Page 62 of The Collector
32
Fasanenstrasse
The floor was scuffed and warped, the lighting subdued. There were books on shelves, books on tables, books under glass, and a single book—Death in Venice and Other Storiesby Thomas Mann—resting on the desk occupied by Günter Lehmann, owner and sole proprietor of Lehmann Antiquarian. He regarded Ingrid unblinkingly through rimless spectacles. He wore a cardigan sweater and a burgundy-colored ascot. His cheeks were pink with windburn.
“Were you interested in something in particular?”
“Actually, I was wondering if I might just have a look round.”
“Be my guest.”
She lowered her eyes toward the volume lying on the desk. “It’s in wonderful condition.”
“I’m afraid it’s spoken for.”
“A pity.” She walked over to one of the glass-covered cases. “Good heavens.”
It was a first edition ofThe Annex, a work that would later come to be known asThe Diary of Anne Frank.
“Have a look at the one lying next to it,” suggested Günther Lehmann.
A first edition ofUlyssesby James Joyce. “Is it really signed?” asked Ingrid.
“Jim,” answered the bookseller.
Next to the volume of Joyce was a copy ofAtlas Shruggedby Ayn Rand. And next to the Rand wasThe Beautiful andDamnedby F. Scott Fitzgerald.
“One of my favorite books,” said Ingrid.
Lehmann rose and unlocked the case. “The cover has been fully restored.” He placed the book atop the glass. “Clean hands?”
“Spotless.” Ingrid lifted the cover gently. “I’m afraid to ask the price.”
“I might be willing to let it go for thirty-five.” He pointed to the copy ofUlysses. “That one will cost you a million and a half.”
A buzzer groaned.
“Will you excuse me?” asked Lehmann, and returned to his desk.
A dead bolt snapped, a bell chimed, a presence entered the room. Ingrid paid it no mind; she was staring at the signed first edition ofUlysses. A million, maybe, she was thinking. But only a fool would pay a million and a half.
The presence in the room was suddenly speaking to Lehmann. Something about the recent murder of a rare book dealer in Copenhagen. A terrible shock to us all, he was saying. Peter was a friend. I did a good deal of business with him over the years.
Ingrid turned to the first page ofThe Beautiful andDamnedand read of Anthony Patch. She did not look up at the presence, did not acknowledge its existence. She waited for the presence to notice her. That was the way the game was played.
For now, the presence was entranced byDeath in Venice and OtherStories. The photographs had not done it justice, he was saying. Yes, of course he would take it. Couldn’t live without it.
Ingrid leafed through the pages of the Fitzgerald.
“I have a first edition ofGatsby,” boomed a voice at her back.
It belonged to the presence. He had addressed Ingrid in German. She counted slowly to five, then turned. Magnus of the chiseled jaw and piercing blue eyes. He seemed too large for the room.
“I beg your pardon?” she replied in the same language.
“Gatsby,” he repeated. “I have a first edition. It was a very small print run, you know. Twenty-five hundred copies, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Lucky you.”
