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

hallway, the ferrule tip of Pollexfen’s cane making little hollow clicking sounds. Tile-inlaid archways opened at intervals into rooms on both sides. As we approached one of these near the end, I could hear another sound—the clicking of computer keys. Pollexfen turned in there, stepping aside to let me follow. Small office, a brunette in her mid-thirties ensconsed behind a functional gray metal desk. Attractive,
but severe-looking, as if she’d never found much to smile about in her life or work.
    Pollexfen introduced us. Brenda Koehler, his secretary “and general factotum.” She said through an impersonal smile, “I hope you’re able to find out what happened to the missing books. The theft has everyone baffled.” The words seemed impersonal, too, as if she didn’t really care one way or the other.
    “He has excellent credentials,” Pollexfen said to her. “If anyone can get to the bottom of this, I’m sure he’s the man.”
    She nodded. “I have the letter to Mr. Phillips ready for you to sign, Mr. Pollexfen.”
    “It can wait.” He looked at me, said, “Business matter,” and led me out into the hallway again. “Brenda’s been with me for years. Handles my personal and household affairs. Indispensable.”
    “Which means she’s also trustworthy.”
    “Absolutely. Even if she knew anything about antiquarian books, which she doesn’t, she isn’t permitted in the library alone.”
    “I understand none of the other members of your household is a bibliophile.”
    “That’s right. Mrs. Jordan, the housekeeper, has been with me for years. Not even a reader and not overly bright, but above reproach. My wife’s primary interest is in spending money on herself. My brother-in-law’s hobby is making grandiose schemes and cheap women. If anyone in this house devised a way to steal those books, it’s Jeremy Cullrane.”
    “Why do you say that?”
    “We’ll discuss it after you’ve seen the library.”
    At the end of the corridor was a set of double doors of some polished wood that might have been Philippine mahogany. Two locks, both deadbolts. Pollexfen used a key attached to a heavy silver ring to release the locks—the same key, I noticed, for both—and then reached inside to switch on the lights.
    It was like walking into an exclusive bookshop, the kind that caters to well-heeled customers. Or a special exhibit in a library or museum. The room seemed to take up most of the back half of the house. It was thickly carpeted in some light blue weave; there were two overstuffed chairs with side tables, two floor lamps, an oak library table, a small desk, a gas-log fireplace with what looked to be an antique double-barreled shotgun mounted above it, and two sets of windows with heavy drapes in the back wall. The rest of it was books. Floor to ceiling on lacquered mahogany shelves. In stacks on the tables and here and there on the carpet. The upper shelves were reachable by one of those rolling library ladders strung on a brass rail that encircled the room.
    Most of the volumes had bright dust jackets in Mylar protectors, the rest colorful bindings. That was my second impression of Pollexfen’s library: color, much of it primary color. You were surrounded by it and the effect, enhanced by indirect ceiling light glinting off the Mylar, was almost dazzling.
    Pollexfen was watching me and my reaction pleased him. He said, “Didn’t I tell you, you might be overwhelmed?”
    “You did and I am. Very impressive.”
    “Upwards of fifteen thousand volumes, catalogued and in alphabetical order. My primary interest is detective fiction of the last half of the nineteenth century and the first half of the twentieth. There is also a fair representation of post-1950 authors and titles, to the present day.”
    “All different types, I take it.”
    “Oh, yes. Sherlockiana. Whodunits, whydunits, howdunits. Hardboiled, police procedurals, spy novels, comic mysteries, category and mainstream thrillers—a sampling