The Lions of Fifth Avenue: A Novel

CHAPTER NINE

New York City, 1993

Ineed to find out where in the Antarctic has the largest population of penguins. Can you help me?”

The question sent a surge of adrenaline through Sadie. An hour ago, she’d gotten a call at her desk in the Berg asking if she would cover for a reference librarian who’d fallen ill, and had jumped at the chance. Claude had been annoying her all day with his overly solicitous questions about the exhibit, and she’d told him to cover the room while she manned the reference desk. Here, in the Catalog Room of the library, she was like a dolphin in water. Or perhaps a penguin.

The patron asking about penguins was a writer of geography books who often worked out of the library, and Sadie was happy to help. Behind him, another patron in an officious-looking dark suit began to speak, but Sadie cut him off with a curt “I’ll be with you in a moment.” She came out from around the desk and led the penguin patron to one of the many card catalogs that stood on the perimeter of the wall. The drawer gave an efficient swoosh as she opened it, and she worked her way through the index cards, speaking aloud the pertinent call numbers and titles as he wrote them down on call slips.

Back at the desk, she fed the call slips into the pneumatic tube. “You can pick the books up in the Reading Room,” she said. “My guess is that the correct answer is the Danger Islands. I believe approximately one and a half million penguins reside there, and are kept safe from human interference by heavy ice floes that make landing boats a dangerous undertaking.”

With a hearty “Thanks,” he was on his way.

“Wow.” The man who’d been waiting in line stepped up to the desk. “How do you know all that stuff about the penguins?” He spoke out of the side of his mouth, like he was being sarcastic.

“It’s my job.”

“Now I know who to turn to if I see a penguin waddling around.”

“I assure you they prefer to stay south of Fourteenth Street.”

He laughed, which drew nasty stares from the other patrons but gave Sadie a small thrill. She wasn’t known around the library for her sense of humor. “Now, what can I help you with?”

“I’m Nick Adriano. Dr. Hooper brought me in as a consultant regarding the theft.”

She knew that the director was hiring more security, but she hadn’t realized it would involve a consultant. He looked to be in his early fifties, his hair completely gone on the top of his head, thinning around the sides but cut close, like he didn’t dispute the fact that battle was almost over. The curve of his pate was balanced by a square jaw.

She caught his eye and realized he was probably sizing her up the same way. Not that it mattered, but she’d put on her favorite dress today, featuring giant magnolia blooms over a bright pink background, knowing that she’d be stopping by the donor cocktail party at five o’clock. She glanced up at her watch. It was quarter after—she really should be there by now. She lowered her voice. “I assume you’re investigating the theft of the diary?”

“I am. Do you have a moment?” he asked.

“I’m done here, but on my way downstairs. If you like, we can talk as we walk.” She joined Mr. Adriano on the other side of the desk.

“I heard you were called ‘No Stumpin’ Sadie,’ and now I see why.”

She hated that name, like something from an old Broadway musical. “It’s just a matter of knowing where to start, which I assume is very similar to what you do in your job.”

“Like right now, where I’m starting with you.”

“As you should. What questions can I answer for you?”

“This book, it was in the cage in the stacks?”

“It was a notebook, not a book. And yes, that’s where we keep a majority of the Berg Collection, as we’ve outgrown our current space and new locked bookcases aren’t to be installed in the third-floor space until later this year. I’ll be very relieved once it’s all under our aegis, as obviously the stacks are not safe.”

“Obviously. But first, we have to look closely at those who have access to the collection, as you can imagine. When did you discover it missing?”

“Exactly one week ago. On the thirtieth of March.”

“What made you go look for it?”

“It was to be included in our upcoming exhibit, Evergreen. I was planning to begin working on the description of the diary for the catalog. My job, as temporary curator, is to ensure that the preparations go smoothly, and make sure there are no surprises.”

“What kind of surprises?”

“Any damage, anything out of place. But it was nowhere to be found.” The memory of not finding it in its box brought back a muted panic.

“When did anyone from the Berg last see it?”

“My coworker Claude had taken it out a few weeks before it went missing. He says he put it back right after.”

“And you and Claude were the only ones who had access to the locked cage?”

“Along with Marlene and the director, yes. Have you talked to Claude yet?”

“I did, earlier today.”

So he hadn’t started with her, as he’d stated previously. She waited, but he didn’t elaborate. What if Claude had thrown some kind of suspicion on her? She wouldn’t put it past him, especially after he’d been skipped over for the curator position. “What did he say?”

“He was helpful.”

She hated not knowing what was going on. “I’m assuming that in cases like these, the staff has a tendency to turn on each other. I assure you that I will do no such thing. Claude is a fine man, but I hope you take whatever he says with a grain or two of salt.”

Had she said too much? It had been some time since a man had looked at her so intently—since Claude and, before that, Phillip—and Mr. Adriano’s interest, even if it was professional, unnerved her.

“And why is that, exactly?”

“We dated, briefly. Well, not really. No. Never mind.” The words came out with a faint English accent, much to Sadie’s horror. Her mother used to do the same whenever she was nervous, and the affectation always irritated Sadie. Yet here she was doing the same thing.

She’d never hear Pearl’s voice again. The thought made her eyes burn.

“Ms. Donovan, are you all right?”

She pulled herself together. “Last week, I got a promotion—although it’s only temporary—and he did not, and I would not be surprised if he were less than generous in his description of me. I assure you, the library is paramount to me. I would never harm it in any way.”

God, she sounded like an idiot. Protesting too much, and all of that.

They’d reached the door to the room where the cocktail party was being held. Dr. Hooper was probably wondering where she was. “I’ve arrived at my destination, Mr. Adriano, and I’m afraid I have other business to attend to. Of course, if you need anything else, you can find me in the Berg during business hours.”

“Are you trying to get rid of me?” The side of his mouth rose up again, like he was amused. Like this was all a joke.

“Not at all, but I must make an appearance. It’s a cocktail party for donors and trustees, and I promised Dr. Hooper I’d attend.”

“I’ll join you, then.”

She hesitated a moment before stepping back and allowing him to open the door for her. “Very well.”

Inside, the room was crowded and hot. A waiter came by with glasses of wine on a tray, and they each took one, sipped, and looked about the room.

“See any suspects?” she asked.

“At this point, I suppose everyone is a suspect. How long have you worked at the library?”

“Eight years. How long have you been a security consultant?”

His smile spread slowly, like he was trying to hold it back. “Five years. Before that, I was a cop, at the Twenty-Third precinct. When I retired, I started my own security firm. We’re brought in when something goes wrong.”

“May I ask, who are your typical clients?”

“Auction houses like Sotheby’s, high-end private families. That sort of thing.”

She nodded her approval. “So you’re discreet.”

“I am.”

“That will be helpful in this case. Often, libraries that are robbed prefer to keep the incident quiet so that donors and trustees”—she motioned with her glass around the room—“don’t pull their support. Which runs counter to the possibility of recovering the stolen object, unfortunately.”

“So you’re saying it’s a choice between protecting the institution or locating the artifact? Can’t we do both?”

Before she could answer, Dr. Hooper came barreling over, trailed by Claude.

“Mr. Adriano, Sadie,” said Dr. Hooper. “We have a problem.” He pointed to the door, and they all followed him outside, into the hallway. He looked around, as if checking to make sure they had privacy. “There’s been another theft.”

“What was stolen, and from where?” asked Mr. Adriano. He straightened up, his eyes bright.

Claude responded, staring right at Sadie. “A first edition of The Scarlet Letter. From the cage.”

Dr. Hooper leaned in to their small circle.

“It was taken from the cage for the Berg Collection?” Sadie repeated, her mind whirling.

Claude was gray. “Yes.”

“But it wasn’t missing when we did the shelf read.”

“No, it wasn’t.” Claude spoke fast, trying to explain, his voice rising. “I brought it up from the cage to my desk yesterday, to review it for the exhibit. I locked it back up before I headed home for the evening, I swear, but when I went back down this afternoon, it was gone.”

“Didn’t we have the locks changed?” asked Dr. Hooper.

“We did,” said Mr. Adriano.

Which ruled out Marlene.

Dr. Hooper turned to Claude. “I’m afraid, Claude, since you were the last person to have handled it, we’ll have to restrict your access. For now. Please hand over your key.”

Claude, looking sick, pulled it out of his pocket and did so.

Sadie was now the only person left standing, other than Dr. Hooper, who had access to the collection in the cage. Ultimately, she was responsible, as the book thefts occurred on her watch as curator. This was personal, as if someone had broken into her home and rifled through her own belongings.

“What’s the resale possibility for the edition?” asked Dr. Hooper.

Sadie jumped in to answer. “It’s probably much easier to sell than the Virginia Woolf diary, which is one of a kind. There are several first editions of The Scarlet Letter out there.”

“How much do you estimate it’s worth?” asked Mr. Adriano.

“Somewhere around ten thousand dollars.” The words stuck on Sadie’s tongue.

Dr. Hooper dismissed them and headed back in to the party, his mouth a grim line. Claude slunk off, hands in his pockets, leaving behind Mr. Adriano and Sadie.

“How much experience do you have dealing with rare book thefts?” she asked.

“We’ve run into a couple of incidents, but usually we deal with art or sculpture.”

“It’s not the same.”

“Obviously not.”

“Do you think Claude’s involved?”

He shrugged. “I couldn’t say at this point. Nor would I, to you.”

“I want to recover our property as much as you do.”

“Whose property?”

He’d caught her there.

“The library’s, of course.”

She had to make him see that a book could be as important as a Picasso. To not only know that, but to be emotionally invested in it as well. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to introduce you to the Berg Collection. Would that be all right?”

He agreed, and not reluctantly, which was a good sign. As they walked down the hallway, she asked, “What sort of books do you like to read?”

“I like nonfiction. And poetry.”

Now, that was a surprise. She’d been expecting to hear the name of the latest thriller. “What kind of poetry?”

“John Ashbery, Walt Whitman. ‘Resist much, obey little.’”

She paused just outside the door, smiling. “Come with me.”

In the Berg, she pulled out her key chain and stuck the key into one of the locks in the glass cabinets. She took out a box and placed it on the empty table, put on her gloves, and then carefully sifted through its contents until she found what she was looking for. “Do you know this one by Whitman? ‘You Lingering Sparse Leaves of Me.’”

“It was in the annex to Leaves of Grass.”

“Here’s an early draft, written in his own hand.” She slid it out of its protective shield and laid it on the table, stepping aside so he could see.

The paper was stained brown in places, like coffee had been spilled across it.

He leaned in closer. “But this is different from the one I’ve read.”

“Exactly. That’s what makes it special. We can see Whitman’s thought process, how the poem evolved. Look at the pencil marks.” She pointed without touching the page. “He’s written ‘final version’ on the top right corner, then crossed it out. Some of the lines are quite different in several places from the one that was eventually published. Like here, the phrase ‘You meagre little banners’ is changed to ‘pallid banner-staves.’”

“And the final line here reads, ‘My hardiest and my last.’” He looked at her. “What’s the real version again?”

“The one that was published reads, ‘The faithfulest—hardiest—last.’”

“I like that better,” he said.

“So do I.”

“To think he wrote this as he was sitting around, drinking his coffee, all those years ago.” Mr. Adriano shook his head. “Imagine that.”

“You could say that it’s an active representation of the human act of creation. These stains, rips, and cross-outs are visual records of the work as it was first put on paper and then revised. On some manuscripts, you can tell when the author became angry or frustrated, from changes in the penmanship. One of my favorite mentors in college, Professor Ashton, used to say that it’s a bridge from the reader to the author, one that provides far more than just the mechanical representation of the content.”

“A bridge. I like that.”

“So you see why this is so valuable.” She carefully placed it back into the protective sleeve. “We can understand how he got from there to here, why he chose each word, after considering and discarding others.”

He looked around. “So everything in the Berg Collection is like the Whitman draft?”

“Some are more interesting than others. For example.” She reached down to the bottom shelf and pulled out the infamous cat-paw letter opener.

“What the—”

She explained the provenance and was pleased when Mr. Adriano grinned.

“These archival manuscripts are important,” she added. “Even the administrative records from the library when it was first built are vital to understanding its history. History is made by people in power making decisions, and their notes and writings reveal the decision-making process.” She thought of Laura Lyons, who hid her life away. How ironic that Laura’s granddaughter had made a career of the very ephemera that she’d had destroyed upon her death. “Records should be saved.”

The next morning, Sadie took a break from her work in the Berg to bring a couple of Danishes to Mr. Babenko in the bindery. As she turned down the hallway, she spotted a familiar figure outside the door, knocking.

Mr. Adriano.

“You can just go in.” She indicated the doorknob with her elbow, her hands full. “It’s open. He listens to jazz on his Walkman while he works, so he can’t hear you.”

Mr. Babenko looked up from his work, delighted, as they entered, and took off his headphones. “Sadie! With delicacies, no less.” He smiled at Mr. Adriano. “I was talking about the pastries, of course.”

“Of course,” Mr. Adriano replied cheerfully.

“To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“I’m just here for a social visit,” said Sadie. “Mr. Adriano’s probably here on business.” She sat down at the table and nibbled at a Danish. Mr. Adriano looked at her as if he were deciding whether to dismiss her, but then returned his attention to Mr. Babenko, reaching out to shake hands. He stopped, mid-reach, as Mr. Babenko held out his palm, an apologetic look on his face. Layers of skin were in various stages of peeling off his fingers, like translucent wood shavings.

“Hazard of the job,” said the older man.

“I’m sorry. What job do you do?” asked Mr. Adriano.

“Bookbinding. In 1965 I developed an allergy that stuck with me. Can’t seem to stop what I’m doing, though.”

Sadie smiled. Mr. Adriano didn’t know that Mr. Babenko loved to boast about his hands, that they were a point of pride with him, and that long ago he had refused gloves, saying they stymied his sense of touch. “Mr. Babenko is in charge of processing the new books when they come in, and restoring any that are damaged,” she said.

“I see.” Mr. Adriano raised his eyebrows at her before turning back to the bookbinder. “I understand you’ve been here a long time, and I thought I might ask you some questions.”

“Is this about the book thefts?”

Mr. Adriano shot Sadie a look, but continued. “Dr. Hooper said you were the building’s unofficial historian, and that you’d even written a book on the place.”

“You’ve written a book?” Now it was Sadie’s turn to be surprised. “You never told me that.”

“A coffee-table book, back in the sixties. Out of print now. Out of date as well, what with the new stacks added under Bryant Park. How can I help you, Mr. Adriano?”

“I was inspired by Ms. Donovan here, who gave me a lesson in the value of archival records yesterday, and decided to do some digging of my own. I was surprised to learn that the library had an on-site detective, back when the library first opened.”

“A Mr. Gaillard, I presume?” said Mr. Babenko.

Mr. Adriano took out a notebook and flipped through it until he found the correct page. “Yes. I’ve spent the morning investigating the paper trail to any earlier book thefts here at the library, in case we can learn from the past, and luckily Mr. Gaillard left a trove of information behind. I’ve been compiling a list of prior thefts: what was taken, from where, whether or not they were recovered.”

Sadie’s heart thumped in her chest. “What did you learn?” she asked, her mouth dry.

“The worst was a spate of them beginning in 1913.”

Mr. Babenko gestured toward Sadie. “That’s when your superintendent was around, right?”

She smiled weakly. “I guess.”

“Who’s that?” asked Mr. Adriano.

“I had done some digging myself, you see. In the director’s archives, for a project.” She went on to explain what she’d mentioned to Mr. Babenko yesterday, about the superintendent being a suspect.

“What was the super’s name?” asked Mr. Adriano.

“Jack. Jack Lyons.”

“Married to Laura Lyons, the essayist,” supplied Mr. Babenko.

Mr. Adriano nodded. “I’ve heard of her, sure.”

Sadie struggled to divert his attention. “I also found a note in the director’s file, written by the detective, saying that it was as if the thief had ‘dropped from the sky.’”

“Interesting.” Mr. Adriano scribbled something in his notebook, then flipped the page. “Apparently, one of the first items stolen from the library was a book called Tamerlane, by Poe.”

“One of only ten copies in the world,” Mr. Babenko said. “Never recovered. A terrible loss.”

“How much would that be worth today?” he asked.

“One recently went at auction for four hundred thousand dollars,” volunteered Sadie.

Mr. Adriano let out a long whistle. “Quite the racket. Mr. Gaillard’s notes mention a Book Row. Where is that?”

“From around 1890 to the 1960s, there was a collection of bookstores, called Book Row, on Fourth Avenue just below Union Square,” said Mr. Babenko. “These days bookstores that handle rare books are scattered around Manhattan. There might be one or two left on Book Row, and one of the most famous, the Strand, is just around the corner on Broadway and Twelfth, but most were forced out by rising rents.”

“I’ve also assembled a list of bookstores that have been flagged for purchasing stolen items in the past; would you mind taking a look?” He showed Mr. Babenko the page in his notebook. “I’m curious if anything jumps out at you, as a place to start.”

Mr. Babenko studied it, and checked off the names of five bookstores. “It’s all rumor, of course, but the book world is a small one, and word gets around.”

“Thank you,” said Mr. Adriano. “I’ll look into it.”

As he left, Sadie pushed away the plate with the Danish, no longer hungry.