out the girls in the passing parade.
“Maybe you should cool it with the ogling,” I said to him. “Or I might rat you out to Sal.”
“Just comparison-sampling,” Maury said. “None of the dames on the street out here can match Sal’s all-round pulchritude. That’s my conclusion.”
I turned back to Fletcher, who wore a frown of impatience.
“So Meg has an authentic Wise and Forman forgery of the Elizabeth Barrett Browning Portuguese Sonnets in her collection?”
“The forgery’s referred to in the trade as the Reading Sonnets because Reading was the town in England where they were supposedly printed.”
“And Meg’s the owner of an original Reading Sonnets?”
“Allegedly.”
“Allegedly?”
“Just so.”
“Allegedly, it’s an authentic forgery by the two frauds, but just maybe somebody else did a later forgery and peddled it as an original Wise and Forman con job?”
“The second alternative is a concern in the case of Meg’s document,” Fletcher said. “That’s why I’m investigating the authenticity of her Reading Sonnets.”
“And what’s your conclusion?”
“I haven’t had the time to form an opinion one way or another,” Fletcher said. “Meg put the matter in my hands less than a week ago.”
“What was her motivation in the first place? How did she come to even consider that her forgery might have actually been faked at a later time?”
Fletcher had a sip of his espresso, taking time to think about his answer. “Strictly a matter of caution, I would say. Meg didn’t make herself a wealthy businesswoman by tossing her money around without doing her homework first. She’s taking the same approach to her various collections. She’s new to all the different fields, the Canadian paintings, the ceramics, the music pieces, so she’s been turning to experts in each of the fields to back up her own instincts, as it were. It happens that I’m the documents expert.”
“What about whoever she bought the alleged Reading Sonnets from? Didn’t he certify them as authentic or whatever the vendor does in this case?”
Fletcher answered in a hurry, as if he didn’t want to waste time getting his wrap-up of the subject on the record.
“That end of the purchase is of no concern of yours, Crang,” he said.
“I assume you know who the vendor is.”
“And I’ve already told you that dealing with anything relative to the vendor is not part of your mandate.” Fletcher’s voice was raised and declarative. “Just drop the subject and do what I’m asking you to do. My own task is to verify the documents’ authenticity.”
“That’ll be done once you get the documents back in your hands.”
“Which is where you come in.”
“And my colleague.”
“When Mr. Samuels is not otherwise engaged in watching beautiful young girls.”
“Don’t worry about me,” Maury said. “I got it all locked in my head what those two guys pulled off, Wise and the other one.”
“You can take it that Maury and I have signed on,” I said to Fletcher. “Where we start, now that’s all about emphasis.”
“You’ll have to explain what you mean.”
“Whoever broke into your safe,” I said, “wasn’t likely interested in hauling off both of the two sets of papers. The possibly forged rare work of a century and a half ago is entirely different in style and everything else from the letters about the fight between two contemporary novelists. They’re not going to attract the same heist man. This guy, whoever he might be, was after one of the two collections, probably on order from a customer, but he took the other collection as well just because it was there.”
“And you’re wondering which of the two stolen collections to emphasize when you go looking for them?”
“The Hickey makes the more logical choice for whoever broke into the safe. It’s worth more on the market than Meg’s forged poems, right?”
“Undoubtedly there’s a wider and larger market for the Hickey letters,” Fletcher said sharply. “But apart from that, I can add something to the matter of motivation for the theft.”
“You’ve got more reason to finger the Hickey collection as the burglar’s target?”
“I mentioned earlier that Walter Hickey’s heir is his daughter,” Fletcher said.
“Acey,” Maury said.
“Anita Carmen,” I said.
“Acey is in her forties,” Fletch said. “A self-deluded piece of work. A second-rate novelist who can’t understand why her books don’t win the prizes she thinks they deserve. Or even get the sales.”
“How many novels has she written?”
“Four, I believe. The first two were published by a small house on the west coast, the second two she self-published. I imagine her basement has stacks of books she can’t sell.”
“But she perseveres?”
“As I say, the woman’s delusional.”
“Summing up, you don’t much care for Acey,” I said. “And I bet she makes dealing with her hard going.”
“That’s more or less correct.”
“So she’s a pain in the neck. Is that a reason all by itself for us to get extra snoopy with her?”
Fletcher raised his right hand, sticking out his forefinger in the posture of a schoolteacher impressing a lesson on his students. “Not so long ago,” he said, “Acey took out an insurance policy on the Hickey collection naming her as the beneficiary.”
“For how much?” I said.
“Two million.”
“The top end of what you think they might be worth on the market.”
“Need I say more?” Fletcher said, nodding as if he wanted me to finish the line of supposition for him.
“And you think Acey could have arranged for the theft of her father’s collection of letters in order to hit the insurance company for a possible two-million-buck payout?”
“Is there any doubt?”
“So, Fletcher, my man,” I said, “you’re pushing hard for Maury and me to concentrate first on tracing the Hickey collection?”
“Because it’s logical.”
“But I’ve found it’s always a good idea to keep the options open.”
“Honestly, Crang, what in the world are the so-called options in this case?”
“Meg Grantham’s forged poems,” I said, “even if they aren’t as valuable.”
“That’s just one option.”
“But not to be overlooked.”
“Damn it, Crang, you’d better not make a mess of this assignment.”
“Mess it up? That’s another one.”
“Another what?”
“Option. Somebody involved in the theft may have just happened to screw up the burglary operation. Very simple explanation, but that brings us up to three options already.”
Fletcher looked like he had something else profound to say. But he changed his mind. “I’ll