The Department of Rare Books and Special Collections(86)

“You haven’t asked me,” Liesl said. “Why I no longer suspect you.”

Without the sun to warm them, the cold came quickly.

“I supposed you had come to your senses,” Francis said. “It’s getting cold.”

“We’ll leave in a minute.”

“Should we just leave the boy here, do you think?”

“Are you going to ask me?”

“He’s feral as it is. He’d survive out here.”

Robespierre was alone now at the top of the play structure. Quiet and cross-legged.

“Ask me who the thief is, Francis.”

Liesl was not surprised to discover that he wouldn’t meet her eyes then. Gazing off, he confirmed for Liesl that he wasn’t blind to what had been in front of him all along.

“I won’t, Liesl. Knowing it for certain will break my heart.”

***

Two minutes after its scheduled opening the next morning, she pushed open the heavy door of Don Lake’s shop. The bookshop was dark. There were stacks of books and papers on every surface, covering every window and lighting fixture. She ran her fingers over the embossed cover of a Thomas Hardy novel that might have been valuable if Don could convince anyone to come into his dusty shop to buy it.

“Who’s there?” Don said, poking his head around the corner. “Liesl Weiss. What a pleasure.”

Don was wearing a dust-streaked shirt and carrying a mug of what Liesl hoped was only coffee but was probably something stronger.

“You’ve been avoiding my calls,” Liesl said. “So I thought a field trip was in order.”

She rested her elbow on a stack that wobbled perilously.

“I’ve been doing no such thing,” Don said. “But I’m damn glad to see a friendly face.”

“Has business been slow?” Liesl said. “I’ve been hearing that from some other sellers.”

“These are not literary times we’re living in.”

“Maybe a freshen up of the shop?”

“And ruin the thrill of the hunt?”

“Indeed. No.”

“What’s this about ignoring your calls?” he said.

“I’ve left a couple of messages on your machine. Have you been getting them?”

“That bloody thing.”

“No matter,” Liesl said. “A trip in person is twice as nice. Do you have a minute now to chat?”

“The crowds will simply have to wait.”

“Oh good,” said Liesl. “I wanted to ask about something you said to me when I ran into you at the book fair.”

It had been stuck in her brain like a splinter since they’d had the conversation. Not in deep enough to find some tweezers to remove it, but an irritant nonetheless. Something she could never quite forget about.

“Good turnout this year,” Don said. “And they poured a lovely rioja at the reception.”

“Do you remember we talked about the Peshawar facsimile?” Liesl said. She cleared a smear of dust off a book jacket with her thumb as she spoke.

“Still hasn’t sold, I’m afraid. Would you like to see it?”

“No, thank you.”

“Pity,” said Don.

“You said I probably wouldn’t be interested in it,” Liesl said. She asked it without making eye contact, without looking up from the dust.

“Well, no. It’s already in your collection.”

“Right,” Liesl said.

“Christopher bought another copy of that facsimile from me, was it five years ago now?”

“From the same printer?”

“From the very same print run,” Don said. “He was amazed by the quality of the reproduction. I suppose you use it for teaching alongside the original?”

She’d thought the truth would be more violent, a confrontation with a savage stranger. But it was gentler than that. It was recognizing someone you were certain you’d seen before and then having their identity reveal itself in your memory.

“We do something like that,” Liesl said. “Thanks so much for your time, Don.”

***

Garber’s office door looked like a fortified bank vault, protected by a twenty-six-year-old administrative assistant armed with hair spray and a pencil skirt.

Liesl watched Garber’s door from the outer hallway and waited for the assistant to need to pee. At her desk, the woman sat with perfect posture, fingers flying over a keyboard that she never once looked at.

A woman like this, Liesl thought, might never abandon her post. She would rush the bank vault; it was the only way.

She walked right past the woman’s desk to Garber’s door. He was sitting in his office chair with his feet up on his desk. Across from him there was another man, another suit, another set of feet on the desk. The men were laughing. Until they saw that they had been interrupted, and then slowly, they were not laughing anymore.

“What is this, Liesl?” Garber said, rising from his desk.

“I’m here to cancel our lunch.”

“My assistant handles my calendar.”

The assistant was standing at the door, powerless despite her hair-spray-and-pencil-skirt armor.

“Fine. Would you like to know why I’m canceling?”