The Department of Rare Books and Special Collections(41)
“Like the Plantin,” he agreed.
“How are you taking the loss? It must be a blow.”
“All right,” he said. “I feel powerless, but I’m a Catholic, so it’s a familiar feeling.”
“That’s funny,” Liesl said in a tone that made clear that it wasn’t, not really. “What were your plans for the Plantin? Exhibition? Digitization? Research?”
“You have a lot of questions,” he said.
A map seller in a newsboy cap pulled Max into a hug as they walked by. He expressed his sorrow at Christopher’s condition. He didn’t acknowledge Liesl. They walked on.
“I had no plans yet,” Max said when they were out of the map seller’s earshot. “I just wanted a chance to see it.”
“But you had a chance, didn’t you? During the acquisition? I’m certain that you and I talked about it when it first went missing. You inspected it before the purchase?”
Max crossed his arms over his chest.
“I did no such thing.”
“You’re responsible for religion collections.”
“Christopher didn’t ask me to weigh in,” Max said. “He went to the auction alone, and he handled the acquisition alone.”
“Why didn’t you say that? In our meeting, when I first asked?”
“I didn’t realize I was under investigation.”
She wondered about Max, and then she felt guilty for wondering about Max, but there was nothing she could do to keep from wondering. She wished she could remove the thought from her mind, but the truth was that Max was a man who had made certain promises to the church and had failed to keep them. She didn’t know the details, but the broad strokes were enough to make an impression.
“Better to offer all the information you have from the outset, though, isn’t it?”
“I’ve found that isn’t always the case,” he said. She wondered if a man who broke those big promises would not violate other types of trust.
They stopped for a coffee at the stand on the far end of the exhibition hall. It was watery and served in maroon paper cups. The aisles of the fair were properly full now. The professional collectors and cultural institutions already halfway through their days, the moneyed private collectors resting their elbows on glass cases as far as the eye could see, and the spaces in between occupied by the garage-sale set in their cargo shorts, looking for a treasure for less than the cost of a tank of gas and oblivious to how much the book dealers disdained them. They were all so old, Liesl thought. Was she that old?
“There wasn’t any point where you saw or handled or were alone with the Plantin?”
“No. There wasn’t any point. You can ask Dan if you like, since it’s obvious that this is an investigation. Just make it clear that you’re looking to humiliate me, not exonerate me. He can confirm that I never got the chance to help with the Plantin, because he was delighted by the idea of my exclusion.”
Liesl slid in closer, rested her fingers on her pursed lips, thinking that this disclosure that he was embarrassed to have been excluded was as open as Max had ever been with her. Max was ramrod straight, eyes on his empty cup instead of her, but Liesl wanted to believe that she’d be able to tell if he was lying. And she didn’t think he was.
“Would you like another coffee?” she asked.
They were both at the end of their cups of tepid brown water.
“Why not?”
“I’ll get it,” she said. “Maybe a biscuit too. To help it go down easier.” She went to stand in the line.
The first time she’d ever seen Max, he had still been wearing the collar of his chosen profession. He removed it for the last time shortly thereafter. But he still had posture like a priest. The sweater vest and shirt buttoned to its very top button, this was a man you could tell your sins to. Perched at the edge of his chair, he didn’t notice that Liesl was watching him, because he was watching the room. That Liesl could see, there were three tiers of people in Max’s eyes. Those at the convention who, upon sight, warranted a light nod. Those who warranted a wave and a hello, and in very special cases, those who got Max out of his chair for a handshake and a conversation with heads tilted toward each other. She wondered about these hushed conversations. She reached the front of the line and ordered more coffee and two biscuits. She crossed back to the table with the purchases, interrupting one of Max’s tilted-head conversations.
He didn’t offer the identity of his guest, and she didn’t ask. He might have thought that she wasn’t interested. He might have thought that he was entitled to his secrets. He oohed over the cookies, saying he rarely gave in to temptation. That brought about an awkward pause. They had been off the floor for forty-five minutes, which was too long. There were still hundreds of people in need of a nod, a wave, or a handshake.
When they returned to the show floor, Liesl looked at Max for signs of nervousness. If he was lying about the Plantin, the fair would be a place for him to meet a potential seller or to cross paths with an accomplice. Max’s perpetually perfect posture made him undecipherable.
There was a display of Lutheran ephemera. A collector, to whom Max said hello, was writing a check for $25,000. The exhibitor noted the amount on a scratch pad and pocketed the check. The rules of modern commerce did not apply here.
“What if the check doesn’t clear?” Liesl said. They were walking away from the Lutheran.