Chapter 20
They didn’t see Max or Joshua Starling for the next two days. Olivia and most of the other dealers on the Row were honing
their bargaining skills for the monthly auction held on the last Thursday of each month. Olivia spent the entire morning in
her upstairs office, not seeing clients, not even Max, who must have been told not to come.
Downstairs, life went on as usual. Though two ladies came in and bought copies of The Lost Prince, which, Celia had to admit, was nicely displayed on the piecrust table, with books stacked on a lace doily and one copy upright
on a small easel that until recently had held a British Jubilee commemorative plate on the upstairs parlor coffee table.
“You should make a sign to attract attention and encourage sales,” Celia had suggested. And this morning a color poster depicting
the cover along with “Makes a Great Present” was perched on a shelf above the table. Daphne had done an admirable job, considering
she’d had no formal art training outside of what their mother had given them and the calligraphy lessons.
“It looks really good,” Celia said.
“It really does,” Daphne agreed and clasped her hands together in admiration of her hard work.
Unfortunately, every time one of the regulars reached for a book on the shelf, the poster fell to the floor.
“Maybe a larger easel?” Celia suggested. “There must be one or two down in the basement.”
“I’ll go see,” said Daphne and hurried away.
Late that afternoon, Olivia came downstairs, dressed in her most distinguished brown tweed suit and carrying her briefcase,
which set off a momentary flutter of Celia’s nerves. The last time Olivia and taken her briefcase somewhere, she’d been carrying
part of the Sappho manuscript to Max Lienhardt.
But she knew her sister had better sense than to mention that piece of contraband, much less try to sell it at a public auction.
She stopped at the counter where Celia was sitting and Daphne was trying to repair the leg of a large easel she’d found in
the basement.
“I need to get over to the auction. I don’t want to miss the preview with so much else going on.
“Would you girls like to accompany me? No, I didn’t think so,” she answered herself before either of them had the necessity
of thinking of an excuse. “I’m hoping to find some stock, if anything in the catalogue is left by the time I get there.
“Are we running short on anything down here?” They all looked around the shop. Even Jane Addams, who had flopped down beside
the cash register hoping for an occasional tummy rub, opened her eyes, cracked a giant kitty yawn, and settled back down to
her nap.
“Jane Eyre has spoken,” Olivia said. “Actually, it looks better down here without all those shelves of books across the back. Where did you put them?”
“In the basement,” Daphne said. “We were thinking about putting them up for auction one of these days.”
Olivia looked momentarily alarmed. “I’ll have to go through them first. Now I really must go. Be sure to lock up. And double-check.
I’ve already locked up the third floor, so no need to do that. I shouldn’t be too late.”
They both sighed with relief when she was gone and they had been saved from a boring night at the auction.
Celia slid off her stool. “I have to run out for a bit.”
“Now what? Where are you going? You can’t leave me here by myself.”
“There are customers here, and Yannis is right next door. I’ll tell him to keep an ear out in case you need anything.” She
grabbed her knitting bag, which she’d had the foresight to pack and hide beneath the counter.
“Wait!” Daphne followed her to the door.
“Don’t worry. I’ll be back in an hour or so.”
“Be back before dark. I don’t want to have to close up by myself. What if something happens? What if the burg—”
Celia shut the door on her protestations, stopped by Yannis’s to ask him to keep an eye and ear out, then raced to the subway
station. The faster she got to the settlement, the longer she could stay and still get back to the shop before Daphne became
a bundle of nerves. And Olivia found out she’d left her sister to fend for herself.
Olivia strode down the street to the auction loft, her satchel holding the auction catalogue and her checkbook.
For the last two years she’d tried to get one of her sisters interested in learning the rare-books trade, but she was beginning to admit that maybe it was time to let go of their futures, and hers.
She’d cut her teeth on Book Row etiquette when she used to make the rounds with her father. She remembered going to her first
auction: the excitement, the wonder of all those books, all the hidden gems that might be found among them.
For years the two of them could be seen together at every auction. Walking side by side, Mr. Applebaum and his young daughter,
he led her through the lots, teaching her the business while he waited for a son to be born. And she? She’d still believed
she could be what he longed for.
At twelve, she could translate and read Greek and Latin, as well as several romance languages, faster than her father could.
At sixteen she was sent to Barnard to study the classics. She did it to please him as much as for the joy she found in the
actual learning. He wasn’t pleased when she accepted a position in the rare-books department at the Met.
But her mother was pregnant again, and he once again lost interest in his three surviving daughters. He needed a son to carry
on the business and his name. He was old-fashioned that way. After he lost his wife and the last chance for a son, he lost
interest in books and everything else, including the shop and his daughters. Olivia began to attend the auctions alone.
Three years later he died, and she’d left her work at the Met to take over the running of the shop. She hadn’t been back or
talked to Max since then. She shouldn’t have gone; it was a wound still too painful to bear and yet too precious to ignore.
By the time she’d walked the block and a half to the auction loft, she’d worked herself into a case of the dismals. She shook them off. She needed inventory, and she needed to find out if there was any buzz about stolen poetry fragments.
Time was passing, and the longer she had the fragments, the harder it was going to be to give them up. As she knew she must.
She’d promised Max that she would listen for any gossip or the slightest reference to theft. Take note of any furtive deals
going on. She’d nearly laughed out loud at that. Spoken like a true academician. Almost all auctions, at least those she knew
of, had shady dealings going on. Backroom deals for items that never saw the auction block. Not by anyone she dealt with or
respected. But there were those who would do or pay anything to own the rare bits of papyrus that she had in her safe. Possibly
one who had already sold his integrity and would already have them in his possession but for the postcard salesman.
That thought almost made her turn around and leave. Fortunately, Mr. Stammer and Mr. Henderson arrived right behind her.
“Good evening, Miss Olivia,” said Mr. Stammer, doffing his hat. “Anything of interest to you this evening?”
“A few I may bid on.”
“Nothing in the catalogue tickle your fancy?”
“Nothing I can afford. Are you going to bid on the Lyman Beecher sermons?”
“I had planned to,” said Mr. Stammer. “It would round out my nineteenth-century New England history collection nicely. But
look who’s here. I heard he might show up.” He motioned across the room to where several booksellers were chatting with a
nattily dressed man in his late forties, the successful, but notorious, book agent George D. Smith.
“I heard he might be here,” said Mr. Henderson. “But I can’t figure out whom he’s shilling for.”
“We’ll know as soon as he starts driving up the prices on certain items.”
“I might as well go home,” Mr. Henderson said.
Olivia was tempted to agree. She didn’t see any real reason for Smith to be there. He’d left Fourth Avenue behind for the
classier upper avenues, where the “real” business of buying entire collections was carried on. This evening was rather small
fare. A few good volumes, lots of decent stock if the advertisements were to be believed.
There were several interesting collections: big for her but, she would think, too small for Smith. Unless . . . The only thing
she thought he might be interested in was the one thing Olivia had but couldn’t put up for sale. Could he possibly know about
the Sappho? It was just the kind of deal that would bring him back to Fourth Avenue. Of course, a minor detail like being
stolen wouldn’t stop Smith. He wasn’t above a little cajoling, arm-twisting, or outright blackmailing to get what he wanted.
And if he knew, did others? Was it possible that she wasn’t the only one?
No one knows, she reminded herself. No one.
“Well, I think I’ll take a quick look through the lots,” Olivia said and took herself off.
She slowly moved from one large carton to another, perusing the information tag and looking at the contents that were partially
on display. Appearing to be interested when she was actually trying to overhear a snatch of conversation, whispered advice
about some items for sale, any mention of Sappho, or any mystery manuscripts that may or may not have been discovered, stolen,
and found their way here. But not a whisper, innuendo, or sly look materialized among the participants.
Feeling something between disappointment and relief, Olivia took her place for the opening bids.
Celia was out of breath when she reached the block of the Henry Street Settlement. The neighborhood had a different feel from
the morning of her first visit, as children were out of school and men were getting off from work. Inside the building, baby
care had been replaced by English, basic reading, and math classes for adults as well as tutoring for school-age children.
A host of teenage boys played basketball in the backyard, cheered on by just as many boys waiting their turn at play. Celia