“Heavens, Detective. The world is full of people as tall as I am. Even Minerva Hunt fits the bill.”

“I’d say you’d need a pair of strong arms to heave that thing,” Mike said. “I think Minerva would be afraid she’d ruin her manicure.”

Mike was baiting his subject, trying to get a rise out of him.

Alger Herrick took his hands out of his sweater pockets. There was a glint of metal against the dark wooden globe as he reached to spin it. The oceans and continents began to whirl around on the solid wooden stand, and I could see that where his left hand should have been there was only a single hook.

“Did I startle you, Mr. Chapman?” Herrick asked. “I don’t want you putting me at the scene of the crime without getting to know me a little better.”

“You called me on that one, sir. I’m sorry if I was rude.”

“Just obvious, Detective. I was born without a hand-a defect the doctors assume was caused by the medication my mother was taking during pregnancy. I’m used to people’s stares and gasps. I’ve got a modern prosthesis I wear when I’m out, in case you’re wondering. But this is what I had when I was growing up, and it suits me fine. Now what were we discussing?”

“Mike and I are trying to get to know the world that Tina Barr moved in,” I said. “It’s hard to imagine that books and maps, and the quiet reading rooms of the public library, would expose her to danger, but the two attacks this week took place in her apartment. Perhaps you could tell us about some of the people she worked with. You, Mr. Herrick, tell us about yourself.”

Herrick crossed the center of the long room and seated himself at a desk near my chair. I wanted to understand Tina Barr, and if my appeal to his vanity guided me to learn about things in which she had immersed herself, it would be time well spent.

“I don’t like talking about myself, Ms. Cooper, but I can tell you all you want to know about these beautiful things,” he said, sweeping his good arm around in a circle.

“When did you start collecting?”

“My life has been a matter of great good luck, after a very bumpy start,” Herrick said. “I was deposited on the steps of an orphanage in Oxfordshire, or so I’m told, by a single mother-a teenager herself-who must have been overwhelmed at the prospect of taking care of a child as handicapped as she thought I would be. I don’t remember anything about that part of my life, so you needn’t imagine all sorts of stories about eating gruel and being forced to pick pockets as a child. Shortly before my fourth birthday, I was adopted by the Herricks, a local family who had lost their only son to polio about five years earlier.

“My adoptive father, Charles, was a wonderfully kind man, a barrister who made a respectable living. They gave me a loving home, and an introduction to material comforts.”

“I wouldn’t think many barristers could afford these digs,” Mike said.

“About the time I was a teenager, my father came into a large inheritance, Mr. Chapman. You know about primogeniture, of course. He was the third son of a third son and so on. But when his uncle died without any heirs-his uncle Algernon, in fact, for whom I was named when they adopted me-the old fellow left most of his estate, including his home and his library, to my father. Hence to me.”

“I like stories with happy endings.”

“So do I, Detective, so do I. And yes, I’ve tried to make a contribution of my own. If Jill hasn’t told you, I’ve been a member of the Council of the Stock Exchange. Investments and such. Very lucky indeed,” Herrick said. “Have either of you ever heard of Lord Wardington?”

“No, no, I haven’t,” I said.

“He was a mentor of my father’s, known to everyone as Bic. His family had built a spectacular library over several centuries, and he himself amassed the greatest collection of atlases in England. I used to spend hours at Wardington Manor as a child. I was painfully shy-because of this,” Herrick said, examining his hook as he spoke. “So I was more than happy to spend my time in the silence of the great reading room there.”

“That’s easy to understand.”

“Bic was incredibly generous to me. He saw that I loved old books-I loved smelling them and touching the rich Moroccan leather. There were early English Bibles and Shakespeare Folios, incredibly fine incunabula-”

“What’s that?” Mike asked.

“Books from the infancy of printing, Detective. From before 1500. The books were my friends-my only friends, in fact, for a long time-but it was maps that fascinated me the most. My father had a pair of globes. Not as fine as this one, but they were brightly colored and they towered above me, and I never tired of making them spin.

“And it was at Wardington Manor that I discovered atlases,” he went on. “Bic continued the tradition of acquiring books for the family library, but he became obsessed, much as I have, with maps.”

“Why is that?” I asked. “They’re quite beautiful, but what makes them so special to collectors?”

Herrick opened the oversize leather-bound book in front of him and turned to look at the pages he had selected. “Think of how the ancients must have imagined the world, Ms. Cooper, long before most of them were ever able to travel it, to take measure of it in their journeys. There have been maps as long as there have been walls or vellum on which to write and draw. Who was the first man to give us a mathematical picture of the universe? Do you know?”

Both Mike and I shook our heads.

“Ptolemy, of course, in his Cosmographia, which was based on voyages and itineraries of early travelers, and on their fantasies as well. About AD 150. His was the first account to locate places in terms of longitude and latitude. For hundreds of years afterward, monks and madmen all over Europe were able to draw maps of what they believed to be the world.”

“Where’s Mercer when we need him?” Mike said.

“Excuse me?”

“We’ve got a friend named Mercer Wallace whose father was a mechanic at LaGuardia Airport,” Mike said. “Has a thing for maps, too, only not rare ones. His dad used to hang all the airline routes on the walls in Mercer’s room when he was a kid, teaching him about faraway places. So he also grew up on maps. Bet he’d love to hear this.”

“Then you must bring him with you next time,” Herrick said, smoothing the page and running his forefinger over the outline of the northern coast of Africa. “Everything changed with the invention of the printing press, of course. Imagine the amazement of people seeing printed maps for the first time.”

Herrick prodded the book with his hook to swivel it around, allowing us to see the two-page illustration, colored in red and green inks, the seas a pale blue, with odd-looking creatures lurking on the corners.

“This is Ptolemy’s Atlas. The very first one ever printed, Ms. Cooper. Presented in Bologna in 1477.”

The images were breathtaking in their complexity and surprising in their accuracy depicting the landmasses bordering the Mediterranean.

“Twenty-six maps in the volume, done with double-page copperplate engravings, and then hand-colored. Taddeo Crivelli’s work-he was a genius. There are only thirty-one copies of this atlas in the world, and only two in private hands. Go ahead, touch it. I promise it won’t bite.”

Mike reached over me to feel the paper. He lifted the page and studied the image on the underside before sitting back.

“Did that say anything to you, Mr. Chapman?”

“Like what?”

“Like whether what I’m telling you is true? I’m teasing you, Detective, but Tina Barr is skilled enough to call my bluff on that. The real Bologna Ptolemy that I own is in England under lock and key. That one’s worth more than a million pounds. I bought it at Sotheby’s, when Lord Wardington sold most of his collection a few years ago. This is a much later edition-you’ll even find America in here-and it’s damaged by those small wormholes and some tears in its margin. Hasn’t nearly a fraction of the value of the Bologna printings. The green coloring has seeped through the paper, as sixteenth-century green often does.”