Free The Forgers by Bradford Morrow Page B

that afternoon, I opened the letters first. To my dismay, both were of the uselessly anonymous To Whom It May Concern variety. Discouraged, I next tore open the envelopes of the three antiquarian bookseller catalogues. These were a bit more auspicious. Two of the dealers were well established—indeed, I had already received both offerings in the mail some while back—but the other, from Pennsylvania, wasn’t known to me. That wasn’t altogether unusual, as the world is full of part-time dabblers in the trade, well-meaning decent book people who vend their stuff online and at rural fairs, who display secondhand volumes in the back of antique stores or in book barns, who keep their stock in dry basements or spare bedrooms. The book world was a crazy quilt of devotees who often shared little else than a rabid passion for the printed page. I couldn’t, and didn’t, know every bookseller out there, not by a thousand country miles.
    My two known contacts, both in New York City, were kind enough to look up their current customer information for Slader, only to find that he had not updated his address beyond Dobbs Ferry. My excuse for asking was reasonable, as I told them I owed him some money and couldn’t locate him. They had no better idea where he was than I did. One quipped, “Wish every customer we’ve got was as diligent about their bills as you.” Rather than approach the Pennsylvania dealer, who didn’t know me from, well, Adam, I called Atticus, with whom I had gone through the excruciating fire of apology, restitution, and slow deliberate reconciliation, and now enjoyed as close a friendship as a somewhat wary forgiveness allowed. His reply fascinated me.
    â€œHe shares some of your same interests, back when you were selling and buying.”
    â€œI still buy,” I countered. “I just don’t sell anymore.”
    â€œWell, he sells more than buys. Or used to. Hasn’t been around for a while.”
    While I digested what he’d said, the silence must have been telling, as his tone of voice changed when he asked me if there was something regarding Henry Slader he needed to worry about.
    Assuring him that Slader wasn’t anyone to concern himself with, I explained that Meghan and I had gone through her brother’s papers a couple of weeks ago and we found something there from him that needed to be addressed, is all.
    â€œJust trying to tie up whatever loose ends on the estate that we can.”
    â€œThey solve the murder?”
    â€œNot yet,” I said.
    â€œThat’s crazy. You’re a Sherlock Holmes man, must drive you up the wall that there aren’t his kind around these days to make things right. Not to mention poor Meghan Diehl.”
    Feeling more like Professor Moriarty than Mr. Holmes, I thanked him and rang off.
    As for the Pennsylvania dealer, I telephoned and attempted to order a couple of books that I imagined, based on what I had just learned, might be in Slader’s taste. Both were already sold. I desperately wanted to ask who bought them but realized I had reached a hard stone wall at the end of this particular path in the maze. I was stymied. When the dealer, not recognizing my voice, asked if I was on his mailing list for future catalogues, I said, Thanks, no, and hung up. My trip to Dobbs Ferry, my pathetic little theft, my hopeful, fibbing phone calls—all of it was for naught. Even after dinner that night, when Meghan asked me to show her the books I had scored on my Hudson Valley pilgrimage, I had to admit the trip was a bust.
    â€œNot a single book? That’s so unlike you,” she said.
    â€œI guess I’m too distracted right now to think about buying books.”
    â€œBut I thought that was part of the idea for going. Get your mind off things.”
    â€œWell, it didn’t work, I’m afraid.”
    Why I kept the truth from her, I couldn’t say in so many words. It was, as the