LITMIR.BIZ

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is an important part of the trade with antiquarian people?”

      “For plenty of reasons. We’re hired to evaluate the collections for different kinds of tax deductions or for sales of the collections to libraries. Or in some cases we buy the collections for ourselves.”

      “Fletcher and other dealers usually outfoxed Thorne-Wainwright?”

      “Especially Fletcher. That’s the way he tells it, anyway.”

      “And Thorne-Wainwright was ultimately driven out of business?”

      “He gave up his store, but he’s stayed active, dealing in books out of his apartment. This has been for the last few years, so I assume he’s keeping afloat.”

      Charlie put her coffee cup down on my desk and gave signals that she was preparing to take her leave.

      “One more question,” I said. “I assume from what you’ve already said that you and Fletcher are on good terms?”

      Charlie smiled for the first time since she’d arrived. “Currently we are,” she said, “and actually I owe that in very large part to your Annie.”

      “This wouldn’t be connected to Fletcher’s curious romancing practices, would it?”

      Charlie nodded vigorously. “I was in the line as Fletcher’s target just in front of Annie.”

      “The line? Does that mean there was somebody else before you?”

      “Three or four before me,” Charlie said. “Fletcher’s been on the prowl ever since the girlfriend he had for decades dropped him about a year ago and moved into a retirement home up on Lake Simcoe. She’s older than Fletcher by maybe ten or twelve years, and she discovered in her advancing age that she was really only interested in one thing.”

      “The one thing wasn’t Fletcher?”

      Charlie shook her head. “Scrabble.”

      “Scrabble’s a senior citizen passion?”

      “When Minnie’s not playing with friends who visit her — Minnie Mueller’s the old girlfriend’s name — she’s playing against people on her computer.”

      “Fletcher’s never been interested in Scrabble?”

      “He tried, but he never won a single game against Minnie.”

      “That could be discouraging.”

      “Drove him bats.”

      “So, to fill the gap left in his life by the departing Minnie, he goes around whispering sweet nothings to the nearest female?”

      “About cheekbones and ears and breasts.”

      “While the women inhale his halitosis?”

      “Yes,” Charlie said, taking time over her words. “His breath problem. That’s a tough one to bear, if you’re the girl. The worst moments — god, this is kind of hilarious when I think about it. I mean, working together, I inhale a lot of his bad breath, but the worst moments are what he calls the Midnight Manoeuvres. This is when he and I go back to the store after dinner, sometimes way after dinner, like beyond midnight, which is where Fletcher gets the name from. We restack books, do a bunch of things we didn’t have time to finish during the day. And the whole time, when we’re working till two or three in the morning, Fletcher’s breath gets stinkier and stinkier.”

      “The breath thing can be easily cured, I understand.”

      “All the girls he approaches have warm feelings about him for different reasons. They may not want him for a boyfriend, but they don’t want to hurt his feelings by telling him about the halitosis, never mind advising him about how he can lick it.”

      “It would take a diplomatic touch, no doubt.”

      “Or a blunt-speaking person.”

      “No women have been up to the job?”

      Charlie shook her head. “Why don’t you do it?” she said, wearing a large smile.

      “Me?” I said. “You think I should tip off Fletcher about his unbearable breath?”

      “God knows you’re blunt.”

      “Fletcher and I already don’t much like one another.”

      “Then you’ve got nothing to lose.”

      “True.”

      “In fact,” Charlie said, “him being your client at the moment, it might be useful for you in the long run to help him get rid of a problem he doesn’t know he has. He’ll be grateful and therefore more co-operative or whatever you need him to be.”

      Charlie stood up, all set to depart.

      “‘See Crang for pure breath,’” I said. “I can put that on my business card right after the barrister and solicitor part.”

      “It makes a catchy slogan,” Charlie said, the smile still on her face.

      She shook my hand and went out through the open door and down the hall to the elevator.

      I walked over to the window and looked across Spadina. The cute parkette on the other side was named after Matt Cohen, the deceased novelist who had once lived a couple of blocks farther north on Spadina. A lot of writers had lived in the neighbourhood. Many still did. Margaret Atwood sightings were frequent in and around the Annex.

      Down below, Charlie Watson emerged from the building and turned south. She had a no-nonsense walk, all purposeful. But what had been the reason for her visit to me? The stuff about Fletcher’s sensitivity had the feel of baloney. I got the faint impression she was trying to pry information out of me about the big break-in. Not that our conversation had ended up going in her favour. Maybe she really wanted to enlist me as a halitosis-breaker on behalf of Fletcher.

      Nah, it couldn’t be that.

      Could it?

      But, kind of ridiculous as it sounded, maybe it’d be useful to my own purposes if I tipped Fletcher off about the halitosis thing. I do him a favour, and he reciprocates. Something like that might work to my benefit.

      Chapter Ten

      The sign over aisle number three in the Shoppers Drug Mart on Bloor a half block from my office told me that the aisle offered products that promoted “Mouth Health.” My first walk down the aisle was devoted to reconnaissance. The second time through, I began picking up items for purchase

      I chose two brands of toothpaste. One was marked “Breath Pure” and the other didn’t mention breath but promised “A Refreshed Mouth.” I put both in a shopping basket. Next, after much scrutiny of the dental floss shelves, I settled on two brands. The first came equipped with mint flavouring, while the second described its product as possessing “Nature’s Taste.” Alongside the floss, there were two sections of toothpicks. I ended up with three varieties. One package contained the familiar wooden toothpicks that thoughtful dining establishments offered at every table. The second, way more sophisticated, had a five-inch-long shaft with rubbery knobs at either end in just the right size to flick the gunk out of the tricky spaces among the molars. And the third was the Cadillac version of the second, this one sporting a more metallic-looking knob in place of the rubber, the metal done up in a gold shade. My shopping basket was already two-thirds full.

      In the category of toothbrush, I went for two of the dozens of varieties, both brushes looking bushier than the norm, both guaranteeing to “ferret out disease-causing bacteria.” One bragged about the new whiteness it would bring to the teeth. The other took whiteness for granted.

      I checked through my basket of implements, all of them devoted to the elimination of halitosis, and decided they covered the field.

      I carried the basket to a counter where no one else was lined up to pay. The cashier was a solidly built woman in her forties. She adopted a smirky expression when

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