We left Alex Spears and headed out across town to the man who was said to be their chief competitor in the bookselling business, Andy Johns of Regal Books. In the car along the way Grant and I talked about what we’d just heard from Spears. I was actually surprised my new partner was so talkative but I guess the case was bugging him as much it was me and he needed someone to sound off on about it.
“That guy, Spears, is a nut, Hollow,” Grant said simply. “A freakin’ nut!”
“Maybe.”
“No maybes about it! All those books, all them lousy cats, that damn smell. I thought I was gonna puke a dozen times. You know what? I think he did it. I think he murdered his partner.”
“Why do you say that? Not to get the books. He wouldn’t get them. He had to know that. The books would go to McDonald’s wife, Milly.” I said casually, but then I wondered about it. “Wouldn’t they?”
“Would they?” Grant asked suspiciously.
That got me thinking and I thought about it for a while. Was there some sort of deal in the partnership? Maybe a secret will, or legal document, some contract that said Spears got all of McDonald’s books upon his death? Maybe even vice versa? Could that be?
Probably not, I thought, but then again….
“So the partner is my chief suspect,” Grant stated as if he had finally solved everything—like the genius he was. “Or maybe the wife? Maybe both?”
I shook my head in desperation, “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know, Hollow! What the hell! What are you talking about?” Grant barked annoyed that I was not onboard with his brilliant theory.
“She was divorcing Brian, so she had a motive, I agree. She would have gotten half of the books—or the equivalent value in cash, anyway. So why kill him?”
“Greedy bitch, Hollow! Simple as that,” Grant said all-knowingly. “Half wasn’t good enough for her, she wanted it all.”
I nodded, “That’s possible, but I wonder if there is some contract regarding the books in the partnership.”
“I never thought of that, Hollow,” he said, looking at me, still with disdain. “I thought that old coot was hiding something. So maybe he is our boy after all?”
I didn’t say anything about that. It was way too early for one thing, but mostly I didn’t see Spears as a killer. Not the type at all. I liked the wife much more than the partner for the murder—but she had an air-tight alibi. I decided to shelve all these thoughts for the moment and any further talk with Grant until we arrived at our next destination.
* * * * * * *
Andy Johns of Regal Books turned out to be a large fellow, actually quite obese, bald head, bad skin and a ruddy but smiling face. He smiled at us even when we told him we were cops. That surprised me and it got Grant suspicious right off.
Johns, unlike most of these book dealers, had an actual physical book store. In that regard, he seemed to be a rapidly diminishing breed, because from what I‘d learned from Spears, independent book stores would soon be a thing of the past. Like the dinosaurs. As well as the very idiosyncratic and independently-minded people who owned those stores. It was quite sad really, an important and even charming part of our culture was melting away to be lost forever.
Andy Johns lived in the small orderly apartment above his store. I assumed he owned the building which was probably the only way he could afford to remain in business. He took us on a tour through the store, lined with rows of shelves of books. It was a well-ordered used book store that he told us also specialized in rare first editions that he proudly pointed to in a special group of glass display cases behind the front desk where the cash register was located. He was proud of his store, one of the last of the independents in our city, and talked about its rich history since he’d founded it in 1974 when he was right out of college.
Johns lead us to a stairway in the back, then upstairs, huffing and puffing all the way up each step. I feared he was going to have a heart attack right there at any moment and he was sweating profusely, even though it was far from warm. Once inside his apartment, I was surprised to see that there were very few books, only a couple of shelves in one common room. The rest of the place was a neat and orderly as Spears was messy. And not one cat was in evidence. Thank you, God!
“Those there,” he said, pointing to the only shelf with books upon it that I could see in the entire apartment, “they’re all sold. My online sales, the main part of my business these days. I have to package them up for mailing.”
Johns walked us into a small living room and over to some very comfortable-looking chairs. We sat down and got right down to it.
“So, what do you guys want?” Johns asked us, dropping himself slow-motion-like into a deep recliner with a heavy breath.
“You heard about Brian McDonald?” I began, looking for his reaction.
“Yeah, murdered they said on the TV news. I won’t say I’m sorry, that bastard stole some of my best clients from me.”
“The way were heard it, you stole his best clients,” Grant countered sharply.
“Hah! So you been talking to Spears. That old guy is a total liar, you can’t believe a damn word he says,” Johns replied hotly.
Charlie Grant and I looked at each other, I saw my detective partner roll his eyes in exasperation. I actually felt his pain. Almost.
“So who do you think killed Brian McDonald?” I asked Johns.
He laughed, “It could be anyone.”
“Even you?” I asked bluntly.
He smiled but just shook his head no.
“So then, where were you when Brian was killed?” I asked.
“Oh no, it was not me.” Johns added quickly now that he thought he was becoming the focus of our efforts. “I mean, it could be me. I hated the guy enough to do it, I guess—but no, I didn’t kill Brian.”
“I suppose you have an alibi for the time of the murder?”
“I suppose I do,” he replied defiantly.
Grant and I were quiet for a moment. Waiting.
“Well, we’d really like to hear it, Mr. Johns,” I prompted.
“The night of the murder I had a book signing here. Two local authors and their fans, we launched their new books. The Crossbow Murders, the new one by Betty Flavory, latest in her Archery Murders series. Very hot! People getting killed with bows and arrows—a very modern setting. Great fun! Then I had Simon Kent here, he came out with a rather thin but sensationalized and unauthorized biography of that new pop star—Lady…what’s her name? Anyway, the store was full of people and we had a nice wine and cheese book event all evening.”
“And you were here all evening and that can be verified?” I asked.
“Absolutely,” he replied simply. “Where else would I go?”
I looked at him, that could be checked out easily enough later. “So do you have any idea who killed Brian McDonald?”
“Well, my bet is on that crazy bastard, Alfred Smith. I mean, he was really hot to get his money back from Brian, from all I heard about it,” Johns told us almost sotto voce, like he was letting on to us some magical top secret in the book world. “I sell to Smith too, he buys a lot of high-end pricey books. I hear he had some huge inheritance. He’s a real octopus.”
“Octopus?” I asked curious. I’d never heard the term.
“Yeah, octopus, like in he’s got eight hands and he uses them to make sure he gets to have everything. Got his hands in everywhere and on everything. A completist. But unlike everyone else, he’s got the cash to actually be a true completist. Anyway, I heard that Brian screwed him on a big deal, almost half a million bucks.”
“For one freakin’ book!” Grant blurted, he was shaking his head now. With what he’d heard about the value of that old Mormon book from Spears; now with this, Grant must have been thinking he was in the wrong profession.
So was I, I had to admit.
I let a wry grin play over my lips, knowing the collector field from my glass collecting, I knew it was not always that simple. Big dealer scores of high-value items with corresponding big money sales were not common. Most often, the item—whether book or glassware—will sit on a shelf unsold for months, if not years. The dealer ends up just tying up a lot of needed cash in an item that does not sell. Or he’d have to sell it at a loss to recoup his outlay. That would eat away any potential profit. It happened all the time. However, that rare big sale that came along from time to time really made up for it. It made it all worthwhile.
Johns looked over at Grant, “Yes, from what I heard, it was some illuminated manuscript, something like that, something really rare. I think Brian stole it from some university library somewhere. You know, there’s a lot of that sort of thing going on these days. It’s all on the QT, of course. Or at least, a lot more of it is happening than people realize. I remember there was some guy in the Midwest, a really big case in the news a decade or so ago. He stole out of university libraries all the time. Thousands of books! Really valuable stuff. When the F.B.I. raided his home they found it stuffed to the rafters with books, boxes of rare letters, manuscripts and more—almost all of it stolen. I think that’s what Brian was into. That’s the only way he could get the kind of rare, high-end, quality material to replenish his stock and be able to sell on such a regular basis.”
I looked from Johns to Grant, “That puts an entirely different spin on this murder, if that’s true.”
Grant shook his head, things were getting too complicated for him and he didn’t like it.
I continued, “If what you just told us is true about his stealing, how can we prove that? Where would he get the books from? I assume he wasn’t doing the burglaries himself?”
Andy Johns shrugged, “I’m an honest dealer and I run a legit store here. I sell books because I love books. You understand? I actually read them. I collect the ones I read, re-read the good ones. I also love turning readers onto new books that I have read and liked. It’s a personal thing. From time to time I have people bring in a book or collection they want to sell to me and I know it could be stolen. I mean, I look at the item, then the sort of person who wants to sell it to me, and sometimes it just don’t add up. You know? So it could be stolen. Or it could just be some kid selling grandpa’s old books. Totally legit. That happens too. Who can really tell. I’m not in the FBI, I don’t verify every buy. I do the best I can. Sometimes I buy it, sometimes not. I’ve rarely had anyone bring in the kind of high-end items Brian specialized in. I’m not hooked into selling to that high-end library and museum market, except for a few other customers I’ve cultivated over the years, which Brian has taken away from me now.”
“I see,” I said, afraid I was not really seeing anything at all. I was wondering where we were going to find out about those stolen books. If this new branch of the case turned out to be true, it might give us a totally different reason for Brian McDonald’s murder—and a totally different perp.
“I’m not hooked into the crooked end of the market, either,” Johns added sternly, showing his distaste. “Maybe Al Spears would know, if you can get him to talk. Maybe Alfred Smith, the collector, would know. I’m sure his collector mania is sufficiently out of control to overcome any scruples he might have once had about buying stolen books. To me, and most honest dealers and collectors, such theft is not only a crime, it’s blasphemy. Blasphemy against books and the entire field.”
“Blasphemy?” Grant asked with a grin.
“Yep, that’s how a lot of us feel,” Johns said seriously, his eyes sharply looking at Grant. “Of course, that wouldn’t play with a guy like Brian McDonald though, and I’m sure Spears and Smith are the same way. Well, maybe not Spears. I’m not crazy about him, but I guess he is honest. I do have to admit it. We just don’t get along—mostly Brian’s fault—him being Brian’s partner for so long. Hell, Maybe Brian, Spears and Smith were in this all together? Like some secret conspiracy?”
“A book conspiracy?” I asked mildly curious.
“Yes, that’s it, a damn conspiracy!” Johns replied almost dreamily. “A real biblio-murder conspiracy!”
Grant just shook his head, muttered under his breath, “They’re all freakin’ nuts!”
“Thanks for your time, Mr. Johns,” I said, then Grant and I got out of there fast.
* * * * * * *
“So what’s next on the list?” Grant asked me once we were in the car and set to drive away from Andy Johns store.
“We have to talk to that collector, Alfred Smith, then maybe Brian’s mistress, Alice Sparks—and maybe even that former maid, the one he had a dalliance with, Angela Sledge,” I told him.
“Just three more to go, and we’re still no closer to closing this murder,” Grant said impatiently. “You know what I think? I like the partner for this. Thing is, we have to check to find out who gets the books after Brian’s death—the wife, or the partner?”
“Then let’s go back and see Spears about that,” I said, hoping we’d get down to the bottom of that question. I also wanted to find out what Spears knew about Brian’s theft of books from university libraries. There seemed something much deeper there that needed to be brought out to the light of day.
Grant shrugged, having no better idea, “All right, let’s do that.”