In the administrative office he found Kevin Philips sitting with a man in a dark suit. The man was introduced to Caleb as Jonathan DeHaven’s attorney.

“Under the term of Mr. DeHaven’s will you’ve been appointed the literary executor of his book collection, Mr. Shaw,” the attorney said, pulling out a piece of paper and handing it to Caleb. He also gave him two keys and a slip of paper.

“The large key is to Mr. DeHaven’s home. The smaller key is to the vault at his home where the books are kept. The first number on the paper is the pass code to the alarm system at Mr. DeHaven’s house. The second number is the combination to the vault. It’s protected by both key and combo locks.”

Caleb looked dumbly at the articles he’d been handed. “His literary executor?”

Philips spoke up. “Yes, Caleb. As I understand it, you helped him acquire some volumes for his collection.”

“Yes, I did,” Caleb acknowledged. “He had enough money and informed taste to build a very good collection.”

“Well, he apparently thought a lot of your assistance,” the attorney said. “Under the terms of the will you are to be given full and unfettered access to his book collection. Your instructions are to properly inventory the collection, have it appraised, carve it up as you see fit and sell it, with the proceeds going to several charities identified in the will.”

“He wanted me to dispose of his books? What about his family?”

“My firm has represented the DeHaven family for many years. He has no living relatives,” the attorney answered. “I remember one of the retired partners telling me that he was married once, years ago. Apparently, it didn’t last long.” He paused, seeming to search his memory. “Annulled actually, I think he said. It was before my time with the firm. Anyway, there were no children, so no one to make a claim. You’re to be paid a percentage of the sales price of the collection.”

Philips added, “That might come to a fair amount of money.”

“I’d do it for free,” Caleb said quickly.

The attorney chuckled. “I’ll just pretend I didn’t hear that. It might be more work than you think. So you accept the commission?”

Caleb hesitated and then said, “Yes, I’ll do it. For Jonathan.”

“Good. Sign right here to acknowledge your acceptance and receipt of the keys and codes.” He slid a one–page document toward Caleb, which he signed with a little difficulty, not having his glasses.

The attorney ended by saying, “Well, it’s all there waiting for you.”

Caleb returned to his office and stared down at the keys. A few minutes later he made up his mind. He called Milton, Reuben and then Stone. He didn’t want to go to Jonathan’s house alone, he told them. They all agreed to accompany him that night.

Chapter 13

That evening Reuben and Stone drove to DeHaven’s house on the Indian motorcycle, the tall Stone crammed into the sidecar. Caleb and Milton pulled up right behind them in Caleb’s ancient and sagging pewter–gray Chevy Nova with a finicky tailpipe. Caleb was wearing his backup pair of glasses; he assumed he’d be reading a lot tonight.

“Nice digs,” Reuben said as he tugged off his helmet and goggles and looked at the massive house. “Pretty ritzy for a government salary.”

“Jonathan came from money,” Caleb answered.

“Must be nice,” Reuben said. “All I ever came from was trouble. And that’s also where I always seem to be headed with you mates.”

Caleb unlocked the front door, turned off the alarm system, and they all stepped inside. He said, “I’ve been in the vault before. We can take the elevator down to the basement level.”

“Elevator!” Milton exclaimed. “I don’t like elevators.”

“Then you can walk down the stairs,” Caleb advised, pointing to the left. “They’re over there.”

Reuben looked around at the antique furniture, tasteful artwork on the walls and sculptures in classically styled presentation niches. He rubbed the toe of his boot on the beautiful Oriental rug in the living room. “Do they need a house sitter until everything’s settled?”

Caleb said, “That would be a no.”

They rode the elevator down and met Milton in a small anteroom.

The vault door was a monster, two–foot–thick steel with a computerized keypad and a slit for the special security key. The key and combo had to be inputted at the same time, Caleb told them. “Jonathan let me go in the vault with him on several occasions.”

The door slid open on silent powered hinges, and they went inside. The space was about ten feet wide, nine feet high, and looked to be about thirty feet long. As soon as they walked in the vault, specialized low lighting came on, enabling them to see reasonably well.

“It’s fire– and bombproof. And it’s also temperature–and–humidity–controlled,” Caleb explained. “That’s a must with rare books, particularly in basements, where those levels can fluctuate drastically.”

The vault was lined with shelves. And on the shelves were books, pamphlets and other articles that, even to the untrained eye, looked rare and valuable.

“Can we touch anything?” Milton asked

“Better let me do it,” Caleb answered. “Some of these items are very fragile. Many of them haven’t seen natural light for over a hundred years.”

“Damn,” Reuben exclaimed, running his finger lightly along the spine of one of the books. “Like a little prison and they’re serving their life sentences.”

“That’s a very unfair way to look at it, Reuben,” Caleb said in a scolding tone. “It protects the books so other generations can one day enjoy them. Jonathan went to great expense to house his collection with exquisite care.”

“What sort of collection did he have?” Stone asked. He was eyeing one very old tome whose cover appeared to be carved from oak.

Caleb carefully slid out the book Stone was referring to. “Jonathan had a good collection, but not a great one; he’d be the first to admit that. All the great collectors had an almost limitless amount of money, but, more than that, they all had a vision for what sort of collection they wanted and they pursued it with a single–mindedness that could only be called an obsession. It’s referred to as bibliomania, the world’s ‘gentlest’ obsession. All the great collectors had it.”

He glanced around the room. “There are some must–haves for the best collections that Jonathan simply would never be able to own.”

“Like what?” Stone asked.

“Shakespeare’s Folios. The First Folio would be the obvious one, of course. It contains nine hundred pages with thirty–six of the plays. None of the Bard’s original manuscripts have survived, so the Folios are incredibly desirable. A First Folio sold a few years ago in England for three and a half million pounds.”

Milton let out a low whistle and shook his head. “About six thousand dollars a page.”

Caleb continued, “Then there are the obvious acquisitions: William Blake, Newton’s Principia Mathematica, something from Caxton, the earliest English printer. J.P. Morgan had over sixty Caxtons in his collection, if I remember correctly. A 1457 Mainz Psalter, The Book of St. Albans, and, of course, a Gutenberg Bible. There are only three known mint–condition Gutenbergs printed on vellum in the world. The Library of Congress has one. They’re priceless.”

Caleb ran his gaze down one shelf. “Jonathan has the 1472 edition of Dante’s Divine Comedy, which would be welcome in any first–rate collection. He also has Poe’s Tamerlane, which is exceedingly rare and difficult to obtain. One sold some time ago for nearly two hundred thousand dollars. Poe’s reputation has made a nice rebound lately, so today it would fetch a much higher price. The collection includes a worthy selection of incunabula, mostly German, but some Italian, and a solid set of first editions of more contemporary novels, many of them autographed. He was very strong in Americana and has a large sampling of personal writings from Washington, Adams, Jefferson, Franklin, Madison, Hamilton, Lincoln and others. As I said, it’s a very nice collection, but not a great one.”