A Book of the Dead Page 5

  “Mr Mayne?” He must have closed his eyes for a moment and when he opened them he saw that he had a visitor. One of the most beautiful women he had ever seen was standing before the desk.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr Mayne, but I’ve come to collect a book you offered my uncle, Sir Simon Vale.” Janet smiled and held out a card. She wore a Dior suit and her car parked outside had probably cost more than Tom earned in five years.

  “Yes, of course, Miss Vale.” Tom had seen that smiling face before in half a dozen social magazines and usually in the company of a sprig of the nobility named the Honourable James Stewart-Smith. “Do please sit down for a moment.”

  “No need for that.” Janet opened her handbag. She saw a man in his late twenties or early thirties; rather pale and shabby, but still attractive. A man who wasn’t after her virtue, but only her money, and she laid the cheque before him. “A thousand pounds was the price and I think you’ll find that’s correct. And don’t bother to wrap the book. I’ll just check that the pages are all there and take it along with me.

  “Miss Vale, give me a minute please.” Tom studied her as he spoke. This girl wasn’t a murderer or the representative of a murderer, he thought. People like the Vales didn’t kill for what they wanted; they didn’t need to. They could afford to pay other individuals to do their dirty work.

  “I’m afraid I can’t accept this because I no longer have the book, but may I ask you a question?” He held the cheque out to her and saw the smile vanish. “Don’t think I’m impertinent, but why are you and your uncle prepared to pay such a lot of money for Men of Courage?”

  “I’m afraid I do find the question impertinent, Mr Mayne.” Janet flushed and she looked even better when she was angry. “Rather insolent, in fact. You quoted the book to my uncle and he is prepared to pay what I understand is well over the fair market price. That is all which should concern you, so may I have the book please?”

  “Miss Vale.” Tom’s eyes pleaded with her. “I may have sounded rude and I apologize, but this is very important to me.” The plea worked and Janet lowered herself onto a seat. “I know about your uncle by reputation and he’s been buying military history for a long time. He may be an extremely rich man, but he’s also a collector and collectors are a breed apart. However wealthy they may be, they hate to pay more than what you described as the fair market price. It spoils the fun for them, like cheating at cards when there’s no money involved. So why did your uncle accept my quite ridiculous quotation?”

  “Yes, I thought it was absurd too.” Janet smiled again and relaxed. This man was just an amiable imbecile with too much curiosity. “Till a few years ago my uncle was a very hard business man and he would either have ignored your quotation or beaten you down within minutes. But some time ago he had a stroke and that’s left him old and tired and indifferent to small things.

  “He wants the book because he features in one chapter; ‘The Saga of the Sam and Helen’. We used to have a copy of course but it got lost or was stolen.”

  “Stolen!” Something seemed to explode in Tom’s head and he thought of Mr Biggs and leaned forward. “Have you any idea who could have stolen the thing?

  “I’m sorry, that is a stupid and impertinent question.”

  “Mr Mayne – what is the matter?” He turned and saw that Janet was looking at him with concern. “Are you feeling all right?”

  “Yes, quite all right, thank you, Miss Vale,” he said, but it was a lie. He felt desperately bewildered and lonely and afraid, and one thing he wanted was an ally; someone to talk to.

  “Miss Vale, I’m very sorry, but I must confide in you, so please bear with me a little longer. You may be very angry. You may think I’m mad, but I must tell you the truth.” He tried to smile and then lowered his head. “You see, I never had the book. Someone took it away.”

  Tom told his story and when he had finished the girl didn’t appear to be angry or believe he was mad. She sat quite still for a moment. Her thoughts seemed to be miles away.

  “Well, it seems to me that you’re either a fool or a very brave man, Mr Mayne.” she said at last. “People do commit suicide, and your friend Pike had a motive. People borrow books and fail to return them, which is probably what happened to our copy. People do many strange things and you could be quite wrong.

  “But if you’re not wrong and there is an insane collector on the rampage, you could be in trouble. As soon as he got your card he’ll know you suspect him and he won’t like that.

  “He won’t like it at all, so why didn’t you tell all this to the police and let them handle the matter?

  “Yes, I suppose they’d have laughed at you.” She had listened to Tom’s explanation and nodded. “After all you haven’t got much to go on, unless the murderer calls.

  “Thanks.” She smiled and accepted a cigarette from him. “I’d like to believe you though, Mr Mayne. It would be fun to unravel a mystery.”

  “Fun!” Tom had a sudden image of the dirk sticking out of Pike’s chest. “Miss Vale, you are probably one of the few people who might be able to help.

  “You see, if this murderer exists, and I’m not completely insane, we know quite a lot about him now. He had been in contact with Pike for some time, he was a member of or on the staff of the Walpole, he had access to your uncle’s library.” Tom ticked the points off on his fingers. “Should one person have all those qualifications, we’ll be half-way home. If you could check when your uncle’s copy was stolen and who might have taken it, I’ll attend to the other two problems, Miss Vale.”

  “And if one name recurs three times, we’ll have him, or possibly her.”

  She inhaled deeply and stood up. “But since we’re going to be partners in crime, please call me Janet, Tom.” She held out her hand and took his. Her touch was firm and warm and full of the sort of confidence that money and breeding sometimes produce.

  “Good – very good, and now tell me more. I want to know everything you can remember about Pike and his blasted book.”

  Janet left at ten and Tom had an ally to rely on. They had arranged to meet later and if three names fitted together they would be the name of a murderer.

  Business was quiet that morning. Tom served three customers by eleven and one trail proved to be a dead end. Mr Jason Biggs made that quite clear on the telephone. The Walpole’s membership was confidential. It was strictly against the rules to reveal any names or addresses and any breach might cost Mr Biggs his job. That was one reason why he had not reported the loss to the police, and the book just wasn’t worth the trouble.

  No, the thing hadn’t been actually stolen, but worse – much worse. Mutilation was the only way to describe what had happened. As he’d said, half the pages had been slashed or torn out, and over twelve of the illustrations were missing, as far as he could remember.

  And not just in one chapter or section; that was the disturbing thing. Willy-nilly – quite at random – from start to finish. Personal spite, a vendetta, a feud directed against a book. Unthinkable that such mindless vandalism should have taken place at the Walpole, though there you are. If Mr Mayne would lower his price to thirty pounds, they’d be glad to purchase it, but . . .

  No help from Mr Biggs and Tom lowered the phone in frustration, but it rang again almost immediately and he heard a familiar voice, though he couldn’t recognize the caller at first.

  “Mr Mayne – Tommy Mayne? This is Peggy. Please come over here at once.” The words were stammered out as though the speaker was suffering from hay fever. “Peggy Tey at Norwood of course. Old Pike’s house.” The telephone suddenly went dead, and it took Tom less than ten seconds to make a decision. His assistant was due in at noon and the shop could look after itself till she arrived. He had no liking for Mrs Margaret Tey, but if she had news he wanted to hear it. He locked the front door and hurried away towards the car-park.


  The weather had started to change for the worse and the traffic was heavy. A cold wind ruffled the Thames as he crossed Chelsea Bridge and the rain started to fall after Brixton. Just a few scattered drops at first, but they soon thickened and he could hardly make out the Crystal Palace spire. A grey, blustery day; it took him almost an hour to reach Norwood, and he had no idea what he would find at journey’s end. Mrs Tey might have been ill, or drunk or afflicted by nerves. She might – just might – have had a visitor.

  Anything was possible, though it was unlikely that the visitor had called about Men of Courage. Tom had crossed out Pike’s address and added his own – but – the customer would have contacted him at the shop – but – he would have telephoned for an appointment – but . . .

  But – again and again the questions ran through his head, but he would know soon. He turned into Pike’s road, found a parking place some fifty yards from the house and ran through the rain.

  The front door was open, the flat door was ajar, but the room was different and Tom stopped abruptly. Not because of Mrs Tey who was sitting slumped at the desk, staring blindly at him through tear-stained eyes. Not because some of the books had been pulled from the shelves and lay scattered on the floor. One bookcase was moving, creeping across the floor towards him, and he stepped out of its way quickly when he saw the mover.

  “Ah, so you are here at last, Mr Mayne,” the voice said and it didn’t sound like a human voice, nor did the speaker look like a normal human being. The figure was vast and ape-like, apart from a bald head and a flowing ginger moustache. He looked as though he weighed about twenty stone and was in the pink of condition. He smiled and the smile was one of the most unpleasant things Tom had ever seen.

  “Taken your time getting here, so let’s have a squint at you.” He reached out and tilted an Anglepoise lamp at Tom’s face. “No, not a thief or a murderer, I think. Not enough guts to break in and steal anything. Merely a receiver of stolen property, or a poor dupe who had it foisted on him in ignorance.” The rasping arrogance of the voice seemed to shake the very foundations of the house.

  “Well, where is it, man? Providing no damage has been done I might – just might – decide to be lenient.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about or who the hell you are.” Tom struggled to conceal hysteria. “I own this flat and Mrs Tey asked me to come over at once, so please explain yourself.”

  “You want an explanation from me!” A dark, angry flush spread across the man’s features and he clenched his fists.

  “You don’t know what I’m talking about, so let me remind you.” He nodded at one of Tom’s quotation cards lying on the desk. “Are you denying that you sent that?”

  “No.” Tom tried to remember some of the names on Pike’s list, but apart from Simon Vale and Mr Biggs, his mind had become blank. “I sent out several of those quotations, but—”

  “Did you, indeed, Mr Mayne?” he was asked. “You used your own address, but Pike’s was still legible, so I called here.” The intruder eyed Peggy with deep contempt. “Mrs Tey and I are old acquaintances. She has had her dirty fingers in my pocket before, but not this time, my dear. The boot’s on the other foot now, and I want the full truth from your friend Mayne.

  “You aren’t a thief, Mayne, but merely the receiver of stolen goods. The book came into your possession somehow and when you saw the plate you realized its value. A thousand pounds is an extravagant sum to ask for a normal copy of Courage, but not for that particular copy: Number 50.” His right fist crashed on the desk to emphasize the number.

  “So you sat down, Mr Mayne, and wrote quotations to people who might realize its worth, but you slipped up and made a bad mistake. Your little, mean mind ran through a list of names and you typed them out automatically and without thinking. And one of those names happened to be mine, so you’re up the creek and in the soup, my friend.

  “Now, where is the book? If you’ve already sold it, things will go very hard on you, Thomas Mayne.”

  “I haven’t sold it, but what about the book plate? Why should that plate make the copy so valuable?” Tom was convinced he was dealing with an insane gorilla, but he wasn’t afraid any more; only interested. This was the second person who considered a thousand pounds might be a reasonable price.

  “What about the plate?” The effect of Tom’s question was extraordinary. A noise which was part curse and part groan burst from the man’s lips, his face glowed like a lamp bulb and for a moment he seemed in danger of a heart attack.

  “Mr Mayne,” he said when at last the power of speech returned. “Don’t provoke me for your own sake. I am not a man who suffers fools or insults gladly.

  “You must have known as well as I do what is so special about that copy or you would never have offered it at such a figure. All the edition bears facsimile signatures of individuals mentioned in the text. Hilary, Scott, Simon Vale and so forth, but Number 50 bears my personal inscription.

  “No, I do not think £1,000 is too much to pay for a book associated with J. Molden-Mott.”

  “Molden-Mott.” As he heard the name a row of bright book jackets slid before Tom’s eyes, and he knew who the gorilla was. The books all bore the imprint of a sound publishing house and their format only varied in minor particulars. On each cover the man stood against a jungle, desert or mountainous background with groups of natives clustered at his side. He wore shorts and sun-helmets, anoraks and climbing boots and there was usually a rope or a rifle slung over his shoulder. The titles were equally in keeping.

  With Mott across the Lost Kalahari, Mott’s Voyage up the Selva, On the Track of the Yeti, by J. Molden-Mott, to name just three. Yes, Tom had heard about Mr Mott all right. Charlatan, adventurer, author and by all accounts a very dangerous individual indeed.

  “It was your copy and somebody stole it?”

  “Most certainly, somebody stole it, Mr Mayne, and that somebody will pay for his folly.” He glowered at Peggy Tey who had given a deep sob and unclenched his fists. “Six – seven months ago, while I was leading that Arctic expedition you must have heard about some sneak-thief broke into my flat and removed the book. The fellow was obviously a moron, because that was all he did take. A little more knowledge and enterprise and he could have got hold of my notes and diaries; quite priceless stuff.

  “All the same, Mr Mayne. Though the loss is comparatively trivial, I want that book back and I want to find the thief. Nobody will rob J. Molden-Mott with impunity.” He twisted his hands together as though the felon’s neck was already lodged between them. “Well, I’m waiting, my boy, so out with it. Who stole the book – whom did you buy it from?”

  Tom didn’t answer for a moment. This was the fourth copy he really knew anything about. One had been mutilated, three had been stolen and at least one man had died because of them. Already he was beginning to reject the idea of a maniac – a crazy collector. There was a cold-blooded planning about the business which didn’t fit in with lunacy.

  “Mr Mott,” he said at last. “I think it’s time I did put my cards on the table and told you the truth.” He stared up at the glowering face above him and nodded. “I never had a copy of Men of Courage. I quoted Number 50 at random and I need your help.

  “Help, to bring a killer into the open.”

  “Yes, I’ll help you, Mayne, and there are three possibilities.” Mott’s forehead wrinkled as he considered what Tom had told him. “The mad collector idea, which I don’t dismiss entirely, but do not set much store by either. The theory that there is something hidden in one copy which the murderer must get his hands on. The idea that the whole edition contains information which is either incriminating or of great value.

  “And you make yourself useful, woman.” He paused and snapped his fingers at Peggy Tey. “Thinking is thirsty work, so go and get us a drink; whisky if there is any.” He wat
ched her lumber away and scowled. “Bloody woman! Used to live with a crook called Bill Easter, but he had the sense to make off and leave her. About the only sensible thing he ever did do, though that’s neither here nor there.

  “Interesting that old Simon Vale should have had his copy stolen, however. They keep an army of loyal retainers in that house and it would be difficult to make off with a matchstick.

  “I’m not surprised that Simon wants to replace the book though. He and some of his pals had a whole chapter devoted to their exploits and it makes dramatic reading.” Tom noticed a tinge of jealousy in Mott’s tone. “The Sam and something or other. A miserable little tug torpedoed off the North Cape at the end of ’44. High seas, terrible conditions, but the gallant lieutenant brought the survivors home in a lifeboat.

  “Got him a lot of publicity. Probably got him the backers to start his business too. Don’t know about that, but I do know that it’s a damn prosperous business. If you cut a dash with little Miss Janet, you’ll have nothing to worry about, old boy.”

  “Maybe, but there’s not much possibility of that.” Tom turned away from the leering face and saw Peggy return with a tray. “And just what do you suggest our plan of action should be?” He both resented Mott and welcomed his cooperation.

  “Our plan does not exist, Mayne.” Mott crossed to the tray and poured himself a glass of neat scotch. “Up to now you have behaved in a most foolhardy and stupid manner, and it’s what I say that goes in future. By all means try to find if there’s a connection between the Vale household and the Walpole Library, but I doubt if you’ll get any joy. Our bird will have covered his tracks too well for that.

  “Cheers.” He raised the glass and drained its contents in a single manly gulp. “And in a sense, your unpleasant pal Goldsmith could be right. Pike might have found a crazy customer, but what drove the man crazy? Was there something in the book which terrified him? Did he kill Pike because of blackmail?”