The Burglar in the Library - By Lawrence Block Page 0,11
trucked them in by the pound to make a decorating statement. I think they’ve been there forever.”
“And somewhere, tucked away on some high shelf—”
“The Big Sleep,” I said. “Signed by Raymond Chandler, and inscribed to Dashiell Hammett. Sitting there, just waiting to be found.”
“I’ve been thinking,” she said, a few hours later at the Bum Rap. “About that book.”
“I can understand that. I’ve been thinking about it myself for months now.”
“Suppose it’s actually there,” she said, “and suppose you actually find it, which would take another miracle all by itself.”
“So?”
“So is it worth it? Aside from the fact that you’re obsessed, and it’s hard to put a dollar value on an obsession. But in terms of actual dollars and cents—”
“What’s it worth?”
“Right.”
I didn’t have to think. I’d worked it out often enough over the months.
“The Big Sleep is Chandler’s scarcest book,” I said. “A first-edition copy in very fine condition is legitimately rare. With a dust jacket, the jacket also in top condition, you’ve got something worth in the neighborhood of five thousand dollars.”
“That much, huh?”
“But this one’s signed,” I said. “With most modern novels, an author’s signature will boost the price by ten or twenty percent. But it’s different with Chandler.”
“It is?”
I nodded. “He didn’t sign a lot of books. Actually, nobody did back then, not the way they do now. Nowadays just about everybody with a book out goes traipsing around the country, sitting in bookstores and signing copies for all comers.”
“Ed McBain signed his new book for me,” she said. “I told you about that, didn’t I?”
“Repeatedly.”
“Well, it was an exciting day for me, Bern. He’s one of my favorite writers.”
“One of mine, too.”
“Whenever I read one of his Eighty-seventh Precinct books,” she said, “I wind up looking at cops in a new light. I see them as real human beings, sensitive and vulnerable and, well, human.”
“That’s how he portrays them.”
“Right. And then Ray Kirschmann walks in the door and drives me right straight back to reality. I’ll tell you, I like Ed McBain’s fantasy world a whole lot better, and it was a thrill to meet him in person. That book’s one of my proudest possessions.”
“I know that, but you’re not the only person he signed a book for. He’s signed thousands of books, and so have most of the writers around today. Back in Hammett and Chandler’s time, authors just signed books for their friends. And Chandler didn’t even do that.”
“He didn’t?”
“Not often. If you were a friend of his he might give you a book, but he wouldn’t sign it unless you made a point of asking him. So a genuine Raymond Chandler signature is valuable in its own right. On one of the later, more common books, it might increase the value from a few hundred dollars to a couple of thousand. On The Big Sleep, it could double the value.”
“So we’re up to ten grand.”
“And we’re not done yet. If Ross is telling the truth, Chandler didn’t just sign his name on Hammett’s copy. He inscribed it personally to Hammett.”
“That makes a difference?”
“It’s a funny thing with inscriptions,” I said. “If the person it’s inscribed to is just Joe Schmo, the book tends to be a little less desirable than if it’s just signed.”
“Why’s that, Bern?”
“Well, think about it,” I said. “If you were a collector, would you want a book personally inscribed to somebody that nobody ever heard of? Or would you be happier with a simple signature?”
“I don’t think I’d care one way or the other.”
“You’re not a collector. Collectors care.” I thought of some of my more idiosyncratic customers. “About everything,” I said. “Believe me.”
“I believe you, Bern. How about a copy that’s inscribed to Sid Schmo? That’s Joe’s famous brother.”
“Now you’re talking. As soon as the person named in the inscription is prominent, the book becomes an association copy.”
“And that’s good?”
“It’s not bad,” I said. “Just how good it is depends on who the person is, and the nature of his or her relationship to the author. A book inscribed by Raymond Chandler to Dashiell Hammett would have to be the ultimate association copy in American crime fiction.”
“Bottom-line it for me, Bern.”
“Assuming near-mint condition, for the book and dust jacket, and assuming the handwriting is verifiably Chandler’s—”
“Assume everything, Bern. Let’s hear a number.”
“This is just a ballpark figure, remember. We’re talking about a unique item, so who can say what it would bring?”
“Bernie—”
“Say twenty-five.”
“Twenty-five?”
“That’s ballpark.”
“Twenty-five thousand.”
I nodded.
“Dollars.”
I nodded again.
“And what percentage of that could you fence it for?”