Remaindered (2 page)

Little was known of what went on at the Friends of England meetings in the bookshop. Comfortable and cozy as the back room was, it was not furnished for middle-aged sex. Tanya, understandably curious, had questioned Robert closely about how the Friends passed their evenings. He'd said he assumed they spent their time looking at travel brochures and planning their next trip. The meetings did seem to be followed quite soon after by visits to England, always involving Myrtle, usually in combination with one or other of her fellow Friends.

The three were now in a huddle at the far end of the back room, where they always gathered for their meetings and where—appropriately—three out-of-date sets of the
Encyclopedia Britannica
took up the entire bottom shelf.

“If the shop is … what was that word?” Edward said when the music once more calmed down enough for conversation.

“Escheated.”

“If that happens, they'll want a quick sale and we're in deep shit.”

“But there's a precious window of opportunity before it gets to that stage,” George said. “They have to make completely sure no one has a claim on the estate and that can't be done overnight. We need to get organized. Myrtle was talking about a trip to the Cotswolds before the end of the month. Sorry, my friends, but I think we must cancel.”

“Shucks,” Myrtle said. “I was counting the days to that trip. You figure we should stay here and do something?”

“We can't do nothing.”

“Do what?” Edward said, and it was clear from his disenchanted tone that it had been his turn to partner Myrtle to England.

George glanced right and left and then lowered his voice. “I have an idea, a rather bold idea, but this is not the time or the place.”

“Shall we call a meeting?” Myrtle said, eager to hear more. “How about this Friday? We don't need Robert's permission anymore.”

“In courtesy, we ought to mention it to Tanya,” George said.

“Tell her your idea?”

“Heavens, no. Just say we need a meeting, so she can book us in.”

On Friday they had the back room to themselves. Tanya was in the office at the front end of the shop and there were no browsers. The footfall in Precious Finds had decreased markedly after Robert's death had been written up in the
Poketown Observer
.

Even Edward, still sore that his trip to the Cotswolds with Myrtle had been cancelled, had to agree that George's plan was smart.

“It's not just smart, it's genius,” Myrtle said. “We can save the shop and carry on as before.” She leaned back in her chair and caressed the spines of the
Encyclopedia Britannica
. “The Friends of England can go on indefinitely.”

“For as long as the funds hold up, at any rate,” George said. “We've been sensible up to now. Let's keep it like that.”

George had to be respected. His wise, restraining advice had allowed the three of them to enjoy a comfortable retirement that might yet continue. If the truth were told, the Friends of England Society was a mutual benefit club. George and Edward had once been members of Butch Rafferty's gang and they were still living off the spoils of a security van heist.

“My dear old Butch would love this plan,” Myrtle said with a faraway look. “I can hear him saying, ‘Simple ain't always obvious.'”

“If Butch hadn't messed up, we wouldn't be here,” Edward said, still moody. “We'd be back in New York City, living in style.”

“Don't kid yourself,” Myrtle said. “You'd have gambled away your share inside six months. New York, maybe—but by now you'd be sleeping rough in Central Park. I know you better than you know yourself, Edward.”

“There are worse places than Central Park,” he said. “I've had it up to here with Poketown, Pennsylvania. We should have got outta here years ago.”

“Oh, come on.”

“It's only because we live in Pennsylvania that my plan will work,” George said.

Edward's lip curled. “It had better work.”

“And I'm thinking we should bring Tanya in at an early stage,” George said.

“No way,” Edward said. “What is it with Tanya? You got something going with her?”

“How ridiculous. You're the one who can't keep his eyes off her.”

Myrtle said, “Leave it, George. Act your age, both of you. I'm with Edward here. Keep it to ourselves.”

Edward almost purred. “Something else Butch once said: ‘The more snouts in the trough, the less you get.'”

“As you wish,” George said. “We won't say anything to Tanya. She'll get a beautiful surprise.”

“So how do we divide the work?” Myrtle said.

“Unless you think otherwise, I volunteer to do the paperwork,” George said. “I'm comfortable with the English language.”

“Keep it short and simple. Nothing fancy.”

“Is that agreed, then?”

Edward agreed with a shrug.

“But we should all join in,” Myrtle said.“Another thing Butch said, ‘Everyone must get their hands dirty.'”

“Suits me—but what else is there to do?” Edward said.

“I need one of Robert's credit cards,” George said.

Edward shook his head. “The hell you do. We're not going down that route. That's a sure way to get found out.”

George took a sharp, impatient breath. “We won't be using it to buy stuff.”

“So what do we want it for?” Edward said, and immediately knew the answer. “The signature on the back.”

“Right,” Myrtle said. “Can you take care of that?”

“Tricky,” Edward said.

“Not at all. Robert must have used plastic. Everyone does.”

“How do we get hold of one?”

“How do
you
get hold of one,” Myrtle said. “That's how you get your hands dirty. My guess is they're still lying around the office somewhere.”

“Tanya's always in there.”

Myrtle rolled her eyes. “God help us, Edward, if you can't find a way to do this simple thing you don't deserve to be one of us.”

George, becoming the diplomat, said, “Come on, old friend, it's no hardship chatting up Tanya. You can't keep your eyes off her ample backside.”

Myrtle said at once. “Cut that out, George.” She turned to Edward. “Get her out of the office on some pretext and have a nose around.”

“It's not as if you're robbing the Bank of England,” George said.

“Okay, I'll see what I can do,” Edward said without much grace, and then turned to Myrtle. “And how will you get your hands dirty?”

“Me? I'm going to choose the perfect place to plant the thing.”

Almost overnight, Tanya had been transformed from bookshop assistant to manager of Robert's estate as well as his shop. It wasn't her choice, but there was no one else to step into the breach. At least she continued to be employed. She decided she would carry on until someone in authority instructed her to stop. She would allow the shop to remain open and operate on a cash only basis, buying no new stock and keeping accurate accounts. She couldn't touch the bank account, but there was money left in the till and there were occasional sales.

Meanwhile she did her best to get some order out of the chaos that had been Robert's office. He had given up on the filing system years ago. She spent days sorting through papers, getting up to date with correspondence and informing clients what had happened. Someone at some point would have to make an inventory of the stock. What a task
that
would be. Nothing was on computer, not even the accounts. He had still been using tear-out receipt books with carbon sheets.

She glanced across the room at the carton of Agatha Christies that had been the death of poor Robert. After his body had been taken away she had repaired the carton with sticky tape, replaced the loose books and slid the heavy load alongside the filing cabinet. She really ought to shelve them in the mystery section in the next room. But then she wasn't certain how to price them. Robert had paid five hundred for them, so they weren't cheap editions. The copy of the invoice was in one of the boxes. The titles weren't listed there. It simply read:
Agatha Christie novels as agreed.

She went over and picked up
The Mysterious Affair at Styles
, the author's first novel, obviously in good condition and still in its dust jacket. A first edition would be worth a lot, but she told herself this must be a second printing or a facsimile. It was easy to be fooled into thinking you'd found a gem. According to the spine the publisher was the Bodley Head, so this copy had been published in England. Yet when she looked inside at the publication details and the 1921 date, she couldn't see any evidence that the book was anything except a genuine first edition. It had the smell of an old book, yet it was as clean as if it had not been handled much.

Was it possible?

She was still learning the business, but her heart beat a little faster. Robert himself had once told her that early Agatha Christies in jackets were notoriously rare because booksellers in the past were in the habit of stripping the books of their paper coverings at the point of sale to display the cloth bindings.

Among the reference works lining the office back wall were some that listed auction prices. She took one down, thumbed through to the right page, and saw that a 1921 Bodley Head first edition
without
its original dust jacket had sold last year for just over ten thousand dollars. No one seemed to have auctioned a copy in its jacket in the past fifty years.

She handled the book with more respect and looked again at the page with the date. This had to be a genuine first edition.

“Oh my God!” she said aloud.

No wonder Robert had snapped up the collection. This volume alone was worth many times the price he had paid for them all. He was sharp enough to spot a bargain, which was why the Christie collection had so excited him. It was easy to imagine his emotional state here in the office that Sunday evening. His unhealthy heart must have been under intolerable strain.

The find of a lifetime had triggered the end of a lifetime.

And now Tanya wondered about her own heart. She had a rock band playing in her chest.

If a copy without its jacket fetched ten grand, how much was this little beauty worth? Surely enough to cover her every need for months, if not years, to come.

So tempting.

Robert had never trusted the computer. He'd used it as a glorified typewriter and little else. His contact details for his main customers were kept in a card index that Tanya now flicked through, looking for wealthy people interested in what Robert had called ‘British Golden Age mysteries'. She picked out five names. On each card were noted the deals he had done and the prices paid for early editions of Agatha Christie, Dorothy L. Sayers and Anthony Berkeley. They weren't five figure sums, but the books almost certainly hadn't been such fine copies as these.

It wouldn't hurt to phone some of these customers and ask if they would be interested in making an offer for a 1921 Bodley Head first edition of
The Mysterious Affair at Styles
—with a dust jacket.

“I'd need to see it,” the first voice said, plainly trying to sound laid back. Then gave himself away by adding, “You haven't even told me who you are. Where are you calling from? I don't mind getting on a plane.”

Tanya was cautious. “In fairness, I need to speak to some other potential buyers.”

“How much do you have in mind?” he said. “I can arrange a transfer into any account you care to name and no questions asked. Tell me the price you want.”

Collecting can be addictive.

“It's not decided yet,” she said. “This is just an enquiry to find out who is interested. As I said, I have other calls to make.”

“Are you planning to auction it, or what?”

“I'm not going through an auctioneer. It would be a private sale, but at some point I may ask for your best offer.”

“You say it has the original jacket? Is it complete? Sometimes they come with a panel detached or missing.”

“Believe me, it's complete.”

There was a pause at the end of the line. Then: “I'd be willing to offer a six figure sum. If I can examine it for staining and so on and you tell me the provenance, I could run to more than that.”

A six figure sum?
Did he really mean that?

“Thank you,” Tanya succeeded in saying in a small, shocked voice. “I must make some more calls now.”

“Screw it, a hundred and twenty grand.”

She swallowed hard. “I'm not yet accepting offers, but I may come back to you.”

“One forty.” He was terrified to put the phone down.

“I'll bear that in mind,” Tanya said, and closed the call.

She tried a second collector of Golden Age mysteries and this one wasn't interested in staining or provenance. He couldn't contain his excitement. “Lady, name your price,” he said. “I'd kill for that book.” Without any prompting, he offered a hundred and fifty thousand, “In used banknotes, if you want.”

She didn't bother to call the others. She needed to collect her thoughts. Robert's sudden death had come as such a shock that no one else had given a thought to the value of the Agatha Christies. She was the only person in Poketown with the faintest idea and she could scarcely believe what she'd been offered. Could the existence of a dust jacket—a sheet of paper printed on one side—really mean a mark-up of more than a hundred grand?

She lifted more books out, first editions all.
The Murder on the Links, The Secret of Chimneys
and
The Murder of Roger Ackroyd
. The beauty of this was that there was no written evidence of how many were in the carton. The invoice had lumped them all together.
Agatha Christie novels as agreed.
She could take a dozen home and no one would be any the wiser. But she would be richer. Unbelievably richer.