The Dirty Book Murder by Thomas Shawver Page B

euros or more. Colette certainly held nothing back in declaring that women have a right to an orgasm whether it satisfies the male or not. The illustrations by Charles Laborde are delightfully risqué.”
    The lawyer fiddled with his thumbs before adding with a touch of envy, “I suppose you bought it for a pittance.”
    “It wasn’t for me to own,” I said, moving my chair closer to his desk. “There was considerable competition and I didn’t get it, but not for want of trying. The front end paper contained an inscription on the title page to Sylvia Beach from Colette, followed by an intimate note written to Sylvia by Hemingway.”
    Tim’s eyes shone like glossy black buttons. “How intimate?”
    “I only saw it briefly, but it made clear that Sylvia and Ernest had shared more than a love of literature.”
    He whistled softly. “If it’s the real thing, the inscription alone may be worth tens of thousands. Any chance the buyer will let us have a peek?”
    “Not a chance. The man who left the sale with it in his possession was Gareth Hughes. He stole it before the winning bidder knew what had happened.”
    “Good Lord. Hughes, you say?” Tim looked puzzled as he tried to place the face with the name.
    “You must have met him at some point. He was a Welshman who focused on maritime history and early twentieth-century firsts. He didn’t have an open shop.”
    “Oh, yes, that rather large, unkempt fellow. Welsh, you say? I mistook his accent for a speech impediment. He tried to sell me a battered third edition of the
Ethnographical Album of the Pacific Islands
and made a scene when I showed no interest. I had a couple of associates escort him from the building. Tell me more.”
    “Gareth enjoyed the Colette for less than a day. If he thought it important enough to steal, someone else thought it worth killing for.”
    “So Hughes is the victim?”
    “I’m afraid so. The police are going to think I had something to do with it.”
    Tim tugged at his ear. “You’d best tell me why a jury shouldn’t think that as well.”
    I related that I had witnessed Hughes steal the Colette at the auction, thenconfronted him that evening at Fitzpatrick’s where we attempted to settle our differences with fists among spilled pints of stout.
    “Lovely. What happened afterward? Please tell me you kissed and made up in front of all those bystanders.”
    “Actually, we did calm down and reconcile, but it was on the sidewalk after we’d been kicked out of the joint. He told me the winning bidder was named Rolf Kramm and that he was an associate of a millionaire named Quist.”
    “Did Hughes mention why the book was so important to him?”
    “It’s pretty obvious, isn’t it, when you consider that inscription? He also admitted stealing an early Hemingway edition and said something about a Dr. Guffey not wanting a man like Quist to possess the book. He seemed to hint there was more to this than the Colette.”
    Tim jerked his head up sharply.
    “What Hemingway book?” he asked, putting down his pen.
    “It was
in our time
. Title in lowercase.”
    Tim hunched forward and when he spoke again his voice was very dry and serious.
    “Have you ever heard of Dr. Don Carlos Guffey?”
    “Should I? He sounds like an Irish-Mexican chiropractor.”
    “Good God, no! Guffey was an obstetrician in Kansas City who delivered two of Ernest Hemingway’s sons—Patrick in 1928 and Gregory three years later—by Cesarean section. It wasn’t all that common a procedure in those days, used only when the mother or child’s life was truly at risk. It’s likely that Hem borrowed those harrowing experiences for Catherine Barkley’s death scene in
A Farewell to Arms
. Dr. Guffey was one of the few close acquaintances to remain on good terms with him.
    “Collectors were always knocking at Hemingway’s door and tradition has it that the door was rigidly closed if they sought more than a signature. But to his special friends, of which the