Death by the Book Read online

  ‘How many are there?’

  ‘Only the four titles I’ve requested. He was not prolific.’

  ‘No, I mean how many are there in the world?’

  ‘Not as many as you might think. You should know editions of poetry are never very large. But it would add up for you. I’m sure you need the money.’

  Jack smiled and removed his scarf. He leaned forward and held it between his legs. ‘The world’s a big place, Mr Kasprowicz. Who knows where they’ve all ended up.’ But Jack was doing the sums in his head.

  ‘I doubt the world has seen them.’ Kasprowicz sat up and put the books and wrapping paper on a glass table beside him. ‘I’ve got all the publishing details, how many books were printed, where, when, all that. From memory, it’s only about four thousand copies.’

  ‘And you want all of them?’ asked Jack, raising an eyebrow. He was going to ask if the old man expected him to steal copies from the library.

  Kasprowicz frowned. ‘Isn’t fifty dollars a copy worth it, Mr Susko? I can always find someone else, if you prefer.’

  ‘No, it’s worth it.’

  ‘Good. Cash okay?’ The old man gave a wry grin.

  ‘Eight days a week.’

  Kasprowicz grabbed the arms of the chair and hauled himself up. A phone began to ring on a small desk. ‘Let’s do an advance,’ he said over the ringing. ‘To inspire application. I already owe you three-fifty so … let’s say a nice clean thousand to start.’ He walked over to the phone. ‘Cash.’ Hammond Kasprowicz smiled and put the receiver to his ear. ‘Hello?’

  A thousand bucks. Not bad for a Wednesday afternoon. Jack was starting to like the old guy.

  Kasprowicz raised his voice into the telephone. ‘Tony, we can’t have this. No. No … Oh, come on … That’s not a reason … I’m putting the phone down, Tony … Listen to me, Tony, I’m going to put the phone down …’

  Annabelle walked in. She stood in a thin shaft of light from one of the windows. Jack could see dust somersault through the air around her, full of glee.

  ‘Would you like a drink, Mr Susko? My father has worked hard over the years to forget his manners.’

  Kasprowicz slammed the receiver down, making Jack jump. The old man ignored his daughter as he walked past and out of the room. He paid even less attention to Jack.

  Annabelle glared at her father. Jack heard a few knives whisper death through the air. Then she turned and smiled.

  ‘Scotch? Gin? I think I might have a G & T.’

  ‘Scotch, thanks. Neat.’

  Annabelle made her way to a small metal-and-glass drinks stand and began pouring the drinks.

  Jack got up and walked to the piano. ‘Do you play?’ he asked.

  ‘God, no. It’s just for show. Do you?’

  Jack tinkled the keys. ‘I fantasise.’ He played a couple of the opening chords to Duke Ellington’s ‘Take the A Train’. On top of the piano he noticed two silver-framed photographs. One was of a cat, a copper-coloured Abyssinian with a white chin; the other, a grainy black-and-white of a sour-looking woman in her fifties. She wore a pearl necklace with a diamond pendant and matching earrings. The photographer had set her up in a movie-star pose. But Ava Gardner she was not: the face Jack looked at in the photograph knew it, too.

  ‘Nice cat.’

  ‘My mother’s favourite. Jordan. She paid for a funeral when it died.’ Kasprowicz’s daughter brought Jack’s drink over and passed it to him. ‘I’m Annabelle,’ she said.

  ‘Your father told me.’

  ‘Did he say what a pain in his arse I was?’

  Jack grinned. ‘No, he didn’t mention it.’

  She shrugged and sat down on one of the couches, crossing her long legs and slipping a hand between her thighs. ‘That’s my mother in the other photo. Her dying wish was that the cat’s collar be buried with her.’

  Jack picked up the photograph for a closer look. There was a resemblance between mother and daughter, but not much. The eyes that stared back at him were like ball-bearings. The lips were thin and the chin a little pointed. He had seen this type of woman before. He knew the corners of her mouth stayed turned down even when she smiled. The victim. Jack put the photograph back.

  ‘Her greatest disappointment in life was that nobody was as interested in her as she was.’

  ‘Aren’t we all like that?’

  ‘She was an expert. The best there ever was.’ Annabelle sipped her drink. ‘Do you smoke? I’ve just run out of cigarettes.’

  Jack pulled out his pack and offered her one.

  ‘Oh. These are strong, aren’t they?’

  ‘Just have half.’

  He leaned over and lit the cigarette for her. Annabelle blew smoke and said: ‘All this is my mother’s, everything you see, the house, too. She was English, if you hadn’t guessed.’

  Jack sat down opposite Annabelle and snapped the lighter to his own cigarette. He noticed there were no rings on her long fingers, just a fine gold bracelet that slid down her wrist and hung on the cuff of her leather jacket as she held her cigarette in the air above her shoulder. There was a small, four-leafed clover attached to it.

  ‘So what do you do, Mr Susko? What has my father got you in for?’

  ‘Call me Jack. I’m a second-hand bookseller.’

  Annabelle looked surprised. Then disappointed. ‘Really. You must read a lot.’

  ‘When it’s slow.’

  ‘And is it slow often?’

  ‘Only Mondays to Fridays. And Saturdays.’

  She tapped her cigarette into an ashtray on the table beside her. ‘Oh, well.’ She noticed the package of books her father had placed there. Her eyes narrowed as she read the title of the topmost book.

  ‘So a bit of work on the side with my father?’ she said, her voice rising in pitch. ‘To make ends meet?’

  ‘My ends never meet,’ said Jack. ‘They dislike each other too much.’

  She managed to smile for two seconds. It exposed a slight dimple in her right cheek. She uncrossed and then crossed her legs again. She pushed herself back into the chair. The leather couch groaned beneath her like a dirty old man.

  ‘What rare edition is he after this time?’

  ‘Mr Susko doesn’t deal with that kind of thing,’ said Kasprowicz from the doorway. He walked back into the room like a bear. ‘I doubt his business would have seen too much of any great value.’

  Jack let it slide. There was a grand coming his way.

  Annabelle got up and placed her drink on the coffee table. ‘I’ll leave you to your business.’ Even through the tobacco smoke her perfume wafted over Jack. It smelt like five hundred dollars.

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ he said, as she left.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied, without looking at him.

  Kasprowicz walked around and stood behind Jack. ‘Here you are, Mr Susko.’

  Jack extinguished his cigarette in the cut-glass ashtray before him and stood up.

  Kasprowicz handed him a small white envelope. ‘Maybe you could let me know in a week or two how it’s all going.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Goodbye.’

  There was no handshaking. Kasprowicz walked off and left Jack to find his own way out.

  He lingered a few seconds, looking about him. The house was silent: it felt suddenly empty and solemn, like a weekday church. Jack’s gaze caught the photograph of Mrs Hammond Kasprowicz, on top of the piano. He stared at it a moment. For some reason, he thought that she would not have liked him. Whatever, lady. That’s fine. Jack smiled and winked at her as he left. I wouldn’t have liked you either.

  Outside the sky was still blue but the air was cooler. Jack paused to wind his scarf on. Then he checked the contents of the small white envelope and slipped it into his inside coat pocket. He tried not to spend it too quickly in his head, but half was gone before he knew it.

  A white BMW with a rusty scratch in its bonnet pulled into the drive and a young woman got out. She stood beside the car a moment, talkin
g to the driver through the window. Jack guessed it was Annabelle’s daughter. He walked slowly towards her.

  ‘Don’t worry, I won’t tell her anything,’ the teenager said. She crossed her arms and shook her head. Her voice was whiny and her manner insolent. She looked about eighteen or nineteen. Annabelle must have been young when she had her. The girl wore a short denim skirt revealing too much leg and a white sleeveless top that revealed too much of everything else. There was a faded denim jacket in her hand. Obviously she did not feel the cold.

  Bracelets jingled up and down her arms as she continued to speak. ‘All right, all right! I said I wouldn’t, didn’t I? God!’ She leaned over and gave a reluctant kiss to the driver. Then she marched down the driveway, her ponytail bouncing with fury.

  She stopped in front of Jack. ‘Who are you?’ she snapped.

  ‘I’m the gas man.’

  She eyed him suspiciously. ‘Who let you in?’

  Jack saw Annabelle in the girl’s eyes and in the shape of her forehead and chin. In fact, her whole face was her mother’s. The body was almost there, too. Whatever her father had passed on had merely held the door open.

  ‘Your grandfather asked me over for a drink,’ said Jack. ‘Louisa, isn’t it?’

  Annabelle’s daughter scoffed and walked off without a word. Jack grinned. They taught them young in Double Bay.

  The BMW began to back out of the drive. Jack caught a glimpse of the driver before his window wound up. He could not place the man there and then, but was sure he had seen him somewhere before. He thought about it for a moment, but nothing clicked. He struck a match and cupped his hands and lit his cigarette. Then he started off down the road. The scotch burnt in his stomach and he decided to buy himself a good meal. He tapped the envelope in his pocket. It was making him feel warm all over.

  2

  IT WAS 9.00 A.M. Still an hour before Susko Books opened for trade. Down the front steps Jack saw somebody was already waiting for him. The man was standing beside a box that looked big enough to accommodate a bar fridge. No doubt the guy thought he was sitting on a small fortune in rare books. The early birds always did.

  ‘Morning!’

  Jack nodded hello. He slipped the key into the front door. ‘We actually open at ten,’ he said.

  ‘Oh.’ The guy looked lost for a moment. He was in his seventies, built small and thin, looked about as heavy as a copy of War and Peace. The skin on his face was like rice paper, and he had blotchy cheeks and a long nose. His hair was white and oily and all short back and sides. He wore a grey parka and a red flannelette shirt, buttoned to the neck and tucked into light blue slacks pulled up high and belted tight. There was no way a draught was going to get anywhere near this boy’s kidneys.

  The old guy patted his box. ‘Any chance you can take a look? You see my son dropped me off in the car, and …’ His wet eyes pleaded. Then he smiled, changed his mind and decided to tempt rather than beg. ‘Got some real beauties in here!’

  Jack knew he was going to let him in. Though on the outside he might appear cool, the second-hand book dealer could never resist a box of books. The chance of that rare, elusive first edition, worth three grand, picked up for three bucks. It was a curse.

  ‘Come in,’ said Jack.

  ‘I’ll just need a hand, if you don’t mind … ’

  Jack walked across to the counter and put his coffee down. Maybe there was an Edward Kass or two in there? He helped the man drag the box over. It weighed a ton. Jack had a look inside.

  ‘What do you reckon?’

  All Jack could see were copies of Reader’s Digest. ‘Is your son picking you up again in the car?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘I don’t buy magazines.’

  ‘Oh.’ The old man’s hand went to his chin. Then he reached into the box and began to pull the copies of Reader’s Digest out. ‘Hang on, there’s books in here, too! My wife packed the bloody thing, you just can’t see them. Take a look!’

  Soon they were piled over the concrete floor of Susko Books. Reluctantly, Jack crouched down and went through them: rejects on the right, offers on the left. Most went on the right. But he did manage to find a few things worth keeping: half-a-dozen Beatrix Potter books; a hardcover book on embroidery; a 1982 edition of the Macquarie Dictionary of Australian Quotations; Gemstones of the World by Walter Schumann; Let’s Speak French by The Commonwealth Office of Education, Sydney; Patrick O’Brien’s Picasso; The Eye of the Storm by Patrick White; a 1982 edition of the Collins English Dictionary; Foucault’s Pendulum by Umberto Eco; and The Complete Book of Flower Preservation by Geneal Condon.

  ‘Forty dollars,’ said Jack.

  It was clear from the look on the old man’s face that this was not the amount he had confidently predicted to his wife and son.

  ‘What about the rest?’

  ‘Sorry. Can’t use it.’

  ‘Not at all?’

  Jack shook his head. ‘Not if you gave it to me for free.’

  ‘I just can’t believe it.’

  They never could. And they always took it personally, as though Jack were passing judgement on what they had chosen to read. He supposed he was. It was one of the few perks of the job. But it was just a small God complex, nothing too serious. It did not affect the fate of nations.

  ‘I can give you a hand up the stairs if you want.’

  Jack locked the front door and pulled the Yellow Pages out from a dented, grey filing cabinet behind the counter. Apart from the shelving, the only other furniture in the shop included a cheap pinewood chair, a small trestle table that served as a desk, a set of drawers tucked in underneath, and a tall free-standing lamp that he had inherited from the last business that occupied the premises. ‘Antique World’ had not lasted long and in the end made a quick, overnight exit, leaving a good portion of rent unpaid. Jack moved in cheaply because nobody wanted basement premises in the city: apart from porn operators, who did not rely on display windows so much for their trade. But ‘Serious Titillation’ was already there, and had been for years, right above the basement site. With its bright yellow sign and bright yellow façade, it deflected a lot of attention away from Susko Books. But that was okay. On some days there was a little bit of flow-on traffic. Always the odd customer who came in accidentally and was convinced to buy a copy of The Story of O.

  Jack flipped through the Yellow Pages until he got to Books — Secondhand &/or Antiquarian. He dropped a pen into the spine. He figured he would let his fingers do the walking. This was going to be the easiest money he had ever made.

  The phone on the counter began to ring. Jack drank some coffee before answering.

  ‘Susko Books.’

  ‘Yeah, I was wondering if you had a copy of a particular book.’

  ‘What’s the title?’

  ‘It’s by a guy called Edward Kass.’

  ‘Kass?’

  ‘Yeah. Got anything by him?’

  Jack sipped his coffee again. It was a little too early for coincidences. ‘Not sure,’ he said. ‘Let me check.’ He held the phone for half a minute. Then: ‘Is that K, A, double S?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right. I’ll take everything you got.’

  ‘Hang on.’

  Jack put the phone down. He drank some more coffee. He did not feel so good. Kasprowicz might have twenty people out there working for him, all over the country. It was clear the old man did not play tiddlywinks.

  ‘I’ve got two Edward Kass books,’ said Jack. ‘A couple of copies of Simply Even. Want me to hold them for you?’

  ‘I’ll be there in half an hour.’

  ‘No problem. What’s the name?’

  There was a spilt-second pause. ‘Steve.’

  ‘Surname?’

  ‘What do you want that for?’

  Jack grinned. ‘Got a phone number?’

  ‘I said I’d be there in half an hour.’

  ‘No worries.’ Jack glanced at the clock on the wall behind him. ‘So you’re a fan of this Kass then?
’

  Another pause. ‘They’re not for me.’

  ‘Oh. Present for someone?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s it, a present. For my niece. She reads a lot.’

  ‘That’s great. Why does she need two copies of the same book?’

  A couple of moments rowed by. ‘I got two nieces,’ the man said. ‘Twins.’

  ‘That’s nice, Uncle Steve,’ said Jack. ‘The books are one hundred dollars each.’

  ‘A hundred bucks! You’re joking.’

  ‘Don’t waste a trip down if you don’t believe me.’

  ‘Yeah? Well, fuck you then.’ The man hung up.

  Jack finished his coffee. So others were out there, snatching at Kasprowicz’s fifty-dollar bills. He needed to find thirteen more copies if he was to keep his advance. Maybe it was not going to be as easy as he first thought.

  The old guy really wanted those books. Jack knew collectors could be eccentric, obsessed and sometimes plain crazy, but Kasprowicz was not any of these. He was calm and sure of himself. He was a man used to the driver’s seat. And he knew which way the numbers went, like an abacus. So what was it with this Edward Kass?

  The sun was low, hidden behind the city’s cold steel buildings. So far it had been the warmest winter on record, but that was over now. Today something had shifted. Though it was bright and clear and dry, everything was as sharp as broken glass. The wind blew, cold enough to snap-freeze a two-year-old’s runny nose.

  Jack stepped on his cigarette. The rear door at Susko Books opened onto Market Row, a narrow lane just wide enough for council garbage trucks to pass. Jack could smoke there with the door open and still see into the shop. A small alcove shielded him from rain and wind. Some mornings he found people asleep there. Often he had to sweep syringes away, or move old blankets and cardboard boxes so that he could open the door. This morning there was a twisted-up wire coathanger on the ground. Somebody must have tried their luck at free parking. Somebody else must have tried their luck for a free car. Lots happened down narrow city lanes at night.

  Jack was thinking about places where he could not afford to live. Houses he could not afford to buy. Annabelle Kasprowicz. But too much thinking was not healthy. Especially when it had nothing to do with nothing. It deserved a government health warning. Jack went back inside and locked the door.