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Crowley and Rose enjoyed a late breakfast in the hotel, Crowley’s head muggy from lack of sleep after spending most of the night out on his fruitless mission. The two hours of sleep he’d managed on his return somehow made him feel worse instead of better. He told Rose all about it and enjoyed reliving the adventure. “But regardless, the whole thing was a bust,” he finished. “I’m sorry, but I think we’ve hit a dead end here.”
Rose stared into her coffee cup as if answers might be divined from it. Maybe if it was tea and she could read the leaves, Crowley mused. “There must be more we can do,” she said eventually. “This is too interesting, don’t you think?”
“It is intriguing, I’ll give you that. Is this how we unwind now? We’re not the rest and vacation kind, are we.”
Rose grinned at him. “No, I guess we’re not. I need to do more research.”
“Do you think we’re clutching at straws?”
“Maybe we are,” she said. “But think about it! A whole crypt of corpses, some of them really fresh. Secret experiments and crazed doctors doing witchcraft or trying to be the new Frankenstein or something. Underground dungeon labs! Even if it’s all nonsense, it’s better than a lame guided ghost tour, isn’t it? I’m enjoying the search. It’s what I do, after all.”
Crowley laughed. “But aren’t we supposed to be taking a break from what we do?”
“No, Jake! We’re taking a break from weird artifacts and my psychopathic sister trying to kill us. Getting back into hard research and historical weirdness is my comfort zone.”
He had to credit her with that. She made a good point. “Well. I want to go and catch up with Matthew Price again, so maybe I’ll do that while you research more.”
Rose scowled. “I wish you wouldn’t.”
“I know you don’t like him. I’m still not really sure why, but I think he’s an interesting guy. And besides that, he’s entangled himself in my aunt’s life, which means he’s in my life now too. I need to get to know him.”
Rose sighed, swallowed the rest of her coffee. “I suppose so.” She caught his eye then looked quickly away.
“What?” Crowley asked.
“I had Jazz look into him,” Rose said, not meeting his eye again.
“Why? He’s not a criminal!”
“Well, I just have my suspicions about his best intentions, that’s all.”
“I’m pretty sure he’s independently wealthy and not just hanging around to gouge an old lady’s bank account, Rose!”
She met his eye at last and her gaze was hard. “I know, but it’s not that simple. I just don’t entirely trust him, okay? Will you simply accept that and bear it in mind? For me?”
He saw that she felt strongly about this, more than a hunch. He’d be an idiot to completely disregard it, no matter how much he thought her concerns misplaced. “Okay, sure. But I think you’re over-reacting. What did jazz find out anyway?”
“I don’t know yet, she didn’t get back to me. I’ll try to catch up with her again today. If you’re off to see Price again, I might as well.”
They kissed and hugged when Crowley set off half an hour later, so he figured there were no real hard feelings between them, but Rose was still clearly annoyed he was going to visit Price. It bugged him how suspicious she was, and that annoyance put him on edge. Overtired, he told himself. But the nagging sensation of wrongness wouldn’t go away.
Price’s apartment building was really something else. It was maybe no Dakota Building, but not far from it. Four blocks west of Central Park on the Upper West Side, Crowley first had a small chuckle at the address. 666 West End Avenue. The devil’s apartments! The building was called The Windermere and that gave Crowley pause for a moment, remembering enjoyable trips to Windermere in the Lake District in England. He made the snap decision to take Rose there for a proper restful holiday whenever they finally returned to Britain. It was easy for her to find distractions in a big city like New York. In the sleepy English countryside, she’d be forced to rest and join him on pleasant strolls through the woods. And he’d be forced to rest too. He had a feeling they both needed it, despite their shared urge for adventure.
The Windermere was a tall, pale beige-brick building on a three-story limestone base, built in the 1920s. Exclusive and fancy in every way, it towered up into the bright blue sky, twenty-two stories high. Relatively small in contrast to New York’s genuine skyscrapers, but imposing and impressive due to its stylish architecture, occasional balconies and terraces, canopied entrance, decorative terracotta façade features, and its even, symmetrical window placement. Crowley smiled. Classy place.
He approached the doors and a concierge smiled and waved him in.
“I’m here to see Matthew Price,” Crowley said.
“Certainly, sir. And you are?”
“Jake Crowley.”
The concierge whispered into a telephone, then turned a hundred-watt smile back to Crowley. “The elevators are around that side. Go on up to the twentieth floor. Mr. Price is expecting you.”
“Thank you.”
As Crowley emerged on floor 20, Price was standing in his apartment doorway. “Good morning, dear boy. How are you?”
“I’m well, thanks. Good to see you.”
“Come in, come in.”
The apartment was epic in scale, and breathably open-plan. A large square window in one wall had breath-taking city views and let in plenty of natural light. There was no TV in the large living area, but two walls were floor-to-ceiling bookcases jammed tight with hardcovers and paperbacks of every kind.
“Drink?” Price asked. “It’s a little early, perhaps, but I trust it’s after noon somewhere in the world.”
Crowley paused, thinking perhaps a drink was the worst thing given his lack of sleep the night before. Then again, if he was already thick-headed, what more damage could a drink do? “Sure, but just a small one.”
“Single-malt scotch? I have an excellent Balvenie here.”
“Lovely, thanks.”
While Price poured the drinks, Crowley walked slowly along the bookshelves, running his gaze over the titles. Lots of non-fiction, all kinds of historical and geographical tomes. Several sets of classics – Dickens, Shakespeare, Bronte, and more. Near the end of one shelf was a book turned face out on a small mahogany stand. F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby, in hardcover and absolutely mint condition. In fact, it looked almost brand new. The dustjacket was midnight blue, stylized female eyes and mouth over a brightly lit city, the title and author name in white text. Crowley had the feeling it was an old book, despite the incredible condition, but he couldn’t recall when it might have been published. He leaned in for a closer look, trying to remember when it was popular.
Price appeared beside him and handed over a cut glass crystal tumbler. Crowley took the drink and gently tapped glasses with his host. “Cheers.”
“Quite the treasure, that one,” Price said, looking at the old book.
“First edition?”
“Indeed. It wasn’t a best-seller when it was released, back in 1925. Only about 25,000 copies had sold by the time of the author’s death in 1940. But a genuine first edition with the dust jacket is a valuable item, especially in good condition. Firsts are always worth more, especially in the top bracket of condition like this one, but there’s another interesting facet to this book. There’s a typo on the back of the dust jacket. It says “jay Gatsby” with a lowercase j. It was corrected by hand with ink or a stamp wherever possible, but some sold without being fixed.”
“This is one of those?”
“It is. It also has quite a romantic history, this particular volume. The original owner bought it for his wife when it was first published, to read aloud to her as she was dying. Fitzgerald was her favorite author. He read it to her just that once, and she died soon after. It’s never been touched again in accordance with his will, except for being moved to this new shelf when ownership transferred after I acquired it.”
“It should be in a vault somewhere,” Crowley said quietly, touched by the tale. “Or at least in a protective case.”
“My apartment is well-sealed and climate controlled. I couldn’t bear to have the thing actually locked away. But it’s cared for, don’t worry about that.”
“Have you ever opened it, just to peek inside?”
Price smiled, shook his head. “It wouldn’t be right.”
They stared in silence for a moment, feeling the weight of history emanating from the simple object. Simple, Crowley mused, yet altogether magical as well. There was something touching about Price using his wealth on a thing so whimsical.
“Would you like to see the Golding?” Price asked.
“I would.”
Price led him to another set of shelving, with one section covered by glass doors. On a display stand inside was the book. Price opened the door and gestured for Crowley to take a look.
“You sure?”
“Your hands are clean and dry?”
Crowley grinned. “I think so, yes.”
“Then be my guest.”
Crowley gently lifted the book from its stand, marveling at the cover of long-leafed jungle vines. He loved this novel so much, the way it enthralled and disturbed him at the same time. He opened it carefully and sure enough, it was signed. The title page was simple enough. LORD OF THE FLIES across the top, then a stylized graphic, with
a novel by
WILLIAM GOLDING
beneath it. And under that the man’s signature, a clear cursive rendering of his name in pale blue fountain pen ink. Crowley stared, stunned by it. Golding had really held this very volume, put pen to it before he could ever have known how far-reaching this novel would become, what an impact it would have. School children around the world would read it and discuss its meanings, films would be made of the story.
He sensed Price beside him and looked up to see the man smiling warmly. “Quite something, no?”
“Astonishing,” Crowley said, reverently pacing the book back on its stand.
Price closed the door again as Crowley sipped his scotch.
“Would you like to own such a thing?” Price asked.
Crowley laughed. “I would, but I’d be terrified it might come to harm. I don’t think I’m responsible enough.”
“Do you have a ‘Holy Grail’ book you’d like to own, other than that” Price asked. “If money were no object?”
Crowley thought about that, then said, “I’d love to have the pages of Carrie that Stephen King’s wife famously rescued from the garbage. Do you know the story? He’d been rejected several times, decided he was done with it, and threw the book away. But she took it back out of the bin and urged him to continue trying, to continue writing. And look where he ended up!”
“So many men are all the better for the women who support them,” Price said quietly.
“What about you? What’s your holy grail book? I’m guessing with you, maybe money is no object?”
Price smiled softly. “I’m comfortable, certainly, but I’m sure there are plenty of things I can’t afford. But for me, with books, it’s not a matter so much of cost, but of scarcity. I would love to have Edgar Allan Poe’s Masque Journal. Most people have never even heard of it, but it’s the journal Poe used while he was working on The Masque of the Red Death. Do you know his work?”
“I do. And I’ve read that several times. I have a couple of compendiums of Poe’s fiction at home. Nothing rare, of course, modern editions.”
Price pursed his lips, nodding subtly. “Hmm. Well, this journal reportedly contains his original ideas, research notes, early drafts of the story, and random free-form thoughts. It would be entirely fascinating, don’t you think?”
“I’ve never even heard of it,” Crowley said.
“Very few have.”
Crowley thought back to when he and Rose had first arrived in New York. He hadn’t ever heard of the journal Price referred to, but was it possible he’d seen it? Was it possible the very thing Price desired most in the world had been recently unearthed and Price had yet to hear about it? “You know, Rose and I saw a Poe journal a few days ago,” he said.
Price’s eyebrows rose. “Is that so?”
“We visited the Poe house on West 3rd Street, do you know it?”
“Of course.”
“Kind of lame, really. Bit of a letdown all around, but they’d just put a new journal on display a few weeks ago. A small, tatty leather-bound thing. They found it during repairs to an older part of the foundations below the house, bricked into a basement wall.” Crowley squinted, trying to remember the details, and realized Price was looking at him with undisguised intensity. “The university, I think,” he went on. “They uncovered a metal lockbox containing several items including the journal. But they said it was mostly indecipherable.”
Price chuckled and sipped at his scotch, though Crowley noticed his hand was trembling slightly. “Well,” he said after a moment. “Wouldn’t that be something?”