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Authors: Victoria Abbott
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uncles
as a child, and discovered that two of the dealers dealt solely in mysteries. Without
looking too keen on anything, I drifted back the second time. Looking too enthusiastic
is the worst thing you can ever do to yourself, short of emptying your wallet down
a sewer grate. I stopped at a booth called Nevermore Mysteries. Poe would have approved.
The silver-haired middle-aged dealer, with his reading glasses perched at the end
of his nose, looked up at me with mild interest and then turned his attention to an
alarmingly tall man in a floor-length trench coat. Or was that possibly two smaller
men in that trench coat? Where would you even find one of those coats if you needed
such a thing? The dealer watched with narrowed eyes as Tall Trench Coat reached down
for one of the pricier items on the top shelf.
I picked up a mass-market Dell issue of
Red Harvest
, by Dashiell Hammett. Of course, I liked the sixties retro cover of the reprint.
It was in moderately good shape with protective plastic on its faded cover and reasonably
priced, probably because of the fading. My guess was there were still plenty of these
to be had, but I knew it was a classic and decided I wanted to own it for the cover
as well. I thought that I’d seen a red morocco-bound copy of an omnibus of Hammett’s
work in Vera Van Alst’s library. I couldn’t imagine how much that would have set her
back. I reminded myself that my interest was in Agatha Christie’s possible play, and
not in one of the billion or so inexpensive Christie paperbacks that were still easily
found, many of them stacked on my coffee table and beside my bed. I reached for a
hardcover first edition of
The Body in the Library
. It seemed appropriate. The dust jacket looked to be in nearly perfect condition.
A hand appeared over my shoulder andwhisked
The Body in the Library
from my grasp. The dealer appeared to be able to teleport himself. With a tight smile
and an upper-class British accent he said, “Maybe I can help you find something in
your price range?”
The smile didn’t reach all the way to the eyes behind the reading glasses.
“Why? How much is this?” I resisted the urge to remove his condescending head from
his shoulders, knowing that he was just sniffing out weakness and enjoying the superior
feeling. I made sure that feeling was brief.
“Fifteen hundred. It’s a first edition in mint condition. And, of course, it’s a bargain
at that,” he said in a voice like melting British butter.
I managed to look unimpressed, but really I was doing the math. Was this the price
range that Vera paid for the thousands of books on her treasured shelves?
I said, “Nice. Of course, I have one at home without a trace of foxing and a brighter
dust jacket. I couldn’t resist a comparison.” As if I would ever go on a scouting
mission without picking up some lingo. That would have been a rookie mistake. My uncles
would have been disappointed if I’d made such a slip.
He managed to keep his face from falling too far, but I’d scored my point.
He held out his hand and said, “I should have introduced myself. George Beckwith.”
I had his attention now.
I added, “It has sentimental value. I bought it on a trip to London, from Ash Rare
Books. Always quality, of course.” My research was starting to come in handy, but
I reminded myself that I had also been taught to keep the lies simple. Too much detail
will always trip you up.
“In that case, you may be interested in some better quality Hammetts.”
“No, I’ll stick with this one. I put my money on the British authors.”
He cleared his throat. “I have a lovely copy of
The Nine Tailors
, first edition, second impression only. Very little wear on the jacket. It’s a bargain
at five hundred dollars.” He reached for and held out a book, reverently. The words
“immensely successful” appeared on the yellow jacket in red. I loved it. There’s
as a child, and discovered that two of the dealers dealt solely in mysteries. Without
looking too keen on anything, I drifted back the second time. Looking too enthusiastic
is the worst thing you can ever do to yourself, short of emptying your wallet down
a sewer grate. I stopped at a booth called Nevermore Mysteries. Poe would have approved.
The silver-haired middle-aged dealer, with his reading glasses perched at the end
of his nose, looked up at me with mild interest and then turned his attention to an
alarmingly tall man in a floor-length trench coat. Or was that possibly two smaller
men in that trench coat? Where would you even find one of those coats if you needed
such a thing? The dealer watched with narrowed eyes as Tall Trench Coat reached down
for one of the pricier items on the top shelf.
I picked up a mass-market Dell issue of
Red Harvest
, by Dashiell Hammett. Of course, I liked the sixties retro cover of the reprint.
It was in moderately good shape with protective plastic on its faded cover and reasonably
priced, probably because of the fading. My guess was there were still plenty of these
to be had, but I knew it was a classic and decided I wanted to own it for the cover
as well. I thought that I’d seen a red morocco-bound copy of an omnibus of Hammett’s
work in Vera Van Alst’s library. I couldn’t imagine how much that would have set her
back. I reminded myself that my interest was in Agatha Christie’s possible play, and
not in one of the billion or so inexpensive Christie paperbacks that were still easily
found, many of them stacked on my coffee table and beside my bed. I reached for a
hardcover first edition of
The Body in the Library
. It seemed appropriate. The dust jacket looked to be in nearly perfect condition.
A hand appeared over my shoulder andwhisked
The Body in the Library
from my grasp. The dealer appeared to be able to teleport himself. With a tight smile
and an upper-class British accent he said, “Maybe I can help you find something in
your price range?”
The smile didn’t reach all the way to the eyes behind the reading glasses.
“Why? How much is this?” I resisted the urge to remove his condescending head from
his shoulders, knowing that he was just sniffing out weakness and enjoying the superior
feeling. I made sure that feeling was brief.
“Fifteen hundred. It’s a first edition in mint condition. And, of course, it’s a bargain
at that,” he said in a voice like melting British butter.
I managed to look unimpressed, but really I was doing the math. Was this the price
range that Vera paid for the thousands of books on her treasured shelves?
I said, “Nice. Of course, I have one at home without a trace of foxing and a brighter
dust jacket. I couldn’t resist a comparison.” As if I would ever go on a scouting
mission without picking up some lingo. That would have been a rookie mistake. My uncles
would have been disappointed if I’d made such a slip.
He managed to keep his face from falling too far, but I’d scored my point.
He held out his hand and said, “I should have introduced myself. George Beckwith.”
I had his attention now.
I added, “It has sentimental value. I bought it on a trip to London, from Ash Rare
Books. Always quality, of course.” My research was starting to come in handy, but
I reminded myself that I had also been taught to keep the lies simple. Too much detail
will always trip you up.
“In that case, you may be interested in some better quality Hammetts.”
“No, I’ll stick with this one. I put my money on the British authors.”
He cleared his throat. “I have a lovely copy of
The Nine Tailors
, first edition, second impression only. Very little wear on the jacket. It’s a bargain
at five hundred dollars.” He reached for and held out a book, reverently. The words
“immensely successful” appeared on the yellow jacket in red. I loved it. There’s
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