“The one that was published reads, ‘The faithfulest—hardiest—last.’”
“I like that better,” he said.
“So do I.”
“To think he wrote this as he was sitting around, drinking his coffee, all those years ago.” Mr. Adriano shook his head. “Imagine that.”
“You could say that it’s an active representation of the human act of creation. These stains, rips, and cross-outs are visual records of the work as it was first put on paper and then revised. On some manuscripts, you can tell when the author became angry or frustrated, from changes in the penmanship. One of my favorite mentors in college, Professor Ashton, used to say that it’s a bridge from the reader to the author, one that provides far more than just the mechanical representation of the content.”
“A bridge. I like that.”
“So you see why this is so valuable.” She carefully placed it back into the protective sleeve. “We can understand how he got from there to here, why he chose each word, after considering and discarding others.”
He looked around. “So everything in the Berg Collection is like the Whitman draft?”
“Some are more interesting than others. For example.” She reached down to the bottom shelf and pulled out the infamous cat-paw letter opener.
“What the—”
She explained the provenance and was pleased when Mr. Adriano grinned.
“These archival manuscripts are important,” she added. “Even the administrative records from the library when it was first built are vital to understanding its history. History is made by people in power making decisions, and their notes and writings reveal the decision-making process.” She thought of Laura Lyons, who hid her life away. How ironic that Laura’s granddaughter had made a career of the very ephemera that she’d had destroyed upon her death. “Records should be saved.”
* * *
The next morning, Sadie took a break from her work in the Berg to bring a couple of Danishes to Mr. Babenko in the bindery. As she turned down the hallway, she spotted a familiar figure outside the door, knocking.
Mr. Adriano.
“You can just go in.” She indicated the doorknob with her elbow, her hands full. “It’s open. He listens to jazz on his Walkman while he works, so he can’t hear you.”
Mr. Babenko looked up from his work, delighted, as they entered, and took off his headphones. “Sadie! With delicacies, no less.” He smiled at Mr. Adriano. “I was talking about the pastries, of course.”
“Of course,” Mr. Adriano replied cheerfully.
“To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“I’m just here for a social visit,” said Sadie. “Mr. Adriano’s probably here on business.” She sat down at the table and nibbled at a Danish. Mr. Adriano looked at her as if he were deciding whether to dismiss her, but then returned his attention to Mr. Babenko, reaching out to shake hands. He stopped, mid-reach, as Mr. Babenko held out his palm, an apologetic look on his face. Layers of skin were in various stages of peeling off his fingers, like translucent wood shavings.
“Hazard of the job,” said the older man.
“I’m sorry. What job do you do?” asked Mr. Adriano.
“Bookbinding. In 1965 I developed an allergy that stuck with me. Can’t seem to stop what I’m doing, though.”
Sadie smiled. Mr. Adriano didn’t know that Mr. Babenko loved to boast about his hands, that they were a point of pride with him, and that long ago he had refused gloves, saying they stymied his sense of touch. “Mr. Babenko is in charge of processing the new books when they come in, and restoring any that are damaged,” she said.
“I see.” Mr. Adriano raised his eyebrows at her before turning back to the bookbinder. “I understand you’ve been here a long time, and I thought I might ask you some questions.”
“Is this about the book thefts?”
Mr. Adriano shot Sadie a look, but continued. “Dr. Hooper said you were the building’s unofficial historian, and that you’d even written a book on the place.”
“You’ve written a book?” Now it was Sadie’s turn to be surprised. “You never told me that.”
“A coffee-table book, back in the sixties. Out of print now. Out of date as well, what with the new stacks added under Bryant Park. How can I help you, Mr. Adriano?”
“I was inspired by Ms. Donovan here, who gave me a lesson in the value of archival records yesterday, and decided to do some digging of my own. I was surprised to learn that the library had an on-site detective, back when the library first opened.”
“A Mr. Gaillard, I presume?” said Mr. Babenko.
Mr. Adriano took out a notebook and flipped through it until he found the correct page. “Yes. I’ve spent the morning investigating the paper trail to any earlier book thefts here at the library, in case we can learn from the past, and luckily Mr. Gaillard left a trove of information behind. I’ve been compiling a list of prior thefts: what was taken, from where, whether or not they were recovered.”
Sadie’s heart thumped in her chest. “What did you learn?” she asked, her mouth dry.
“The worst was a spate of them beginning in 1913.”
Mr. Babenko gestured toward Sadie. “That’s when your superintendent was around, right?”
She smiled weakly. “I guess.”
“Who’s that?” asked Mr. Adriano.
“I had done some digging myself, you see. In the director’s archives, for a project.” She went on to explain what she’d mentioned to Mr. Babenko yesterday, about the superintendent being a suspect.
“What was the super’s name?” asked Mr. Adriano.
“Jack. Jack Lyons.”
“Married to Laura Lyons, the essayist,” supplied Mr. Babenko.
Mr. Adriano nodded. “I’ve heard of her, sure.”
Sadie struggled to divert his attention. “I also found a note in the director’s file, written by the detective, saying that it was as if the thief had ‘dropped from the sky.’”
“Interesting.” Mr. Adriano scribbled something in his notebook, then flipped the page. “Apparently, one of the first items stolen from the library was a book called Tamerlane, by Poe.”
“One of only ten copies in the world,” Mr. Babenko said. “Never recovered. A terrible loss.”
“How much would that be worth today?” he asked.
“One recently went at auction for four hundred thousand dollars,” volunteered Sadie.