I'll Let You Go (27 page)

“
I thought it apropos,” said the cousin. “Except Rod Taylor's going forward
—we
need to go
backward
.”

“This isn't funny,” said Tull, reaching over to lower the sound. “And I'm not sure I want anyone to be there.”

“You mean, you want to go alone?”

“That's right.”

“But why?” asked Edward.

Tull began to tremble. “He's my
—father
, Edward … and I—well, I just think it would be better if—”

“Your
father
? Oh no, Tull, no! But we'll find
him
, too—of that I am convinced. This is merely the first step.”

“But you said we had an appointment—”

“We
do
—with Mr. Tabori! Tomorrow at four. Now, can we please watch the movie?”

T
abori & Company, purveyor of antiquarian books, was housed in a former mortuary built in the late twenties, now sitting on the high-end stretch of Melrose Avenue. The anachronistic open-vaulted Gothic-style edifice was a jewel box of vellum and leather, its fine stained-glass panels wittily incorporating caricatures of Tabori
père et fils
, gentle brotherhood of bibliophiles.

When Emerson Tabori received a call from a girl identifying herself as Lucy Trotter, he immediately confirmed the familial connection—a call from any member of that illustrious clan, no matter how youthful, need be taken with utmost seriousness. To be safe, Lucy said she wished to procure a gift for her grandfather, cannily begging Mr. Tabori's discretion if he by chance spoke to Mr. Trotter in the interim. (The redhead knew he was a longtime customer.) She was in full detective mode.

Bearded Emerson, youngest of the brethren, stood no taller than Tull; though his satyric countenance put one in mind of that
other
Toulouse—he of Montmartre cabarets—it was impossible to think of him in the diminutive. His unflagging energy, passionate apprehension and sheer-rock-face intellect (he was a well-known monographist and prolific contributor to
The Dickens Newsletter, The Dickens Project, The Doughty Street Dickens
and
The Dickens Universe
) made him appear like a great turbine from the dawn of the industrial age, a turbine overseen, if you will, by a pair of cool blue-gray eyes from which no textual footnote might escape. His memory was prodigious and phantasmagoric: he could still quote by heart the little van Gogh–penned poem he'd sold Louis Trotter (for $700,000) along with a letter to Theo wherein the hapless artist bitched about having no money to purchase oils.

The bell at the side door rang and there was a stir among employees, as the musketeers standing at the entrance—four, including Pullman—were fairly unforgettable. Edward, outfitted in a rather demure diaphanous Gigli cape, embroidered linen hood and the sort of delicate white cotton gloves with which one handles rare photographs, leaned like a holy invalid on both Lucy and his cousin. (Sling Blade, who had no interest at all in entering the sanctum sanctorum, stood under the gull wing of the Mauck and smoked, while Epitacio remained at Saint-Cloud, otherwise engaged.) The Great Dane made the usual unheralded, regal entrance and lay down, stretching his muscular spotted self on the terrazzo floor at the foot of a suite of chairs renowned for having once been featured in
Gone with the Wind
. A nervous employee sashayed over to
suggest the dog remain outside; before she had the chance, Mr. Tabori brought her up short with an acrid little smile. She backed off.

“How marvelous to meet you all!” he exclaimed, with retailer's outstretched arms. But that is unfair, for he cared nothing of money.

Introductions were made and genealogy silently noted:
These two belong to Dodd, son of Louis—this one to Katrina, beloved, famously jilted, drug-addicted daughter of same
.

He took them on tour and showed them folios and autographs, and rows of buttery bindings decorated in gilt, with watered-silk endleaves. He had no idea what they had in mind, yet planted seeds in the several-thousand-dollar range according to his sense of what the old man might enjoy, such as a 1900 edition of
Days of the Dandies
, an anthology of British court life.

The curious titanium-braced fashionista pointed to this and that while his braided sister explored the shop as if it were a fabulous tree house. The one called Tull seemed saturnine, and looked as if about to flee.

They passed a vitrine of handwritten folios.

“Bret Harte,” said Mr. Tabori, gnomishly enthused. “Tiny handwriting, no? That's just a fragment; what's actually called a blad—short for ‘blotting pad.' You should see Poe's! He had
two
styles of handwriting, one for manuscripts, the other for correspondence. When he wrote his stories, he usually tried to approximate the typeface of a book. And Brontë! Charlotte Brontë is
worse—
almost pathological. You need a magnifying glass!”

“Mr. Tabori,” began Lucy, circling back. The boys turned in anticipation. “Do you—do you have any Nancy Drew?”

All faces registered disappointment.

“I'm afraid not! Though we
do
have Edgar Rice Burroughs—in fact, we have the entire work. May I ask what you have in mind, if you
do
have anything in mind, for your grandfather?”

She smiled devilishly at her compadres; it was the moment of truth. They would now take up the challenge like men—or forever keep their mousy peace.

“Well,” said Edward, uncharacteristically tongue-tied. He theatrically cleared his throat while swiveling toward his cousin. “Do you have … the
list
?” He meant the
letter
, which Tull simply wasn't ready to
extend. Seeing he'd get nowhere with the flummoxed boy, Edward stalled for time, and turned back to Mr. Tabori. “How about Dickens?”

The girl detective frowned at their timidity.

“For me, Dickens is the most marvelous—and one of the easiest to collect.” He walked them to a section of which Lucy had thought, before setting off again on her investigations, contained the most beautiful volumes imaginable. “The interesting thing about
Dickens
is, printers had certain
requirements
. You see, most of his books were 624 pages long for a reason—they came in sixteen-page gatherings, or ‘quires.' Look: this one's an ‘octavo,' that's eight leaves to a quire—a total of sixteen pages with inner and outer forms. When people read Dickens and say this or that passage is hurried or belabored, it's because, you see, he was
customizing
. It's the same for certain Mozart pieces, no? Were you interested in Dickens? I mean, for your grandfather? Because if I'm not mistaken, he already has the Nonesuch—”

“We're interested in everything!” shouted Lucy from the long hall, where autographs of historical figures were hung. With that, she threw the boys the evil eye, to egg them on.

“Well!” said Mr. Tabori, figuratively licking his chops. “I strongly suggest
A Christmas Carol
.” He plucked it from the shelf and turned it over with caressing hands. “Chapman and Hall, first edition, first issue: i.e., ‘Stave I'—foolscap octavo, green-coated endpapers, blue
half
-title, red and blue
title
. Four inserted hand-colored steel-engraved plates
by
and
after
Leech and four black-and-white text wood-engravings
by
W. J. Linton
after
Leech. Original cinnamon vertically ribbed cloth, all edges gilt, with the
tiniest
interval between blind-stamped border and gilt wreath equal to fourteen millimeters—with a perfect
D
in ‘Dickens.' The slightest perceptible fading to the spine, with an early provincial bookseller's label on the front pasted down. Spectacular! At fifty thousand dollars, it's quite simply the best and brightest we've seen.” He cleared his throat, realizing he'd gone too far; these were children after all. “But I'm sure that's in excess of your budget.”

Lucy returned, emboldened. The toddlers clearly needed her help—if she was going to stick this episode somewhere in
Blue Maze
, a dallying narrative would never do.

“Mr. Tabori,” she said forthrightly. “Have you ever had anything
stolen
? From the shop?”

Tull and Edward refused to look at her, sharpening their attention on the host, who was amiably taken aback.

“Oh, once or twice. An autograph from the wall … George Bernard Shaw. A Kerouac. Some American ‘firsts' were stolen—Hammett and Chandler. But we got them back.”

“This,” said Edward, following her lead, “would have been about thirteen years ago.”

“ ‘This'?” said Mr. Tabori, cocking his head.

Tull reached in his pocket for the letter, which he handed to Mr. Tabori.

“Yes,” said the bookseller, nodding his head as he examined. “I remember.”

“Was it by any chance written to
you
?” asked Tull.

“No—that would have had to have been my brother Henry-David. He died two years ago. Colorectal cancer.”

“We're so sorry,” said Lucy, and she really was.

“But I
do
remember—it was the sort of thing—one of those situations where—well, you see, he was a customer and we
did
know him rather well—we preferred not to call the police. We called the gentleman's
office
—by then of course we were quite
certain
—there could have been no
question
—that he ‘took' the item. The gentleman didn't respond; Henry-David might have sent a follow-up note. That would have been H.D.'s way. My brother was the
least
threatening of men, so the … 
communiqué
referred to here couldn't have been too—but the gentleman was outraged! We were doing him a
favor
, not calling the police. Finally, we had no recourse. And then—” A light shone in his eye; he cocked his head again. “The gentleman who wrote this letter. He was connected to … your
grandfather
, no?”

“That's right,” said the cousin.

Mr. Tabori nodded and stared into space, his gaze falling somewhere over Samuel Johnson's
Lives of the Most Eminent English Poets
. “There was a scandal, no? A marriage—he was … a
flimflam
.”

Tull spoke up. “Was it a book that was taken?”

“Yes. Nothing of excessive value.”

“Did you recover it?”

“I'm afraid that one got away.”

“A purloined antiquity!” huffed Lucy, authorial glands fairly salivating. “And you called the police?”

“We were about to … when a private investigator came out—who was it? Had a funny name. Employed by Louis Trotter. He asked a few questions, then made good on the amount that was in dispute.”

“If you could just tell us more about—”

Of a sudden, Emerson Tabori gave a great sigh, as if having reached a regretful conclusion. He sat down upon one of Tara's chairs and bid the children do the same. Edward looked amazing against the high-backed red velvet throne; Pullman clambered from camp and resettled, a spotty bedouin dead to the world.

The dealer's tone became intimate, avuncular, almost morose. “I see that perhaps you came for more than just the selection of a gift. I'm not a gossip and am afraid I've spoken too much. Your grandfather is a valued client and, I like to think, a friend. Whatever happened those many years ago was a private affair. I
wish
I could help, but simply don't have the information—nor would I feel comfortable imparting it if I had.”

With that he stood, a kindly smile radiating from his face. The children, who looked more like children now than when they'd come in, were downcast. Tull and Lucy helped Edward stand; and were soon joined by Mr. Tabori and staff as in the raising of the Iwo Jima flag. The crestfallen trio began trudging to the door when Tull turned back to face their admonisher.

“Mr. Tabori … that ‘flimflam'—he was my father.” The boy stood tall, and his lip quaked with passion. “For all my life I thought he was dead, but it wasn't true. Trinnie—that's my mother—Katrina Berenice Trotter Weiner—both she
and
my grandfather told me this, that he was alive, at least to their knowledge. They told me it
recently
, Mr. Tabori. You can imagine the effect that had; imagine what effect it would have had on
you
. And, well, to be honest, sir, I am trying
very
hard to find him—as any son would—and I
will
, one way or the other, with or without anyone's help. Yes, our buying a gift was a subterfuge and for that I am sorry. Truly, we apologize! This sort of thing is new to us—to me. But you have my word that we came here today in the strictest confidence and would never think of doing anything to breach your relationship or trust … with our grandfather, or ourselves. But even if Grandpa
were
to know we paid a visit—”