Death by the Book Page 7

  Jack grinned. Kasprowicz was quick: he might be old, but his brain ticked over like it had been engineered in Stuttgart. ‘I’m giving it my full attention, Hammond. I didn’t know you were such a fan of your brother’s work.’

  Hammond Kasprowicz turned around. ‘So you know.’ He sipped his drink and glanced at his daughter. She had her back to him but shifted in her seat under his gaze. ‘That’s almost impressive. Maybe I’ll have to find more jobs for you.’ He rubbed his chin and pulled at his tie some more. ‘Though I worry about your confidentiality.’

  Jack smiled. He could have cut the nonchalance with a chainsaw. ‘I worry about your disclosure,’ he replied.

  Glass in hand, Kasprowicz picked his briefcase up from the floor. ‘Some things just aren’t your business, Mr Susko. You have your job and you’ve been paid.’ Kasprowicz rolled his shoulders. ‘When can I expect a delivery? Have you had much success?’

  ‘Moderate. But competition doesn’t help.’

  Kasprowicz’s brows angled down and shadowed his eyes like furry awnings. He seemed genuinely surprised. ‘Competition?’

  Jack nodded. ‘That’s right.’

  Kasprowicz stared thoughtfully at his glass of Scotch. Jack waited, watching him.

  Annabelle broke the silence ‘Why are you after Edward’s books?’

  Kasprowicz frowned like a High Court judge. ‘And why would that be any of your concern?’

  ‘Not so much my concern,’ said Annabelle. ‘Rather Celia Mitten’s.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  Annabelle turned to look at her father. Kasprowicz pushed his chin out.

  ‘Are you burning Edward’s books?’ she said, a little stronger than matter-of-factly. ‘Is that why you’ve got Jack searching for them? So that you can burn them, put the ashes in a box and send them to a sick old man?’

  Kasprowicz shook his head, disappointed and annoyed, as though Annabelle had just told him she was pregnant by the gardener. ‘You’ve been drinking,’ he said. The man was a Fourth-Dan Black Belt in the delivery of contempt. ‘Who told you this nonsense?’

  Annabelle stood up, determined. She knew she had already gone too far. Even the pot plants knew it. ‘Are you burning Edward’s books?’ she repeated.

  ‘You might want to lose the tone.’

  ‘Then why else would you want them?’

  Hammond Kasprowicz looked at Jack and then back at his daughter. His face was as hard as the bust of a Roman emperor. He did not care that the risotto was getting cold. ‘It’s not your business,’ he said. That was it. Question time was over. He picked up his jacket, turned and walked out of the kitchen. His footsteps were loud but unhurried down the hall.

  For a few moments, neither of them spoke. Annabelle went over to the stove and switched the extraction fan off. Jack drank some wine. His stomach mumbled something nasty about being empty.

  ‘Not much of a dinner,’ said Annabelle.

  ‘It’s still here.’

  ‘I’m sorry. And it was meant to be an apology.’

  Jack stood up, slowly. Obviously time to go. ‘Nothing to be sorry about.’

  ‘I’ll call you. Maybe we could try this again. In a restaurant.’

  ‘Any time.’

  Jack slipped on his coat, adjusted the sleeves and collar of his shirt. Annabelle crossed her arms over her chest. There was going to be no goodnight kiss.

  ‘Do you think he burnt them?’

  ‘You know your father better than I do.’

  ‘Nobody knows my father.’

  She stared at the terracotta tiles. Jack walked towards the hallway door. She did not look up when he said goodbye. He stepped quietly out of the kitchen and made his way to the front door.

  Outside, he lit a cigarette, walked to the gate and glanced back at the house. It looked cold and empty, even though he knew there were people inside.

  Jack changed his mind about going home. He was hungry. He stopped in Paddington, ordered a pizza and bought a bottle of wine. Then he hailed another taxi and directed it into the city.

  It was still quite early. Lois was no doubt curled up somewhere in a neighbour’s apartment, not thinking about him at all. Sometimes home could feel a little empty, especially on wet Monday nights. Jack wanted the dusty silence of Susko Books, and some Charles Mingus on the stereo for company. Tonight, maybe At the Bohemia, 1955. And then ease into that long bottle of red. Pick out some books, open the pages at random and see what he gets. The outside world where it should be — outside.

  He had kissed her. Thirty sweet seconds. Hardly enough to count for a memory.

  ‘Just here’s fine, thanks.’ Jack held the pizza box off his lap and paid the cab driver. The smell had filled the taxi, greasing the stale air inside.

  A street-sweeper swished loudly around the corner and Jack stepped back from the kerb as it drove past. The sky was still clear, the stars in crisp focus. It was cold, but no rain tonight. Just ahead, Queen Victoria sat in her usual spot, spilling abundantly out of her chair, the weight of the Empire in her sagging bronze jowls.

  York Street. Somebody sat on the top steps to Susko Books, talking on a mobile phone, his back to the street. Jack crossed over. He watched the young guy stand up and pocket his mobile phone. Then just as he walked up, Jack caught a flash of light that seemed to come from the front door of his shop. Surprised, he stopped at the top of the steps and waited a moment, trying to see through the shadowed glass. Nothing. Then as he took a step down, the light flashed again and darted about in the darkness. What the hell?

  Jack quickly put the pizza and bottle of wine down and called out to the phone guy just walking away. ‘Hey! You! Call the cops. Somebody’s in my shop!’

  The guy turned around. He was a young man in his twenties, wearing green camouflage pants, a beanie and a thick, hooded windcheater. ‘What?’ He gave Jack a wary, petulant look.

  ‘Someone’s broken into my fucking shop. Could you call the cops?’

  The young man’s eye’s widened. ‘Yeah, sure man, no worries.’ He reached for his phone and flipped it open.

  ‘Tell them it’s Susko Books, on York Street. The guy’s still in there.’

  Jack sprinted around into Market Row. The lane was empty. He slowed down as he approached the rear door to his bookshop. The sound of traffic carried down from George Street but seemed a long way off.

  He pulled the keys out of his pocket. As he neared the rear door, he saw they would not be necessary: somebody had taken out the lock and handle with a sledgehammer.

  Jack held his breath and pushed the door slowly: it started to creak so he held it fast. It was open just enough for him to slip through. But wait there or go inside? He was unsure. He needed a weapon.

  His heart thumped. He stepped inside. Jack Susko had never held a gun in his life, but he was sure it would have felt better than the old, 1970s Smoker’s Please ashtray he picked up off the floor behind the door. First thing tomorrow he was buying an aluminium baseball bat.

  There were noises up ahead, somewhere near the counter: shuffling of papers, drawers being opened, books dropped to the floor, a chair shoved aside. An old coffee mug full of pens spilled and a second later smashed on the floor. The intruder swore. Then the dull drum echo of Jack’s small, wastepaper bin as a palm hit the side a couple of times and emptied it.

  Jack edged forwards. He held the ashtray in his right hand, ready to swing. It was dark but he knew where the shelves were, knew which way to go. Every now and then the intruder’s torchlight reflected off something in the shop, a quick flash of glass, of metal, a sudden grainy patch of ceiling or wall, then gone. It was like being underwater at night.

  For a moment, complete silence. Jack stopped. Then he heard paper being torn. Followed by the scrape and scratch of a lighter flicking sparks. He took another step. The ashtray he was carrying banged against the metal corner of a bookshelf. He froze. Three seconds later, a beam of thin, harsh light caught him full in the face.

 
Things happened pretty quickly after that.

  10

  THE TORCH SNAPPED OFF and somebody started running. Jack stood where he was, trying to focus on what was ahead of him, blinking away the brightness. As he did, something like a ten-pin bowling ball struck him in the stomach at about sixty kilometres an hour. Jack doubled over, groaning.

  Whoever had head-butted him tried to shove Jack aside and scramble past, but the shelves were narrow there, between Classics, Religion and History. Blindly, Jack managed to grab hold of the flap of a jacket. He grimaced and pulled, letting his weight fall to the floor. The assailant remained on his feet but Jack forced him to bend over. The man writhed and flayed. Jack held on. He tried to curl an arm around the man’s legs and trip him up. Elbows and fists rained down, mainly catching Jack in the arm and shoulder, but a couple stung the side of his head. Then Jack remembered his suit and felt a surge of anger. He pulled harder on the jacket and as he did so lifted himself up a little off the floor. His head came up above the level of his hands. Just high enough for the guy to get a good look at it.

  A terrific pain burst in the middle of Jack’s face: his nose exploded like a ripe tomato. Wet warmth began to spread around the general area. He let go of the jacket, collapsed to the floor, and put his hands to his face.

  ‘Stupid fucker,’ barked a thin, angry voice.

  Jack was grabbed by the lapels of his jacket. He blinked and looked up. A dark face was bent over him: he could just see the whites of the man’s eyes, glazed blue-grey in the weak light of the street lamps outside.

  ‘Should’ve stayed at home, eh?’

  Jack tried to breathe, but his nose was full of hot gravel.

  The man pushed Jack away and straightened up. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a knife.

  Jack caught a glimpse of the blade, liquid silver like the flash of a fish in murky water. ‘Oh, shit!’ He tried to get to his feet. Another punch to the head stopped him, though he managed to slip the force of the blow away from his face with his arm.

  ‘Should’ve stayed at home —’

  The back door to Susko Books swung open and banged against the wall. A corridor of muted, night-time city light spread down the aisle of books. The man with the knife turned and looked towards the rear of the shop. Jack squinted at the face of his attacker: it was the son of a bitch who had tried to sell him the stolen books earlier that day.

  ‘You there?’ called out the guy with the mobile from the street. His voice was frail and nervous. ‘Hello?’

  Jack filled his lungs and climbed to his feet. ‘Over here!’ The intruder swung around. His arm shot out. The knife blade reached out in a pointy curve. Jack back-pedalled but found a bookshelf. Frantic, he tried to push himself along the uneven spines. He did not get far.

  An instant later, a hot stripe drew itself briefly across his stomach, just about where his appendix would have been if he still had it. The moment his hand went there, he could feel dampness seeping through his shirt. Jack Susko slipped down the bookcase to the floor again.

  The assailant ran towards the back door. Somebody swore and then there were scuffling footsteps and a crash and then nothing. A few moments later the young guy from the street walked in, stepping cautiously through the shop.

  Jack sat himself up and leaned against the bookshelf. ‘There’s a light switch just beside the door.’

  ‘Shit, are you all right?’ The guy ran over.

  ‘I hope so. Did you get hold of the cops?’

  ‘They’re on their way.’ He knelt down beside Jack. ‘The fucker just rammed past me!’ he said. Then he took a better look at Jack. ‘Oh, shit!’

  Jack pressed down where the knife had slashed him. ‘Reckon you could grab the towel from behind the counter? Should be on a shelf there somewhere.’

  ‘Yeah, sure, sure.’

  Jack put his head back. He turned and let it hang over his left shoulder. The shop lights flickered on, fluorescent tubes popping with harsh blue light, and he closed his eyes from the glare. When he opened them, he noticed a book sticking out a little from the shelf, just there beside him. He turned his head a little more and read the spine: After We Die, What Then? by George W. Meek.

  Nothing like a good sign at the end of a bad day.

  ‘This is Detective Peterson,’ said one of the police officers. ‘He’ll need to ask you a few more questions.’

  Detective Geoff Peterson was a tall man in a plain navy-blue suit. He had a wide face, pale complexion and small, dry blue eyes set close together. The remains of acne scars dappled his cheeks. His close-cropped sandy hair was receding in a neat V from his forehead, and his ears stuck out from his head. They were fleshy, like oysters, and large enough to pick up FM radio signals. His hands were in his pockets and he stared down at the end of his plain, light blue tie, brooding. Absently, he scratched the back of his head. Then he rubbed his face like a man who could do with some sleep.

  As Jack watched him, the detective lifted his head and looked straight at him. His eyes caught Jack square, like headlights flicked onto high beam. His face was set firm. And then he winked. Surprised, Jack looked away. What the hell was that about? Peterson kept his eyes on him for a moment longer and Jack felt them crawling over his face, scrutinising him. It was not a nice feeling.

  A uniformed police officer waited beside the detective with a notepad. Jack sat uncomfortably in a chair that had been brought out from behind the counter. The ambulance officers had cleaned him up, stuck a cold pack on his face, and dressed the knife wound. It was not deep, but a few stitches up at St Vincent’s Emergency ward were recommended. Jack had already answered questions and given a statement and was keen to get home, but now Detective Peterson was here and he wanted to go over a few things.

  ‘Is this going to take much longer?’ asked Jack, irritated. He had swallowed a couple of painkillers, but his head still felt like an egg in boiling water.

  Peterson grinned, but the smile vanished before taking hold. ‘So you arrived about what time?’ he said, as though they were halfway through a conversation. He squinted at Jack like a schoolteacher who already knew the answer to the question.

  ‘I don’t know exactly.’ Jack took the cold pack off his nose. ‘Sometime between eight-thirty and nine, I suppose. Whatever time it was when the guy from the street called you. You should know when he rang.’

  Peterson did not respond. He paced around a little. The uniformed police officer stood perfectly still and scribbled in his notebook.

  ‘And you say nothing was taken?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. He smashed my pen mug, though.’

  Peterson took one hand out of his pocket and stroked his tie, running a finger down it smoothly, like a cut-throat razor over a strap. ‘I don’t suppose there’d be much cash lying around here, would there?’ he said, raising his eyebrows on the word cash. ‘I mean, what’s a second-hand book set you back. A dollar fifty? A couple of bucks? You’d have to sell a few to get a stash together.’ He nodded, agreeing with himself. ‘Take a while.’

  Jack did not answer.

  The detective stood up straighter, pushed his chin out a little and carefully adjusted his tie. ‘Do you have a safe?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Cash box?’

  Jack laughed and then grimaced because it hurt. ‘Shoe box,’ he said.

  ‘Ah, I see. And how’s trade been?’ Peterson’s tone was cool, conversational, but full of pins, like a cheap business shirt.

  ‘Fine.’ Jack noticed the uniformed officer had put his notebook away.

  Peterson nodded. ‘What days do you bank?’

  ‘Whenever I get a hundred bucks together,’ said Jack. ‘Usually the autumn solstice.’

  ‘That’s pretty funny,’ said Peterson. He did not laugh. His voice wore steel-capped boots and stepped all over Jack. He slipped his hands into his pockets again and leaned back against the counter.

  Jack had to turn a little to keep his eyes on him. The slash across his sto
mach burnt.

  ‘So what I want to know is why somebody would break into a second-hand bookshop in the first place?’ The detective looked up at the ceiling as he spoke, as though he was thinking out loud. Then he looked at the police officer there beside him. ‘I mean, really, what could you want? Obviously there’s no money. Just old books.’

  ‘Rare books?’ said the officer, as if he had struggled to think of the answer.

  Peterson flashed a grin and looked quickly at Jack. ‘Doesn’t look particularly antique in here though, does it?’ He checked out his shoes and then brushed something off his pants. ‘Any rare books, Mr Susko?’ he said, still smiling. ‘Anything worth more than half-a-dozen dollars in here?’

  Jack shifted his weight onto his left buttock. His nose throbbed. ‘Not today.’

  ‘So why would our friend take the risk? If you’re going to smash a door and have no qualms about pulling a knife, why not a jewellery store? A bottleshop or a newsagency? Even a café would give you a better return.’

  Jack had started to dislike Detective Geoff Peterson about five minutes ago. The feeling was now taking root like a noxious weed. He put the cold pack down and reached over the counter for his cigarettes. He put one in his mouth and then struck a match against the box. Before lighting it, he paused. ‘Maybe if you catch him,’ he said, ‘you could ask him.’

  Peterson shot a look at Jack. If it had been a bullet, it might have grazed his ear.

  Jack lit the cigarette and tossed the spent match onto the counter. He drew back and then exhaled slowly, watching the detective through the smoke.

  ‘But I was wondering if you had any ideas, Mr Susko,’ said Peterson, smoothly, flattery lining his voice like artificial sweetener. ‘Think about it. There’s nothing to steal, but he brings a knife and attacks you.’ Peterson looked at the officer again. ‘Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?’

  ‘About what?’ said Jack. He was starting to feel like he needed a lawyer.

  Peterson grinned. ‘You say you recognised the man?’