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“How come?”
“Because you’ve got a right to furnish a description of goods offered for sale. And you’ve also got a right to show the goods to prospective buyers, so anyone who wanted could turn up at Sotheby’s the week before the auction and read through Fairborn ’s letters. And the press could report on their contents.”
“Would they bother?”
“With all the mystery surrounding Fairborn, and with all the interest in the letters? I think they might. They’d certainly cover the sale and report on the selling price.”
“More publicity for Fairborn.”
“And he’s the one author in America who doesn’t want it. He makes B. Traven look like a media slut, and now his private correspondence is up for grabs to the highest bidder. And sooner or later it’ll be published in full.”
“When the copyright runs out?”
“When Fairborn dies. It’ll still be protected, but his heirs would have to go to court, and who knows if they’ll bother? Even if they do, the courts are less impressed with the need to protect a man’s privacy when he’s not around to notice one way or the other. The only way Fairborn can be positive those letters won’t be published is if he gets hold of them and burns them.”
“So why doesn’t he go to the auction and buy them himself?”
“He’s not one to show his face in public.”
“Why not, if nobody knows what he looks like? But he wouldn’t have to show up in person. He could deputize someone to bid for him. A lawyer, say.”
“He could do that,” I allowed. “If he could afford it.”
“How much money are we talking about, Bern?”
I shrugged. “I couldn’t even tell Alice how much her inscribed first of Nobody’s Baby is worth. I couldn’t begin to guess what a hundred letters would bring.”
“A hundred letters?”
“Well, she was his agent for four or five books. Some of the letters are probably cut-and-dried-here’s the manuscript, where’s the check?-but there are probably longer letters that shed light on his creative process and provide personal glimpses of the man behind the books.”
“Ballpark it for me, Bern.”
“I really can’t,” I said. “I haven’t seen the letters and I don’t know just how revealing they’ll turn out to be. And I’ve got no way of knowing who might show up the day of the sale. I’m sure there’ll be a couple of university libraries bidding. If the right private collectors come around, and if their pockets are deep enough, the prices could go through the roof. And don’t ask me how far through the roof, or even where the roof’s located, because I don’t know. I can’t imagine they’ll bring less than ten thousand dollars, or more than a million, but that doesn’t really narrow it down.”
“And Fairborn ’s not rich?”
“Not as rich as you’d think. Nobody’s Baby made a lot of money, and still earns steady royalties, but none of his books since then have amounted to much in sales. He keeps trying new things and won’t write the same book twice, or even the same kind of book. He always gets published, because how can you not publish Gulliver Fairborn? But his recent books haven’t made money, for him or his publishers.”
“Are the new books any good, Bern?”
“I’ve read most of them,” I said, “although I’ve missed a few along the way. And they’re not bad, and they may even be better novels than Nobody’s Baby. They’re certainly more mature work. But they don’t grab you the way that first book did. According to Alice, Fairborn doesn’t care how the books sell, or if they sell. He barely cares if they’re published, just so he can get up each morning and write what he wants to write.”
“He could make money if he wanted to, couldn’t he?”
“Sure. He could write Nobody’s Toddler or Nobody’s Adolescent. He could go on tour with it and give readings on college campuses. Or he could sit back and sell film rights to Nobody’s Baby, which he’s always refused to consider. There are lots of things he could do, but not if he wants to live his life in peace and privacy.”
“So he can’t buy the letters back.”
“He tried to, remember? Landau didn’t even answer his letter. And he can’t afford to pay what they’ll bring at auction.”
“I get the picture,” she said. “And I guess that’s where you come into it, huh, Bern?”
“It’s really a shame,” I’d told Alice. “You would think lawyers could do something, wouldn’t you? I guess the best he can do is hope the letters wind up with someone who’ll keep the public away from him.”
“There would still be the auction catalog.”
“True.”
“And the newspaper stories.”
“It’ll blow over eventually,” I said, “but so will a tornado, and your trailer park never looks the same afterward. There ought to be something somebody can do.”
“Perhaps there is.”
“Oh?”
“If someone were a burglar,” she said, not looking at me, “one could get hold of the letters before they got into Sotheby’s hands, let alone into their catalog. Isn’t that the sort of thing a skilled and resourceful burglar could do?”
“I suppose I should have seen it coming,” I told Carolyn. “I bought the bookstore thinking that it might be a good place to meet girls, and every once in a while it is. People do wander in, and some of them are female, and some of them are attractive. And it’s natural enough to fall into conversation, about books if nothing else, and sometimes it’s a conversation that can be continued over drinks and even di
“And once in a while it’s not over until Mel Tormé sings.”
“Once in a while,” I agreed. “Once in a great while. But I should have seen it coming all the same. I mean, it’s not as if I was irresistible that afternoon. All I could talk about was the candiru. That’s some icebreaker.”
“Well, it gets your attention.”
“She’s living in Virginia when she hears from Fairborn,” I said, “and a couple of weeks later she walks into my store, picks a fifth printing of his book off the shelf, and asks what an inscribed first edition would be worth. She’d owned the book for twenty years. Don’t you think she’d have a better idea of its value than I would?”
“It was a way to start a conversation, Bern, and a better one than the candiru. It was a coincidence, her needing a burglar and you happening to be one, but the thing about coincidences is they happen. Look at Erica.”
“I’d better not,” I said. “I looked at Mindy Sea Gull, and I got bawled out for it.”
“I’m talking about coincidence,” she said. “Erica came into my life when I just happened to be in the mood for romance and open to the possibility of a relationship. Wouldn’t you call that a coincidence?”
“Not really.”
“No? Why the hell not?”
“You’re generally in the mood for romance,” I said, “and whenever you see somebody cute, you’re ready to start picking out drapes together.”
“Our eyes met across a crowded room, Bern. How often does that happen?”
“You’re right,” I agreed. “It was a remarkable coincidence, and it means the two of you are made for each other. But it wasn’t a coincidence with Alice. She’d managed to learn about me, and maybe that’s not as hard to do as I’d like to think. Sit down at a computer, punch in books and burglar, and whose name is going to pop up?”
“It’s true you’ve had your name in the papers a few times.”
“That’s the trouble with getting arrested,” I said. “All the publicity. If Fairborn wants to find out what invasion of privacy is all about, let him stick up a liquor store. ‘No mug shots, please. I never allow photographs.’ Lots of luck, Gully.”
“I guess that means he’d better not go after the letters himself.”
“I should have seen it coming,” I said again, “and maybe I would have, but Mel Tormé was singing his heart out, and…”
“I understand, Bern. You’re go
“I’d have to be nuts,” I said. “There’s no money in it. The letters may be worth a small fortune, but I’d be returning them to the man who wrote them, and he can’t pay enough to make it worthwhile. And she lives in a hotel, and that’s always tricky. The Paddington’s not Fort Knox, but it’s still risky and there’s no pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. The only pot is one made out of black clay, and he already gave it to Alice. I’d have to be out of my mind to do it.”