Classified As Murder

“There’s no signature,” Sean said. “At least not on the title page. Let me check the endpapers.” With delicate precision, he examined each of the leaves that preceded the title page. He looked up at me. “No signature. And there are spots on the outer edges of the pages, too.”

To be completely certain, I read through the description in the inventory book again. Signed, near mint. No mention of foxed pages.

The book Sean held was an impostor. We had finally turned up an item stolen from the collection.

TWENTY-EIGHT

I instructed Sean to put the inferior copy of Soldiers’ Pay on the desk, and I walked over to Officer Williams near the door.

“Could you get in touch with Deputy Berry and let her know that we’ve made a discovery?” I asked. “We’ve identified one item stolen from the collection, and we’re going to continue looking for others.”

“Sure thing,” Williams said. He pulled out a cell phone and started punching numbers as I went back to work with Sean.

I quickly scanned the succeeding entries in the book. The next twelve consisted of Faulkner novels, all signed and in near-mint condition. I checked the dates of purchase, and they were the same for all thirteen Faulkners. Mr. Delacorte had purchased them as a collection about twelve years ago. No price was listed, but I suspected he had paid a hefty amount for the thirteen signed books.

The second Faulkner listed was his second published novel, Mosquitoes, from 1927. Sean pulled it from the shelf as I read the description aloud.

“Deputy Berry’s on her way.” Williams spoke from right behind me, startling me.

“Good,” I said. “Thanks for calling her.”

“Just doing my job.” Williams flashed a brief smile before he returned to his chair.

I focused again on Sean and the book in his hands.

“This one’s bad, too,” Sean said, indicating the copy of Mosquitoes. “No signature, loose binding, spots.”

“I suspect we’ll find that all the Faulkners have been replaced with inferior copies,” I said. “Let’s keep checking.”

Sean and I examined the remaining eleven. An inferior copy had been substituted for each one. The one consistent factor with all thirteen was the dust jacket. They were all in remarkably good condition for books that were in such bad shape.

On a hunch I took the jacket of Mosquitoes out of its clear archival cover and examined it closely under the light of the desk lamp. After only a brief study, I confirmed my suspicions. I was sure this was a laser-printed copy of the dust jacket, perhaps taken from Mr. Delacorte’s authentic, near-mint copy of the book.

Kanesha entered the library as I was explaining my opinion of the dust jackets to Sean. She didn’t bother with preliminaries.

“Tell me.” She stood with arms folded and stared at me while I recounted the tale of the thirteen Faulkner novels replaced with inferior, unsigned copies. She didn’t interrupt, and I kept my narrative brief and precise.

When I finished, Kanesha didn’t speak for a moment. Her first question was one I was expecting. “How much are they worth?”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” I said. “A collection of signed Faulkner novels like that would go for a lot. At auction, perhaps as much as $750,000, maybe even more. A group like this doesn’t go up for sale every day.”

“But would whoever stole them be able to sell them in a public auction?” Sean asked. “That would leave a very visible trail.”

“Excellent point,” Kanesha said. “How would somebody go about selling them without attracting attention?”

“Depends on the kind of connections the thief has,” I said. “If they’re sold directly to a private collector, no one would know. Or the thief could sell them one at a time to different dealers. He’d probably get less overall for them that way, though.”

“How would you go about tracing them?” Kanesha asked. Her expression betrayed her discomfort. This was clearly something outside her realm of experience.

“My guess is that you’d get the FBI involved,” Sean said.

“Yes. There have been some highly publicized cases in recent years of rare book thefts, usually from libraries,” I said. “The FBI gets called in on those. This case is probably no different, because I suspect the books probably will have been sold outside the state.”

“I’ll talk to a guy I know in the MBI,” Kanesha said. When she noticed Sean’s puzzled look, she elaborated. “Mississippi Bureau of Investigation. They work with the FBI on a regular basis.”

A cell phone rang. The sound emanated from a holster attached to Kanesha’s belt. “Excuse me,” she said. She stepped away from us as she answered the call.

I glanced at my watch—eight-forty-five. “What say we do as much as we can by ten, and then head home? I don’t know about you, but I’m starting to feel pretty wiped out.”

“Sounds fine to me,” Sean said. He flexed his shoulders. “My neck’s feeling a little stiff.”

I picked up the inventory book, but Kanesha spoke before I could look up the next entry after the Faulkners.