CHAPTER 29

Randolph was sitting behind his desk, holding what looked like an elephant tusk in one hand.

“Know what this is?” he said.

I didn’t.

“It’s an oosik.”

The curator offered me the object but I wasn’t interested.

“Know what an oosik is?” he said.

“Tell me.”

“It’s the bone from a walrus’ penis.”

I looked again at the object. Two feet long and seven inches around. “Congratulations to the walrus.”

Randolph chuckled and laid the walrus’ pride and joy on his lap. “I have a poem on the wall over there,” he said. “It’s called ‘Ode to an Oosik.’ Want to take a look?”

“I want to know about the Sheehan’s. First edition. Number four, to be exact.”

Randolph ran one hand down the side of his oosik and took some time in formulating a response. When it came, it wasn’t much.

“Number four, you say?”

“Yeah, Randolph. Number four. The first edition you have the mayor’s people chasing. The key to finding a letter…about a scandal you told me never happened.”

Randolph’s eyes moved back and forth across my face, looking for a lever to pull, an angle to push. After a while he gave up and decided to play it out.

“You know about the letter?”

“Johnny Woods told me.”

“Okay, so I think there’s a chance that Wilson’s copy might exist. So what? I have no obligation to discuss that with you.”

“You got the mayor’s people going on this, didn’t you?”

“Sure, I pushed it along. If true, it’s a major bit of history. I’m a historian. So, why not?”

“Got a person killed. How’s that for starters?”

“I know the mayor’s men. They’re not going to kill anyone over this.”

I shrugged. “Who else would be looking for the letter?”

“As far as I know, it’s just Wilson and his inner circle.”

“Those are the only people you talked to about this?”

“Yes. And, as I understand things, Allen Bryant was going to give them the book. So why kill him?”

“So you knew about Bryant?”

“Woods called me on the morning you showed up at the society.”

“You’re a weasel, Randolph.”

The weasel was back to petting his walrus. He held up the oosik and pointed it my way. “We still have a deal?”

“Fuck off. And put that goddamn thing down before I stick it somewhere.”

The curator did as he was told. He could be bullied, but only to a point. If the man had cards to play, he was in. To the last hand.

“I can help you,” Randolph said.

“How?”

“Get me the book. It will take us both to the letter.”

“And, presumably, Allen Bryant’s killer.”

“That’s your business. I just want the letter.”

“And to get that, you need the book.”

“Yes, I believe so.”

“I don’t have it, Randolph. So I don’t have to think about cutting deals with you.”

I got up to go. The curator remained seated. “Not yet,” he said. “If you get your hands on the Sheehan’s, however, you’ll be back.”

“You think so?”

“If you suspect it might help solve your murder, you’ll work with me.”

Randolph was probably right. That bothered me.

“Whoever has the book,” Randolph said, “doesn’t know how to use it. Otherwise, we would have heard about it by now, don’t you think?”

“Probably.”

“Precisely. I’m guessing the Sheehan’s is still out there. Maybe Mr. Bryant hid it somewhere. Who knows?”

“And if it’s out there, I’ll track it down. Right?”

“That’s what I’m betting on, Mr. Kelly.” Randolph shifted comfortably in his seat. “In fact, I’m counting on it.”