed it to a storeroom lit by a bright bulb in a wire cage, hanging from the center of the ceiling. The bulb illuminated carefully stacked file boxes against one wall and Lester Dworkin crouching over a box, picking through the books inside. I hadn’t really thought about how I would approach him. I would have to improvise but I had an ace up my sleeve. I knew why Dworkin had come to this particular estate sale. After locating it and finding out who the deceased was, I had researched the professor briefly while walking back to my hotel. It wasn’t hard to find information about him. He had been an emeritus at Bryn Mawr—retired after a long career teaching philosophy with a specialization in the intersection of music and logic. A couple of the publications listed on his faculty page mentioned Edward Elgar and cryptography. Dworkin was undoubtedly looking for the professor’s books on that subject.

“Anything good down here?” I asked.

Dworkin tensed and looked up, surprised. “Maybe,” he answered, giving me a once over and returning his gaze to the box. “What are you looking for?”

“Books. Old and rare. Just like you I assume.”

“Yeah. Well, I’ve been through all of these boxes now and there’s nothing worth a rat’s ass. And I know my shit. Dig through if you want but you’re better off just taking my word for it.”

“Nothing on music? I’m looking for books about Edward Elgar.” Dworkin’s head snapped up and I continued. “I heard the professor was an expert.”

“Elgar huh?” He put the lid on the box and hefted it back onto the stack. “Anything in particular?” He stood and took a couple of steps toward me. “Biography? Musical scores?” Dworkin’s body language seemed subtly threatening, his tone almost angry.

“Mainly anything on the Enigma Variations,” I replied, casually. “I’m interested in the mystery surrounding…”

“Who sent you here?” Dworkin demanded, cutting me off. He stood absolutely still for a moment then darted to the door, surprising me with his quickness. Before I could react he slammed the door closed and stood with his back to it, facing me. “Did they send you? To question me?”

I held my hands up in front of me. “Who do you mean? No one sent me.”

“I mean the servants.” Dworkin glanced around nervously. His eyes seemed to be looking through me. It was cool but stifling in the windowless cellar with the door closed. Dworkin’s face looked deranged in the light from the overhead bulb.

“Whose servants?” I asked. “Someone else who’s interested in the Enigma?”

“Don’t be stupid.” Dworkin’s mouth twisted with contempt. “They have the knowledge. They have the lore. They don’t need to scratch around like stupid chickens in the dirt, looking for seeds. Like I do. They’re not looking for information. They’re trying to stop people from learning their secrets. Is that why you’re here?”

The situation had escalated rapidly. I wasn’t sure Dworkin was entirely sane. I didn’t want to make any moves that would upset him further. He could be dangerous. He was a lot bigger than me and panic can give people unusual strength.

“Nobody sent me here. I’m just looking for books. I’m an amateur Enigma enthusiast. I heard about the sale so I came out. Looks like everything is pretty picked over though. Maybe he kept the best materials in his office at the college. Who are these people you’re talking about though? Why would they be trying to keep you from finding some old books?”

“People?” he asked, incredulous. “You really don’t know anything, do you? People. The servants aren’t people. Maybe they look like people. You could be one.” A weird, strangled giggle started deep in his chest. He began to shake and the giggle grew louder, escaping from him in shrieks. It went on for a full ten seconds. His eyes never left mine. Suddenly he stopped and his eyes seemed to almost glow. “They’re always watching. I see them. At night. I know they’re there. Outside the door or the window. I hear them!” He shouted. “They know I’m close. Close to breaking the code. Elgar knew. He knew it. He put it in the music. The dark saying. Oh yeah.” Dworkin began nodding his head up and down frantically. He was sweating now, his face damp. A bead of sweat flew from the end of his nose. “Oh yeah,” he said again. “They’re sleeping but the dark saying will wake them up. That’s power. That’s real power. No fucking around.”

Now I was sure his mind wasn’t totally right. I had not eliminated the possibility that he was the thief who stole Wolhardt’s notes though. People can do amazing things based on fantastical ideas.

“Have you been to Los Angeles recently?” I asked.

The question seemed to confuse him for a moment and bring him back to reality. “Los Angeles,” he nearly spat. “That cesspool. The servants are in control there.” His eyes blazed again. “They run everything. The movies. TV. That’s their hive. Stir up the nest if I went there. Too dangerous. Is that where they sent you from?” Dworkin raised a fist, shaking it at me. Something flashed. A blade. His meaty hand had been concealing a box knife. “You won’t get me! You shouldn’t have come alone!”

I ran straight toward him then darted left at the last moment. He swung the knife in an arc but I was already behind him. Back to the wall I kicked, getting the flat of my foot on his hip. He fell sprawling and the knife clattered across the floor. As soon as he was down, I lunged through the door, slammed it closed behind me, and bounded up the stairs. Back in the kitchen, I closed the door to the basement too and latched it. I could hear him lumbering up the stairs. I hurried through the house. A dull pounding came from the kitchen. On the front steps I found the guy running the estate sale again, staring off into the distance, cigarette smoke hanging around him in a gray cloud.

“What’s that noise?” he asked as I passed him.

I shrugged, giving him my best expression of deep imbecility, and kept going, heading for my rental car. He watched me go, head tilted to one side in confusion. I got behind the wheel, started the engine, then waved to him as I began to pull away. Through the windshield I saw his mouth move, mumbling some profanity as he ground out his cigarette in the gravel and turned, heading back into the house to find the source of the pounding. I was glad I wouldn’t be around when he released Dworkin from the basement.