(1969) The Seven Minutes (44 page)

said. She indicated a cane-backed chair. ‘Make yourself comfortable.’

‘Thanks.’ But Barrett was too restless to sit. Instead, he wandered through the showroom and was soon absorbed by the framed materials hung on the walls. To the bottom of each frame there was taped a typewritten description of the item for sale. Here was a ‘Kennedy, John F., T.L.s, 1 p., 4to; Congress of the United States, House of Representatives, Washington, 12. Dec. 1951. To American Consular Administrative Officer, Hong Kong.’ Next to it a ‘Douglass, Frederick, A.M.s, 1 p., 8vo; American Negro writer and lecturer. Washington, Oct. 20, 1883.’ Then, ‘Toulouse-Lautrec, Henri de, A.L.S. in French, pencil, 2 p., 8vo; French artist. Paris, Nov. 11, 1899.’ Then there was an original signed check for fifty pounds made out to Leigh Hunt by Percy Bysshe Shelley in 1817, and a prescription written out in German in Vienna during 1909 and signed ‘Dr Sigmund Freud,’ and a blue manuscript penned by Alexandre Dumas pere in 1858, and an undecipherable undated letter scrawled by Sir Walter Scott, and a document signed ‘A. Lincoln’ and a poem signed by F. Scott Fitzgerald and the fragment of a manuscript by Jean-Jacques Rousseau and a part of a composition unsigned but known to be by Ludwig van Beethoven.

To Mike Barrett, this was an experience new and thrilling. He had known that manuscripts, documents, letters written or signed by renowned men and women through all of civilized time had been collected and preserved in the remote recesses of awesome libraries and museums. And, while he had heard of private collectors, and autograph dealers, he had never considered the possiblity that precious papers of presidents and kings, authors and artists, scientists and sages were being marketed like Kleenex or cigarettes or a can of peas. Yet here they were for Everyman in a public shop on Fifty-fifth Street, and they could be acquired and actually taken home for the smallest payment. If you wanted the company of Paul Gauguin or Johann Wolfgang von Goethe or Henry VHI, you could have it, that intimacy of long ago, for your own and in your own home. It was incredible, and what was more incredible was that here, in this shop, he could touch history, and know it had been true.

There was something about the heroes and rulers and creators and martyrs of other centuries that was unbelievable. It was as if they were inventions from folklore, myths without human attributes of their own; and though their stories were known and told, it was as if textbooks and biographies and museums had merely mummified them and solidified them as legend. But here on these walls, they were flesh - the misspelled word, the blotted page, the last-minute insertion, the cry of anguish - and, were they from Lord Byron’s hand or Sarah Bernhardt’s hand, you believed, at last, and finally saw that history was not monuments and statues,

but people as frail as your very own self.

And this moment, in this marketplace pantheon, the person of J J Jadway was real to Barrett for the first time in all these weeks. Soon he would see what Jadway’s own hand had committed to sheets of paper, and Barrett would hold these sheets, and hear Jadway’s own voice, and touch him through the paper he had touched, and Jadway would be transformed into a living witness prepared to defend The Seven Minutes before a skeptical world.

He turned around, more eager than ever to know Jadway, and as he did so he saw a gangling New Englander emerge from the rear office and approach him. The proprietor’s gray hair stood up like a rooster’s comb, and his eyes were watery gray, and his nose was long. He wore a vest and a watch chain and an air of diffident courtesy.

The proprietor smiled tentatively. ‘I am Olin Adams,’ he said in a voice attuned to hushed alcoves. ‘My assistant said you wished to see me; Is there anything here - ?’

‘Yes, I called you from the West Coast yesterday. We discussed the J J Jadway letters you recently acquired. You agreed to sell them to me for eight hundred dollars and I promised I’d be by to pick them up this morning. I’m Michael Barrett, remember?’

Olin Adams’ watery eyes swam with confusion, and his mouth had opened and remained open, so that he looked like a banked perch. ‘Who did you say - ?’ he asked.

‘I’m Michael Barrett and I’ve just flown in from Los Angeles. I’m sure you remember our discussion about the Jadway letters.’

‘Yes, certainly, but…’

Barrett threw open his hands cheerfully and smiled. ‘Well, I’m here to pick them up.’

The autograph dealer tried to focus through the mist. ‘But, sir, a Mr Barrett has already picked them up.’

‘Mr Barrett has already - ?’ Now it was Mike Barrett’s turn to be confused. ‘I’m sure I don’t understand you.’

‘Sir, a gentleman came by a minute or two after we o’pened at nine o’clock, and he picked up the letters.’

‘You must be mistaken. Let me explain. I telephoned you yesterday -‘

‘I recall every detail, sir. A Mr Barrett telephoned from Los Angeles stating that he had heard from Mr Quandt that 1 possessed the Jadway letters. I offered them for eight hundred dollars, and Mr Barrett said he would be in New York and drop by to pick them up between nine and ten this morning. When I came in this morning, I got the letters ready. Then, before going out for breakfast, I told Mildred - my assistant here - that a Mr Michael Barrett was expected, and to give him the letters when he arrived in exchange for eight hundred dollars in cash. I stepped out for my coffee, and twenty minutes later, when I returned, Mildred said that Mr Barrett had come by and had paid and departed.’

All through the last, Barrett had been shaking his head like one afflicted by a seizure. ‘But that can’t be!’ he exclaimed. ‘I can prove who I am! Look!’ He pulled out his wallet and showed the puzzled autograph dealer his identification cards, and then he opened the envelope he had carried with the wallet and revealed eight crisp one-hundred-dollar bills. ‘Now do you believe me, Mr Adams ?’

The dealer appeared dazed. ‘I believe you, sir, Mr Barrett, but -but, hell’s fire, then who was it that came by and took away your purchase this morning?’

That’s what I want you to tell me. Who was it ?’

T -1 haven’t the faintest notion. No idea, no more than you have. It was just a natural thing, the way it happened. We expected a Mr Barrett to come for the Jadway material. A man came, said he was Mr Barrett, asked for the Jadway material, paid for it, took it, and left. There was no reason to suspect that he was an impostor.’

‘What did he look like?’ Barrett demanded. ‘Did he look like me?’

Olin Adams turned. ‘Mildren, you saw the custumor - ’

The girl with the lacrosse legs had joined them. ‘Nothing like you,’ she said. ‘He was much taller, and formal, very dignified. I didn’t pay much attention. So many people come and go who aren’t regulars. He wore a brown - sort of gabardine - suit, that I remember. It all took no more than a minute, I guess. He came in and said something like “I believe you had some autographed letters for me. They are by J J Jadway. I’d like to pick them up now. I’m Mr Barrett.” Well, I had the letters ready in a box, and he didn’t even bother to examine them. He said he was in a hurry. He paid, took the box, and rushed out. I’m not sure, but I think there was a car waiting for him, double-parked, not a taxi but a private car. There was nothing more to it. How was I to know he wasn’t the real buyer?’

‘Of course, you’re not to blame,’ said Barrett.

Olin Adams had waved the girl off, and he addressed himself to Barrett once more. “This has never before happened in all my years in this business.’

‘How did he pay for the letters, Mr Adams? Could he possibly have paid by check?’

‘No, it was cash. When I returned from coffee, Mildred showed me the cash in the drawer.’

Barrett nodded grimly. ‘I’m not surprised. Anyone knowing enough to know that I’d bargained for the Jadway letters, that I intended to come here early this morning ready to pay eight hundred dollars for them, would have known that I expected to pay in cash. Besides, someone impersonating me obviously wouldn’t be able to give his personal check.’

T wish I could do something for you, Mr Barrett,’ said Adams. He shrugged. Tm afraid it is hopeless. I can only promise you, sir,

if more Jadway material shows up I’ll know who to notify and offer it to.’

‘No more Jadway material will show up, Mr Adams.’

‘I appreciate your feelings, Mr Barrett. I understand how keenly collectors feel about each acquisition. But I must say, if you’ll permit me, I shouldn’t take this loss too much to heart. I don’t question my customers’ tastes, but in this case let me say Jadway as a literary figure still remains a question mark, and it is quite possible he will never exceed the status of a one-book author who wrote a work that was merely a curiosity and reaped passing notoriety. You might spend the same sum you had earmarked for Jadway more profitably on - well, if your interest is in American authors of the 1930s I would recommend letters and memorabilia of Faulkner, Hemingway, possibly Fitzgerald. I think you will find, as a collector -‘

‘Mr Adams, I am not a collector. I’m not interested in collecting Jadway. I’m only interested in defending him. I am the attorney representing Sanford House and Ben Fremont -‘

Olin Adams’ mouth was open and perchlike again. ‘My God,’ he said.

‘Exactly. So the loss is irreparable. We know almost nothing about Jadway, and these letters might have - ‘ He paused. ‘Mr Adams, yesterday I asked you about the contents of the letters. You didn’t know their contents, because you hadn’t had time to read them. Had you by chance this morning… ?’

The autograph dealer shook his head sadly. ‘I’m sorry, but no. I opened the shop, and took out the packet in case you called on us before I returned from coffee. If you hadn’t called by the time I returned, I meant to peruse them.’

‘But you’re sure the letters were genuine, even though you’ve never seen Jadway’s handwriting before?’

‘I had seen it before, Mr Barrett. Before I received the letters from Mr Quandt, I had obtained photostats of the flyleaves of several copies of the first edition of The Seven Minutes, which Jadway had inscribed in Paris. The inscriptions bore nothing significant, a mere salutation or a signature, but they were sufficient to enable me to authenticate the letters fully. Yes, those letters were in Jadway’s hand.’ Olin Adams’ countenance was a study in sorrow. ‘Too bad, especially since I am sympathetic toward your legal case. I’ve been less than helpful. And my apologies for not recognizing your name yesterday or today.’

‘Far too many people seem to know my name - and about my activities,’ said Barrett wryly. ‘And someone or some of them seem bent on blocking every effort of the defense. How this job was pulled off baffles me completely.’

‘You are positive you spoke to no one of your attempt to acquire these Jadway letters?’

‘Except for Quandt, who put me onto you, and my associates

and secretary, no one knew of this, as far as I can remember.’ Then another thought had come to Barrett. His brain was functioning more clearly now that the initial shock of his loss had begun to recede. He was once more filled with desperate purpose. ‘What about you, Mr Adams ? Think carefully. Did you speak to anyone else, besides me, about these Jadway letters?’

‘Yes, of course. We keep a record of our regular customers, and their specialties and interests. When I acquired the Jadway letters -don’t forget, that was ten, eleven days ago - Mildred reviewed the list. There was one gentleman, a poet of sorts, who used to drop by here once in a while, to browse, to chat, in fact to try to raise money by disposing of some of his own original manuscripts, which were of no value to us since he had no reputation whatsoever. But Mildred reminded me that on one occasion, reminiscing about his younger days, this gentleman spoke of having been a literary expatriate in Paris and of having been acquainted with J J Jadway. That had made no impression on me, because, at the time, Jadway’s name was practically unknown except among collectors of erotica. When was that occasion, Mildred?’

‘More than a year ago,’ she answered. ‘Maybe closer to two years ago, when I first came to work here.’

‘Yes,’ said Olin Adams. ‘In any event, when I acquired the Jadway letters, the author’s name had become better known, and Mildred recalled this poet who had been acquainted with Jadway. On the outsidechance that this poet’s lot might have improved, and that he might be interested in owning the Jadway material, I contacted him. I received a curt postcard back saying only, “Can’t afford.” Then - By Jupiter, it had almost slipped my mind - yesterday, after you had telephoned me, Mr Barrett, this same gentleman called on the telephone. I was half out of the shop door, but I returned to take the call. He said that he had got his hands on a few dollars and he would be interested in the letters so that they might form part of his collection at some university. I told him I was sorry, but that he was too late by five minutes. I told him that I had just sold them to another Jadway collector, a Mr Michael Barrett, of Los Angeles, and that in fact Mr Barrett was going to be in New York in the morning to pick them up. Our poet was disappointed, but he made me promise that if you failed to pick up the letters or changed your mind, I would notify him.’

This poet,’ said Barrett, finding his notebook and pencil, ‘what was his name?’

‘Uh, let me see…. Irish … ah, yes - Mr Sean O’Flanagan. That’s it.’

Barrett had jotted down the name. ‘His phone number ?’

‘He has no phone.’

‘His address, then. I’d like to pay him a visit.’

‘No address either, except General Delivery, Queens main post office. That’s how I contacted him. If he is any use to you, you might drop him a note there.’

‘I might,’ said Barrett, putting away his notebook. He peered past Adams at the girl named Mildred. He said, ‘Mildred, the man who came by for the letters this morning, using my name, you’re sure he wasn’t this Sean O’Flanagan?’

She shook her head vigorously. ‘Not in a million years. I know our Sean. He’s seedy, looks as disreputable as a Bowery bum, and he stinks of whiskey. The one who came by this morning -one never knows, but he looked like a gentleman.’

‘Then there was the other call,’ said Adams suddenly. ‘I’m beginning to think my mind is failing. This morning when I opened the shop the phone was ringing - it was just before I went to breakfast. It was someone who said he had heard from Mr Quandt that I had some Jadway letters for sale. And I said no, they had already been sold. He swore at his bad luck, because he had been notified of the letters yesterday and had been unable to get to me until this morning. Then he hung up. No name, nothing.’