Schemers: A Nameless Detective Novel (Nameless Detective Novels) by Bill Pronzini Read Free Book Online

even a warm lead, he’d have said no, he’d stay on it a while longer. If this had been a few months ago, before he met Bryn Darby and what lay ahead of him tonight was nothing more than
four cold apartment walls, he’d have said the same thing. Push ahead, try to brace strangers in their homes, work as late as possible. But as things stood now …
    “I’m through,” he said. Until tomorrow morning, early.
    Tonight there was Bryn.

5
    T he pile owned by Gregory Pollexfen was typical of the homes in Sea Cliff, one of the city’s wealthiest residential neighborhoods: imposing, ornately stylish, and probably worth upwards of five million even in the current real estate market. The architecture had a Spanish influence without actually being Spanish—a broad mix of beige stucco, red tile, wrought iron, and polished woodwork, with a variety of small trees and plants in huge terra-cotta urns on a balustraded front terrace, and gardens on both sides. Some ultraelitist types might not consider it among the premier houses along Sea Cliff Avenue; it loomed on the low inland hillside, rather than perched on the cliffs above China Beach on the seaward side. But to my jaundiced eye, it would do in a pinch.
    A middle-aged, stoic-featured woman who was probably the housekeeper, though she wasn’t outfitted that way, let me in and deposited me in a front parlor, all without
uttering a word. I had just enough time to note that the undraped, floor-to-ceiling windows provided a sweeping view of the Golden Gate Bridge and the Marin headlands, and that the furnishings were expensive modern and the pictures on the walls all hunting and sporting scenes, before Pollexfen himself stumped in.
    Stumped is the right word. He wasn’t much older than me, but he moved in a slow, stiff, old man’s way with the aid of a blackthorn cane, as if his joints pained him at every step. Arthritis, probably.
    As we got the introductions out of the way, we sized each other up. He seemed to like what he saw; the faint smile he’d come in with widened a little and his eyes, steady on mine, reflected approval. As for me, I reserved judgment. You could see that once he’d been a powerful man, likely an athlete in his youth: an inch or so over six feet, thick-trunked and broad through the shoulders. Time and the afflictions that had invaded his body had taken their toll, as they do on all of us; his color wasn’t good and his breathing had a little whistling catch in it. Still, he projected an aura of intensity and inner strength. His body may not be holding up well to the passing years, but I sensed that his mind was as sharp as ever. Those gray eyes radiated intelligence. Final analysis, based on first impression: a man who would make a staunch friend and a formidable enemy.
    “I expect you’d like to see the library first thing,” he said.
    “Yes, I would.”
    “Follow me, then.” The smile had faded; he was all
business now. “I was pleased to hear that we share the collecting gene. Fascinating hobby, isn’t it, the acquisition of old books and magazines.”
    “And expensive, these days.”
    “Oh, yes. But I’m fortunate—the price of any given book or item of ephemera is not an issue with me. It’s the rarity and availability. Certain titles have eluded me for years. They simply aren’t available, no matter what one is willing to pay for them. Very frustrating. But then, the hunt is everything. If one could acquire everything one wanted, the game would lose some of its pleasure and excitement, don’t you think?”
    “I do, yes.”
    “Do you have much knowledge of antiquarian detective fiction?”
    “A limited amount.”
    “But you do have an appreciation.”
    “If you’re asking if I’ll appreciate your collection, I’m sure I will.”
    “You may just be overwhelmed by it. My collection is one of the finest in the world.” He said that without braggadocio. Just a proud statement of fact.
    We went down a wide, tile-floored