Laura caught a quick glance between her parents, full of worry and fear, and her guilt at having placed them in this position increased. If there was any other way to procure the funds, she would have taken it instead of adding to their woes. But they were her last hope. Her father’s pride meant that he wouldn’t dare admit how much a loan would cost him. Her mother’s love, neither.
“No, Laura,” said her father. “We simply cannot help you.”
Her mother turned to the children. “I have some sweets for you, if you like.”
The children cheered and followed her into the living room. The conversation was over.
An hour later, as they gathered their coats and made to leave, Laura’s mother pulled her aside and pressed something hard into Laura’s palm.
“Take this. Sell it. Don’t tell your father. I’ll say that I lost it.” She pushed Laura out the door, waving a manic goodbye.
Laura opened her hand when they were a block away, although she already knew what lay there: her mother’s engagement ring, a deep-navy sapphire surrounded by a halo of diamonds. As they neared the library, she whispered to Jack what had happened. “I didn’t have a chance to give it back, to say anything, Father was right there.”
“Why would you give it back?” Jack held the door open for her as they entered the library. “Looks like you might have another term of school after all. Brilliant, my love.”
She didn’t feel brilliant.
Dr. Anderson stood in the center of the library foyer, speaking to a gaunt man with small black eyes. It was Christmas Eve, when the employees should have been home with their families. Something was amiss. Laura sent the children upstairs.
Dr. Anderson greeted Laura and Jack and introduced the man as the library detective, Mr. Gaillard. “I’m afraid we’ve had more trouble.”
They drew close.
“There’s been another theft of a rare book. Tamerlane.”
Laura couldn’t help but gasp. She’d seen the book before, soon after the library had opened and a few of the highlights of the collection had been put on display: the Gutenberg Bible, the Shakespeare First Folio, and Tamerlane. She’d peered in through the glass of the vitrine and wished desperately she could touch the small, thin volume with an olive cover, written by Edgar Allan Poe, one of her favorites. One of only a few left in the world, stated the card beside it. And now it was missing.
Laura and Jack discussed the theft in hushed tones as they climbed the stairs to the apartment. In the parlor, Harry and Pearl were bickering over how best to hang their stockings on the fireplace but stopped mid-argument, studying their parents’ faces.
“What’s wrong?” asked Pearl. “Are we in trouble?”
“Not at all, my love,” said Jack. “It’s my work. A very important book called Tamerlane has gone missing.”
Laura refused to allow Jack’s work to cast a damper on their holiday festivities. “Luckily, they have smart men looking for it, so I have no doubt it’ll turn up by New Year’s. Now let’s get a hammer and a couple of nails and get your stockings ready for Santa’s visit.”
As the children’s cheers and excitement filled the air, Laura’s unease at the news was quickly erased, lost in the pandemonium of the holiday season.
* * *
The day after Christmas, Laura had hoped she might be able to go up to Columbia University’s library to check out the books mentioned in next semester’s syllabus, but Pearl and Harry were fighting over their Christmas presents, and Jack, who’d earlier that morning promised to stay with them, had disappeared with Mr. Gaillard right after breakfast.
Finally, around two o’clock, he returned, his face weary.
“Any luck with the missing books?” Laura asked.
“Nothing yet.”
“Why don’t I fix you something to eat?” Once he was settled, she could grab her satchel and head uptown, fit in a couple of hours at least.
But Jack shook off the offer. “I’m worried about all this, how this reflects on me as superintendent.”
“You don’t think they suspect you, do you?”
“Not exactly, but I know this place so well, better than anyone. You would think I’d be able to determine how the thief is getting in and out, but I don’t have a clue. How about you come down to the stacks with me? Without Gaillard breathing down my neck, I’ll be able to see it more clearly.”
Laura suppressed a sigh. “Of course, my love.”
She tucked away her satchel.
Deep in the basement, Laura breathed in the acrid odor from the bindery, where the library’s books were repaired. They went down a long hall into the shipping room, where Jack unlocked a door that led right into the stacks.
“We can’t figure out how the thief got inside the cages.”
“What cages?” Laura had had a quick tour of the stacks—seven stories of shelving located directly below the Main Reading Room—when they’d first arrived. “I don’t remember seeing cages.”
“I’ll show you.”
Natural light for the stacks spilled in through a series of long, narrow windows that ran down the length of the building. From Bryant Park, the effect was striking and modern. Inside, the design provided airiness to what was basically a book repository. The cast-iron shelves were painted white, with each row assigned a number. Metal stairways offered access between each section.
They passed by brass pneumatic tubes that glistened like snakes. “This is where the call slips from the Catalog Room and the Main Reading Room end up, and are handed to whatever page is assigned to that section,” said Jack.
She imagined the stacks during library hours, with pages traversing back and forth, piling up books in the dumbwaiters for quick retrieval. “How do you know that it isn’t a librarian or a page, since they’re the ones with the most access?”
“The keys to the cages are limited to the head librarians and me.”
She studied the space. “Do the windows open?”
“No.”
“Where are these cages?”
“Follow me.”
As they walked, she couldn’t help herself. “How’s the manuscript coming along?”
“I find I’m slowing down as I reach the end, like I do when I’m reading a book that I love.”
Slowing down? She knew she should stay quiet, but she couldn’t help herself. “Boy, I wish we had that luxury in class. With a deadline, it’s amazing how fast you get things done. Journalists don’t get paid if they don’t write, so it becomes less precious.”