Schemers: A Nameless Detective Novel (Nameless Detective Novels) Read Free Page B

sadist’s sense of humor. The same glass bowl of peppermints was on the desktop; he had an addiction to the things.
    “So,” he said, lacing his hands across his paunch. “Been quite a while.”
    “Yeah. Quite a while.”
    “Lots of happenings in your life since the last time we saw each other. Married, adopted a kid, took in a partner and expanded operations.”
    “Been keeping tabs, have you?”
    “Nah. But word gets around.”
    “Then you know I’m semiretired now.”
    He chuckled. “Sure you are. Just like me. What’d you think of Margot?”
    “Your assistant? Seems competent.”
    “Bet your ass.” Wink, wink. “In the office and in bed, both.”
    I didn’t say anything.
    “No lie,” he said. “I’m laying her.”
    Twice today, people telling me about their sex lives. I didn’t mind it so much from Tamara. From Rivera, it set my teeth on edge. He might or might not have been BS’ing; he’d always had a certain amount of success with women, the type who need somebody to mother. He’d once told me he’d slept with over three hundred women in his life. Even if that were true, which I doubted, he’d had enough conquests to give legitimacy to his bragging. And brag he did, often, to anybody who’d listen, with no consideration whatsoever for the women’s feelings or reputations.
    He winked at me again and popped a peppermint, and I thought: You little prick, how could I have ever considered you a friend?
    “You didn’t crawl out of the woodwork after five years to tell me about you and your assistant,” I said. “What is it you want, Barney?”
    He wasn’t offended. You couldn’t offend him without the aid of a needle twice as big as the one he used. “A job I figured you’d be interested in,” he said. “Soon as the claim came across my desk last Friday, I thought of you. Right up your alley.”
    “Why is that?”
    “Has to do with books, for one thing. Rare books.”
    “I don’t know anything about rare books.”
    “Collect them, don’t you? Mystery books?”
    “No, I collect pulp magazines. Big difference.”
    “Valuable, though, right? Old and valuable.”
    “I suppose so. In the collector’s market.”
    “The policyholder in this case collects vintage firstedition mysteries dating back more than a hundred years. Owns some fifteen thousand volumes, appraised at more than seven million and insured for that amount.”
    “You’re kidding.”
    “Nope. His collection’s one of the three or four largest in the world.”
    “He must be a multimillionaire.”
    “Inherited money. His old man was the inventor of some gadget used in early jet planes. He’s been with Great Western for twenty years, one of our biggest clients—personal property, accident, three life policies. Never missed a payment on any of them, never filed a claim before this one.”
    “And this one is for?”
    “Eight books allegedly stolen from his library a week ago,” Rivera said, “worth a cool half a million bucks.”
    “Eight books, half a million?”
    Rivera used his computer to consult the case file. “ The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, Arthur Conan Doyle, British first edition. The Maltese Falcon and Red Harvest, Dashiell Hammett. The Big Sleep, Raymond Chandler. The Postman Always Rings Twice, James M. Cain. The Roman Hat Mystery, Ellery Queen. The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, Agatha Christie, British. Fer-de-Lance, Rex Stout. All inscribed and signed copies in dust jackets except the Doyle and Christie.”
    “My God,” I said.
    “Impressed, huh?”
    “From what I know, those are not only rare first editions but virtually impossible to replace even for a multimillionaire.”
    “That’s what Pollexfen says. Gregory Pollexfen. Name mean anything to you?”
    Poll- ex -fen. Odd name. “No. Where does he live?”
    “Right here in the city. Sea Cliff.”
    “He must be beside himself. I would be if some of my rarest pulps had been swiped.”
    “If the books were swiped,” Rivera