“Nothing like a politician,” Battaglia said. “Tilden lost the presidential election to Rutherford Hayes, but he was one of the finest governors of this state.”

“Tilden was also a leader of the civic movement bemoaning New York ’s lack of a great free public library and reading room. He formed a trust to establish one as his legacy to the city, consolidating the unique private collections already in existence and infusing them with fresh funding. The Tilden Trust and Astor and Lenox libraries joined in 1895 to form this new cultural entity-the New York Public Library.”

“Public?” Battaglia asked.

Jill Gibson smiled. “Open to the public, but a private, nonprofit corporation governed by a self-perpetuating board of trustees.”

“Tight-lipped and tough-minded, that group is.”

“Exactly, Paul. The power rests entirely in that board, to this day.”

“And the building itself?” I asked.

“The board asked the city to supply a site and maintain the building and grounds-the beginning of this public-private partnership. The city chose Reservoir Square -the huge, gloomy, and obsolete home of the Croton Reservoir, a central crossroads of Manhattan at the time, between Fifth Avenue and Bryant Park.”

“Of course. The reservoir was demolished in order to create the library,” I said, remembering the process that led to the construction of the vast underground system of tunnels to bring water to the city so long ago.

“You can still see the foundation of the reservoir in our basement,” Gibson said. “Sixteen years after the trust was set up-in 1911-at the cost of nine million dollars, close to two hundred million in today’s terms, the building was hailed as the greatest modern temple of education.”

“What about the Hunts?” I asked. “Was their collection part of the original gift?”

“Jasper Hunt the Second wasn’t so quick to get on board. He was skeptical about relinquishing his father’s precious books-and those he’d continued to acquire. That reluctance kept the original trustees from inviting him to join the board.”

“Who were they?” Battaglia asked.

“Best described, Paul, as twenty-one rich white men past their prime. Social status, gender, and economic standing were intentionally homogeneous, to encourage a harmony of action and purpose,” Gibson said. “Schuylers and Cadwaladers, Bigelows and Butlers. Jasper Hunt had the money, but not the class.”

“Was it his eccentricity?” I asked.

Jill Gibson laughed. “The library papers suggest that eccentricity was part of his charm. To this group of trustees the Hunts were practically outlaws.”

“Even with the Astor business connection?”

“Jasper Hunt the First started life shoeing horses for John Jacob Astor. You know the Astor quote about real estate?”

“No, I don’t.”

“‘If I could live all over again, I would buy every square inch of Manhattan,’” Jill said. “And Astor came pretty close to doing just that. He took a liking to young Hunt. Brought him into the real estate company before Hunt was twenty years old, funded his first acquisitions, and introduced him to extravagances like the rare books that gave Astor such pleasure. Hunt was smart enough to follow in his master’s footsteps.”

“Sounds brilliant for a kid who started by shoeing horses,” I said.

“Then Astor withdrew from the fur trade and most of his other ventures to concentrate on purchasing land in Manhattan, investing all the proceeds in pushing north of the city limits. His genius was in never selling anything he bought, insisting that others could pay rent to use the properties. Jasper Hunt went along with him, but the younger man’s greed tempted him to go a bit too far.”

“In what way?” Battaglia asked.

Gibson sat back in her chair. “John Jacob Astor’s fur business took him all over the Pacific Northwest, and then to China, where he and his partners traded skins, as well as teas and exotic woods. Then he began to purchase tons of Turkish opium, shipping the contraband to China to smuggle into this country.”

“I didn’t know Astor dealt in opium,” I said.

“Wisely, on his part, he didn’t do it for very long. But there was such a fortune to be made that Jasper Hunt couldn’t bring himself to cut those ties, as Astor had. Even Junior kept his hand in smuggling for a time.”

“And the book collection?” I asked.

“The New York Public Library was a stunning success from the moment its doors opened. People like the Hunts who’d been uncertain about participating began to change their minds.”

“Want to top off my coffee, Alex? It’s cold,” Battaglia said.

I got up and waved a hand at Gibson, who’d raised her eyebrows at the command. “It’s not personal. He’d make any of the guys on the legal staff do the same thing.”

“You’re good at this, Jill,” Battaglia said. “You probably know the first book a reader asked for opening day.”

“A young émigré came in to request a Russian-language study of Tolstoy. Not what anyone expected, but a sign of the changing culture of the community. This library is really the soul of the city,” Gibson said. “I just love it there.”

“I take it that Jasper Hunt Jr. rose to the occasion,” I said.

“Two things happened. Within a decade, the library had risen to the front ranks of research institutions, here and abroad. The collections grew in size to more than a million volumes.

“Then, in 1917, the steel magnate Andrew Carnegie retired to embark on a massive philanthropic distribution-his ‘gospel of wealth.’ He wanted to give his money away in his lifetime, saw libraries as the best gift to any community, and in 1917 promised to build sixty-five branch libraries in New York, provided that the city would maintain them. Can you imagine?” Gibson asked. “Carnegie’s plan established more than twenty-five hundred libraries in the English-speaking world.”

“So then Junior kicked in,” Battaglia said.

“Yes, he did. With his father’s rare book collection as well as his own, which he continued to add to for the rest of his life. They’ve got good genes for longevity, those Hunts,” Jill said. “Junior died in 1958, well into his eighties. He hoped that his possessions would buy him a place on the board along the way. But that never happened.”

“Jasper the Third finally made it,” Battaglia said. “The old boy is still kicking around.”

“The family had divested themselves of the smuggling operation, contributed a few million dollars to the library, and become model citizens by the 1920s,” Jill said.

“And Tally?” Battaglia asked. “Do he and his father get along?”

“In the boardroom,” Jill said, “everyone’s on his best behavior. The real intrigue doesn’t happen inside the library walls.”

I couldn’t take my eyes off the small color photograph on a document to the right of Battaglia’s hand as I refilled his mug. It was a copy of an employee identification tag from the New York Public Library, dated earlier in the year. The woman who’d posed for the camera to get her security clearance was the elusive Tina Barr.