“Your address.”

“Uh-huh. And underneath it there was another address, and it was of an apartment on East Seventy-seventh Street.”

“I see.”

“Well, I didn’t. But I went there, and, long story short…”

“You found the letters.”

“Right. I wasn’t looking for them, because you’d already told me how you’d managed to get hold of them and they were destroyed. So I figured these must be fakes, or maybe they were copies, but whatever they were they probably ought to be destroyed, too.”

There was a pause. She was waiting for me to say more, and I let her wait. Finally she said, her voice higher than before, “And you…destroyed them?”

“Not yet.”

“Thank God.”

“But I will as soon as I close up the store and…Did you just say ‘Thank God’?”

“Bernie, don’t destroy the letters.”

“No?”

“I’d better see them.”

“Why, Alice?”

“To authenticate them. To make sure they’re the whole lot. I just think I should, that’s all.”

“I suppose I could bring them to Charlottesville,” I said. “But it’s a little hard for me to get away right now. But maybe sometime after the first of the month-”

“Don’t come to Charlottesville.”

“No? I suppose I could FedEx the letters, but-”

“I’ll come back to New York.”

“I’d hate for you to make a special trip.”

“Bernie, I’m in New York right now.”

Duhhh. “I thought it was an awfully clear connection,” I said. “Well, that’s perfect, Alice. You can come to the party.”

There was a pause. Then, “What party?”

“My party,” I said. “Seven-thirty this evening at the Hotel Paddington. You know where the Paddington is, don’t you?”

“Bernie…”

“What am I thinking? Of course you do. Come to Room 611.”

“Room 611?”

“Not Room 602, where Anthea Landau lived and died, and not Room 415 or 303 either. I don’t suppose they’ll stop you at the desk, but if they do, just tell them you’re coming to Mr. Rhodenbarr’s party.”

Another pause, longer than before. Then she said, “Who’s coming to this party, Bernie?”

“Ah,” I said. “Well, we’ll have to see, won’t we?”

“So this is Paddington,” Carolyn Kaiser said. “Nice-looking bear, Bern.”

I bounced him on my knee. “He’s a good fellow,” I agreed.

“And this is the Paddington. I like the place, but your room’s not much, is it?”

“The mice are hunchbacked,” I said.

“The one upstairs is a lot nicer. Bigger, and it’s a good thing, because it’s crowded as it is. You couldn’t fit all those people in here.”

“They’ve started arriving?”

“They’ve arrived,” she said. “I don’t know what happened to fashionably late. They started showing up a little before seven, but Ray held everybody in the lobby until ten minutes after. Now they’re all in 611, trying not to stare back at the King.”

“Elvis on black velvet,” I said. “It makes a strong statement.”

“The eyes follow you around the room, Bern. Did you notice that?”

“That’s great art for you.”

“They even follow you,” she said, “after you leave the room. I could feel them on me when I was out in the hallway, and coming down here on the elevator.”

“Can you feel them now?”

“Nope.”

“Well,” I said, “let’s go up and make sure they’re still open.”

CHAPTER Twenty

Isis Gauthier’s room was a lot nicer than mine. It was larger, of course, and better furnished, and the window afforded a nice view of Madison Square. Elvis gazed down from above the mantel, and the fireplace beneath that mantel, unlike mine, had escaped being bricked up. It was in fact a working fireplace, and it was working now. You couldn’t really see the fire, it was out of sight behind an almost opaque fire screen, but you could smell woodsmoke in the air, even as you could hear the occasional crackle.

The room would have been warm enough without the fire. It had been cool earlier when I laid the fire, but it was warm now, and I don’t know that it was the fire on the hearth that made the difference. Jam enough people into a room and they’re going to be warm, especially if some of them are a little hot under the collar to begin with.

We had a full house, all right. Isis Gauthier was there, looking much as she had on our first meeting, her hair in cornrows and her clothes a Paddingtonian riot of primary colors. Marty Gilmartin was nearby, more quietly dressed in muted tweed. Alice Cottrell wore a business suit and looked businesslike, and so did a man I’d never seen before, a very tall and very thin fellow with a narrow nose. I recognized everybody else in the room, so I worked it out that he had to be Victor Harkness from Sotheby’s, and I’d say he looked the part.

Gulliver Fairborn wasn’t there, with or without his silver beard and tan beret, with or without his wig and sunglasses. But the World’s Foremost Authority on the author and his works was present in the person of Lester Eddington. He had his shirt buttoned right for a change, but he still looked gawky and geeky, and no doubt would until Glamour magazine gave him a makeover.

Hilliard Moffett, the World’s Foremost Collector, was present as well, his bulk stuffed into gray flannel trousers and a houndstooth jacket, both of which he’d outgrown. He sat forward in his chair, looking more like a bulldog than ever. I have my checkbook, he looked to be thinking, so what are we waiting for?

There were only so many places to sit, and a couple of people were standing. Carl Pillsbury, star of stage, screen, and hotel lobby, was leaning against a wall, and managing to look as though he leaned against walls all the time. His white silk shirt was spotless and his dark slacks were sharply creased, but his black shoes were due for a shine. I guess he’d used up all the shoe polish on his hair.

Ray Kirschmann was standing, too, in-big surprise-an ill-fitting blue suit, and there was another cop posted next to the door. I hadn’t met him before and never did get his name, but it wasn’t hard to tell he was a cop, given that he was in uniform. And Carolyn Kaiser was there, of course, along with her friend Erica Darby. They both looked so feminine it was hard to believe nobody had rushed to give them a seat.

I went over and took center stage, which put me right in front of the oriental screen, which in turn was in front of the fireplace. I could hear the fire, which gives you an idea how quiet the room was. You’d have thought these people would have plenty to say to each other, but nobody was saying a word. They were all looking at me and waiting for me to say something.

I wasn’t sure how to begin. So I began the way I always do, given half a chance.

“I suppose you’re wondering why I summoned you all here,” I said. “It’s hard to know where to begin, and I’m not sure that the answer is to begin at the beginning. In the beginning, a man named Gulliver Fairborn wrote a book called Nobody’s Baby. If you feel it changed your life, well, you’re not alone. A lot of people feel that way, including most of the ones in this room.

“It certainly changed Fairborn ’s life, for better and for worse. It enabled him to make a living doing the only thing he really cared about-writing. But it made it difficult if not impossible for him to lead the anonymous life he longed for. He stayed out of the limelight, he shunned correspondence and interviews, he never allowed himself to be photographed, and he lived under assumed names. Even so, his privacy got violated from time to time.

“And a major violation was looming on the horizon. A woman named Anthea Landau, a longtime resident here at the Paddington, had been Fairborn ’s first literary agent. Now she made arrangements to offer the letters he’d written her for sale to the highest bidder. Anything with Fairborn ’s signature on it is rare, and actual letters from him are right up there with hen’s teeth.”