The Miskatonic Manuscript (Case Files of Matthew Hunter and Chantal Stevens Book 2) (4 page)

“I think I know you,” Emilio said. “You’re Nde.” In Navajo, a closely related Athabascan tongue, the word was pronounced “Dine.” To both the Apache and the Navajo, the word meant “The People.”

“Half Nde,” she said, hanging her head.

“Emilio is here through tomorrow,” Matthew volunteered. “He was going to do some last-minute shopping tomorrow, and leave the next day. Why don’t you bring Gilbert to the store tomorrow, after Les and I meet with Worthy.”

“I’m glad you came to me,” old Emilio smiled. “I hope I can be of help.”

* * *

Brittany Watson looked bigger on television. When you saw them in real life, a lot of these TV gals looked like skinny little Munchkins. A pretty face, no doubt. High cheekbones and that darling little turned-up nose. Though they sure could slather on the makeup.

“Dave, I’m here at Books on Benefit with Matthew Hunter, the man who found that missing Sherlock Holmes story that just sold at auction in New York for more than a million dollars. Matthew, how does it feel to make that kind of discovery?”

“It’s very gratifying to know Doyle’s work still commands that kind of loyalty and affection, after more than a century,” said Matthew, who’d figured the first question would be something like that.

“And Doyle was?”

Matthew blinked. “The author, Brittany: Arthur Conan Doyle, the man who created Sherlock Holmes.”

“And did he write all the Sherlock Holmes stories, Matthew?”

Beyond the earnest newsgal with the lovely little nose and the high cheekbones, out of the camera shot but in full view of Matthew, Marian the office manager, tall and plain though she did seem to have more color in her cheeks these days, and Chantal his lady love were breaking up, enjoying the hell out of this, covering their mouths to avoid laughing out loud. Only Matthew’s eyes moved.

“He wrote all the original stories, Brittany. Since 1930 a lot of people have tried their hand writing imitations, parodies, the type of thing we call a ‘pastiche.’ But all the original Holmes stories were by Conan Doyle, yes.”

“And who was it who paid that much for a few old, yellowed sheets of paper yesterday, can you tell us?”

“As you know, Brittany, the buyer wants to remain anonymous, but I think what we’re all happiest about is that the buyer has agreed to place this hand-written piece of literary history on extended loan with Professor Richard St. Vincent’s rare manuscript collection here at the university, where it can be properly studied. I understand an annotated facsimile edition is also planned.”

“While you were in England, you also had something to do with the discovery of the so-called ‘Heretical Quran,’ didn’t you, Matthew?”

“No, no, I’m afraid you have me mixed up with someone else, Brittany. The early version of the Koran with the differing account of Mohammed’s life that’s been causing so much controversy, the doubts about his calling and so forth, was acquired by Lord Balmoral. Outside my area of expertise, I’m afraid.”

“Lord Balmoral didn’t call on you to help recover the Quran after it was stolen by religious fanatics?”

“Wild exaggerations, Brittany. I only know Lord Balmoral as a book collector.”

“Not what we’ve heard, Matthew. But in the meantime, I’m sure Action News viewers are wondering, how did you happen to stumble on this million-dollar Sherlock Holmes manuscript during your recent visit to England?”

Matthew paused a second. He actually turned to look directly down at the beaming newsgal, slathered up in her uniform coat of suntan-colored makeup, her lips and eyebrows then carefully penciled back in place in the appropriate dramatic colors over the top, to see if she was putting him on. Chantal, one of those rare and lovely blue-eyed brunettes, shorter than Marian, dressed in her trademark pleated wool skirt, now had her knuckles in her mouth to keep from laughing out loud. He resisted the urge to say an elf had dropped the story to them out of a hollow tree.

“‘The Sign of the Sixteen Oyster-Shells’? Doyle scholars have known all along that the author wrote a letter to his mother in the winter of 1888, not long after
A Study in Scarlet
finally appeared in a Christmas annual, saying he was about to write a story with that title. John Dickson Carr mentions it in the 1949 biography. The question was where it could be. Doyle’s papers had been widely scattered, and we knew at least one manuscript had been lost in the mails. It was just a question of where to look.”

“So once you knew where to look, then, Matthew Hunter, would you say finding that story was … ‘elementary’?” asked the clever young thing.

Matthew finally allowed himself a smile, knowing Doyle scholars who’d been searching for 70 years were about to shriek and hurl things at their television sets. “Yes, I believe at that point you could say it was ‘elementary,’ my dear Miss Watson.”

“Thank you, Matthew Hunter.”

* * *

Normal business resumed in the bookstore as the TV crew pulled down and hauled away their lights. A customer came in with a list of books she was looking for, handed it to Marian at the front desk.

“Most of these are recent books,” Marian said. “You might do better finding those online or at the college bookstore; we don’t handle much here that’s less than forty years old. Now,
The Benson Murder Case
, on the other hand, is a book we stock when we can find it, although early hardcovers of that are hard.”

“It’s a Haystack Calhoun cornerstone.”

“Yes it is. It has a prominent place on the list of keystone mysteries compiled by that eminent historian of the genre, Ellery ‘Haystack’ Calhoun,” said Marian, who tried not to correct the customers if she could avoid it, especially on something as minor as the proper name of the Haycraft-Queen cornerstones, a list originally compiled by Howard Haycraft in 1941 and then expanded several times by Ellery Queen, who in turn was really two cousins, neither of whom was named Queen, and neither of whom
was
a queen, so far as could be determined. All much too complicated to get into, on the fly. “I can put it on a want list for you, if you like, and let you know if one shows up.”

“And how much would that be likely to cost?”

“Offhand, a couple hundred for a 1926, maybe half that for a 1927. That’s without a jacket, of course. In an original jacket, much more. Unless you just want a reading copy.”

“A reading copy?”

“A later reprint or something beat to hell. Those turn up. And I do recognize this Michael Jackson title. I don’t think we have one in right now, but let me check online.”

Marian sat down at her computer to start the requested search. Tabbyhunter, who was sitting in front of his own screen, turned to watch.

“Does that cat have her own computer?” asked the customer.

“No, all the cats share that one. But Tabby is the best at it. He’s a ‘he.’”

“He just sits and watches it?”

“I guess you could say that. It’s all most people do. Tabbyhunter, can you play a movie for us? Play a movie?” And then, raising her voice a little, “Chantal, are you still over there?”

“Yes.”

“Could you check Music and see if we have Michael Jackson’s
Dancing the Dream
?”

“Sure thing.”

Tabbyhunter looked back and forth between Marian and the customer, then turned back to his screen, took his right forepaw, and pressed one of the large colored buttons on his special child’s keyboard. It took a second to cue up, and then there were images of pigeons pecking for scraps of bread on a piazza. After about 10 seconds a tower clock chimed and they all took off with a great flapping of wings. Mr. Cuddles, a 20-pound orange fur-ball, jumped up on the counter next to Tabbyhunter’s keyboard to see what the fuss was about.

“That’s wonderful. It’s just random, though, right?”

“Tabbyhunter, can we see the squirrel? Can you play us the squirrel movie?”

Chantal came strolling up, reported “No joy” on the book in question.

The gray tabby pushed another button. On the screen, a frustrated squirrel was trying to climb up a pole to a bird feeder — a pole which had apparently been greased. Mr. Cuddles, of course, walked around to see if he could find the squirrel behind the monitor. Tabbyhunter gave his larger orange companion a look of disdain. Mr. Cuddles, though huge and powerful, was not a genius.

“Here it is,” said Marian. “Yes,
Dancing the Dream
is available online, we can probably have it for you in about a week or so. Figure about 90 dollars if you want a nice hardcover first in jacket, unsigned, or there’s a reprint from Transworld.”

“Ninety
dollars?
”

“There are Michael Jackson collectors, ma’am, I assume they’ve driven up the price of the first. As I was saying, though, Transworld did a later reprint, looks like a hardcover with no jacket, we could probably get you one of those for about thirty.”

The customer was eyeing Tabbyhunter in a slightly uncomfortable manner.

“They’re predators,” Marian explained. “They’re crafty. It’s no different from running around and waiting for the mouse to come out the other end of a hollow log. They’re learned behaviors. Would you like me to order either of those books for you?”

* * *

In the little beachfront town of Ocean City, New Jersey, an 80-year-old retired congressman and ambassador named Franklin Roosevelt Howard sat watching the afternoon news. The newsgal briefly summarized Windsor Annesley’s sentencing and the “deadly threats against law enforcement and the judiciary” he had made there. She emphasized the fact that the miscreant “won’t be having much of a chance to carry out those threats — District Judge Fidelio Crustio sentenced him to multiple life terms … to run consecutively.”

“Now there’s one bastard who got what he deserved,” cackled the former congressman. “Handing out narcotic LSD, and he has the nerve to call his operation a ‘church.’ My God!”

He reached for his cane and pushed himself to his feet out of his maroon Naugahyde recliner, causing his wife to look up from her crossword. “I’m going to mix myself a drink to celebrate that one, dear. Join me?”

C
HAPTER
T
HREE

The original plan had been to use Matthew’s office, a space that was partly wedged under the stairs. It had evidently been used, originally, as some kind of glorified maid’s or butler’s pantry. Three people would normally have been a squeeze, but the place was now so crammed with boxes of books awaiting pricing decisions — Matthew and Chantal having just returned from the other side of the pond — that after some tentative attempts to re-stack the clutter, they’d decided the bookstore’s kitchen would do.

The kitchen showed four doorways — one to the back stairs, one outside door to the landing and side yard, one to the old pantry where they now kept the safes, and a fourth doorway back to the front of the store, though it led through the curtained-off, “check with management” room of pricier books.

Les, a pale, tall fellow with a domed forehead and a neatly trimmed mustache, who supplemented his income as a vampire novelist with his work at Books on Benefit — though Matthew sometimes suspected it was the other way around — counted chairs, was glad to see they wouldn’t have to evict Tyrone the other orange tabby, since his presence still left four chairs free, and they’d only need three for now.

“Matthew, thanks for seeing me. First off I want to thank you for providing room and board for Padre Emilio. If we can help defray some of those expenses, please let us know.”

“It’s been a pleasure having Emilio here, Worthy. He’s out doing some last-minute shopping, actually. No compensation necessary. My politics may not be exactly the same as yours, but the way your brother was railroaded was a travesty. These jurors hear people swear
over and over they’re going to tell ‘the whole truth,’ but the lawyers and the judges make sure they hear as little as possible of ‘the whole truth.’ Anyway, I was glad to have Emilio here. I’m just sorry he and your other witnesses were never allowed to testify.”

“The media cover these things as though there was a fair trial, Matthew, when in fact the defense attorneys will be jailed if they even try to tell the jurors they have a right to refuse to enforce any law they see as unjust, the same way Northern juries refused to enforce the Fugitive Slave Act. Read Judge Leventhal in the Dougherty case. Defendants like my brother have about as much chance of explaining the real issues to one of these stacked juries as some Russian trying to hold his pants up without a belt in one of Joe Stalin’s kangaroo trials.”

“No argument, Worthy.”

“Obviously, there are limits to what it’s wise to say with the press around, but I know you and Les are on our side, at least in principle. They claim they’re fighting a ‘War on Drugs,’ but that’s ridiculous.”

Worthy Annesley couldn’t let go of it, this afternoon. He acted like a guy who’d been gagged all through his brother’s trial — which was probably close to the truth — and now needed to let off some steam.

“Every plant on earth was put here by Nature’s God for our use, and every one
has
a legitimate use. Good luck anaesthetizing the eye to do surgery without cocaine and its derivatives. People in chronic pain desperately need the opium poppy, but the drug police would rather see cancer patients writhing in pain than open the market so they can get what they need.”

“Worthy, I’m mostly with you here, it feels odd to take the other side,” Matthew said, holding his hands open. “But you know they’d say junkies steal their neighbors blind, ruin their families’ lives, end up destroying themselves.”

“But why, Matthew? They steal because they have to pay hundreds of dollars on a black market for opiates that wouldn’t cost any more than maple syrup if the Drug Warriors repealed their drug laws. If they can get their chosen poisons at market prices, most drug users
can hold down jobs, function just fine. Beer and coffee are addictive, but we don’t drug-test employees and fire them if we find out they drank 12 beers last Saturday night, or four cups of coffee this morning. And why is it drug users today turn to heroin and crack where a hundred years ago they might have smoked a pipe of opium or poured themselves a Coke or a glass of coca wine?”