LITMIR.BIZ

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Somebody in the library calls up Senator Jones and says, You have our fist edition Maltese Falcon, you better return it or there’s a nickel fine for every day it’s late—huh? Fat chance.”

      Lindsey was still puzzled. “You said you had a clue.”

      Anderson shoved himself upright. “You wait here.” He picked up his precious copy of Buccaneer Blood and headed for the door. “Help yourself to refreshments.”

      Lindsey looked around for refreshments. He couldn’t find any.

      When Anderson returned he had disposed of Buccaneer Blood, probably locked it away in its reliquary. He was carrying a few sheets of computer printout.

      “This is my article for Paperback Parade. Just a draft, I have to work on it some more. Especially with this insurance story of yours.”

      He lowered himself into his chair. He selected one sheet of paper and handed it to Lindsey.

      “This is a complete Paige Publications bibliography. At least, it’s every book they registered with the Library of Congress. There might have been some that they didn’t register, but I think that’s unlikely.”

      He handed the sheet to Lindsey. The heading on the page gave Paige Publications’ address. Paige Building, LaSalle at Kinzie Streets, Chicago, Illinois. There were three columns of type on the page. Lindsey scanned them carefully.

      Buccaneer Blood Violet de la Yema 1951

      Cry Ruffian! Salvatore Pescara 1951

      Death in the Ditch Del Marston 1951

      Teen Gangs of Chicago (a.k.a. Al Capone’s Heirs)

      (anonymous) 1951

      By Studebaker Across America

      Walter Roberts 1952

      Great Baseball Stars of 1952 J. B. Harkins 1952

      I Was a Lincoln Brigadier Bob Walters 1952

      Prisoner! (“by the author of Teen

      Gangs of Chicago”) 1952

      * * * *

      Lindsey looked up from the list. “That’s all?”

      “Far as I can tell.”

      “Why would a Congressional committee care about these books? What difference does a pirate swashbuckler make, or a book about gangsters, or a Studebaker trip, for heaven’s sake?”

      Anderson extended a thick finger and tapped the paper in Lindsey’s hands. “There’s the one. That’s the one I think got their backs up.”

      He pointed at the line for I Was a Lincoln Brigadier.

      “You know about the Abraham Lincoln Brigade?”

      Lindsey wasn’t sure. “I think it rings a bell.” He smiled. “Faintly.”

      “American volunteers, fought in the Spanish Civil War, 1936. They went there to fight Fascism, to fight against Franco. They figured he was a front man for Hitler and they weren’t too far from right.”

      “What’s wrong with that?”

      “Well, there was a lot of Communist influence in the Lincolns. Hell, there were a lot of Communists in there. But they went to Spain to fight the Fascists. At least that was their version. But once the Cold War got going, they were…how shall I put this?”

      He removed the match stick from between his teeth and studied it sadly. He broke it in half, dropped the pieces into a bowl, and located a fresh replacement in a pocket of his denim shirt. He smiled approvingly at the new match stick, then clenched its non-business end between his teeth.

      “Once the Cold War got going, these guys were highly suspect. Highly suspect. So, when Bob Walters brought out his little memoir—I guess it was a memoir, I’ve never seen a copy—HUAC jumped up and down and started doing its war dance.”

      Lindsey studied the single sheet of computer paper once more. There was no more information there than there had been the first time.

      “Do you mind if I keep this?” Lindsey asked.

      Anderson pushed himself out of his easy chair. The match stick pointed straight ahead. “Feel free, I’ve got it all in my computer.” With one sausage-like finger he pointed to his head. “You have to go now?”

      Lindsey looked at his Seiko. He got to his feet. “You’ve been very helpful. If you want to bill us, International Surety will pay a modest honorarium.”

      Anderson waved that away. “Glad to be of help. Glad to have a chance to show off my collection a little bit. Better let me show you the way out. People have got lost in this place and starved to death.”

      As Lindsey started toward his Volvo, he heard Anderson’s door open behind him. He heard Anderson’s voice. “Mr. Lindsey?”

      He stopped and turned around.

      Scotty Anderson stood in the doorway, matchstick in mouth. “You’re sure Lovisi didn’t send you?”

      Lindsey managed not to laugh. “I’m sure.”

      “Funny.” Anderson frowned. “I had a note from Lovisi last week, said that somebody else was interested in the Paige stuff. Said he was a serious researcher, claimed that he was some kind of professor or something.”

      “Have you heard from this person?”

      “Oh, no. No way. Lovisi wouldn’t do that. Let the bozo do his own work. I don’t mind helping you, Mr. Lindsey, you’re not a competitor, you see? But this bozo.… Well, never mind. Long as you’re sure Lovisi didn’t send you.”

      Lindsey waved his thanks and slid his key into the lock on his Volvo. Then he stopped and turned back to see Scotty Anderson disappear inside his apartment. “Mr. Anderson! Just a second!”

      The big collector turned around. “Hmm?”

      “Maybe—would you mind—do you have this Lovisi fellow’s address? Maybe I should get in touch with him.”

      Anderson stood still for a few seconds, an abstracted look on his face. Then he said, “Oh, sure,” and rattled off an address in Brooklyn. Lindsey pulled out his pocket organizer, jotted down the address, and thanked Anderson.

      * * * *

      Hobart Lindsey and Marvia Plum planned dinner at an Italian restaurant in the Richmond Marina. Marvia had got hold of some old radio shows on tape and on the way to dinner, cruising up the freeway in her classic Mustang, the headlights of oncoming cars flashing by hypnotically, she slipped one into the tape deck. It was a fifty-year-old melodrama, complete with commercials. The Shadow in “The Little Man Who Wasn’t There.”

      Between acts, a hearty-voiced announcer urged the audience to support the war effort by conserving coal. The war was obviously World War II. The Spanish Civil War was over by then, and the Lincoln Brigadiers were probably back in uniform, fighting Fascism again. This time they were heroes instead of traitors, but they only needed to wait a few years. They’d be traitors again.

      At the restaurant, Lindsey and Marvia Plum settled into a comfortable spot in the lounge. It was a cold January night and outside the lounge’s windows the running lights of sailboats sparkled on San Francisco Bay.

      Marvia asked Lindsey if he was making any progress finding Albert Crocker Vansittart’s beneficiary. Lindsey recounted his paper chase, from Cody’s to Moe’s to the San Francisco Mystery Book Shop to Scotty Anderson’s amazing apartment in Castro Valley.

      “It’s funny.” Marvia put her hand on Lindsey’s. “It looks as if I’m going to be involved in this case, too.”

      “How so?”

      The cocktail waitress interrupted, ready to take their orders. Marvia asked for a hot toddy; Lindsey, for an Irish coffee. The waitress departed. It was a pleasure to be treated like any other

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