“Apparently so, Ms. Cooper. I wasn’t aware of that. I know he despised Jonah from the time he set foot in the boardroom. No class, new money-that sort of thing. You know what I mean.”

Jewish. That was mostly what Talbot Hunt meant. “So your father made a deal?”

“Yes.”

“With whom?”

“Leland Porter, the president of the library.”

“How convenient that Porter is somewhere in Outer Mongolia this weekend,” Mike said.

“Well, I assume that’s the way Father got the psalm book back. Leland is the only person in a position to negotiate something at that level.”

“Are you telling me you don’t know?”

“The key word is supposed to be ‘transparency,’ Mr. Chapman. But behind the scenes, where many of these transactions occur, it’s thick as mud.”

“Thick as thieves, we say in my business.”

“My father wanted me to have the Bay Psalm Book. In exchange, he told me he was giving the library something they wanted even more.”

“What’s that?” Mike asked, looking to me to vet the credibility of Talbot Hunt’s answer.

“A book of illustrations-twenty rather macabre watercolors-that were done by William Blake in 1805. Designs for Blair’s Grave, it’s called. The poet kept a set of the paintings for himself. Had them bound into book form. Simple, but quite striking-a meditation on mortality and redemption.”

“That must be the only complete set,” I said. There had been a major controversy just a few years earlier, when Sotheby’s had broken up a recently discovered group of nineteen plates from the same work-unbound-for sale at auction.

“That’s correct, Ms. Cooper. If you know that, then you’re aware that it’s worth many more millions than our prayer book.”

“And the library owns that volume of watercolors now?”

“The library’s Berg Collection is strong on Blake. They’ve coveted this for a very long time. Pleaded with my father to pass it on to them. The book is in their hands, not to be displayed until after Father’s death-at his own direction-to avoid controversy about the transaction.”

Footsteps in the hallway announced Minerva’s return.

Her gait was firm and fast. She walked past me and directly to her brother, stopping only to slap him across the face before she turned away.

“If you paid any attention to your father you’d know there was an intercom in every room, so the nurses can hear him if he calls for anything,” she said. “What else have you swindled me out of, you selfish bastard? What else, besides that precious little book?”

TWENTY-EIGHT

Mike stood up and stepped between the spoiled siblings.

“No secrets anymore, Mr. Hunt. Looks like your sister trumped you on this one. When did the psalm book disappear from your home?”

“Check with his wife, Detective. She probably took it to the consignment shop for resale, along with those dreadful things she calls clothes. She’d have dug those jewels out with her teeth, were it possible.”

“About three weeks ago, Mr. Chapman,” Talbot Hunt said. “And leave Josie out of it, Minerva.”

“She is out of it, Tally. Always has been. Father despises her. Imagine, Detective, leaving her church-mouse-of-a-husband minister for Talbot Hunt. True love, I’m sure.”

“Why didn’t you report the theft to the police?”

“Not very complicated, is it? I knew it had to be an inside job-someone who understood the personal value of its worth to me. Nothing else was disturbed in the entire apartment. I figured it was about blackmail, and that at the right moment, I’d be contacted. One can’t very well call the police about a theft of an object for which one doesn’t even have proper title. The Bay Psalm Book still belongs to the New York Public Library, in theory.”

“Where were you when the theft occurred?” Mercer asked.

“I was-I mean, we were,” Talbot said, correcting himself immediately to protect his wife from Minerva’s sharp tongue, “we were in Millbrook.”

“The family estate, Mr. Wallace. My great-grandfather bought land in Dutchess County before he died. My grandfather loved it there, too. A big horse farm,” Minerva said. “Just not big enough for all of us at any one time.”

“Who else besides you and your wife lives in the apartment?”

“The children are away at college. It’s just the two of us. And a housekeeper, but she traveled with us to the country.”

“Do you mind if we get some guys in to go over the place with you?”

Talbot Hunt pfumphed for a few seconds. “I told you, it’s been weeks. There’s no harm in it, certainly, but what do you expect to find?”

“You never know. We might catch a break,” Mike said. “Where exactly did you keep the psalm book?”

Hunt stared at his sister but didn’t speak.

“Do you have a library in your home?”

“Yes. Yes, I do. But that isn’t where I had it.”

“Like I give a damn, Tally. Tell the man, will you? I’m not after your books.”

“Then how come your maid was clutching it when she died?” he shouted at her. “Who were you expecting to meet there? Your low-life buddy Eddy Forbes?”

“Imagine one family with this much dirty laundry, Mr. Chapman. It’s lifesaving that my brother married a washerwoman,” Minerva said. “You see, Tally couldn’t keep the book in his safe-the one in the bedroom closet-because that’s where the cow keeps her jewelry. Don’t be shocked, Ms. Cooper. Father always called Josie the cow. Suits her dead on.”

“How do you know about the safe in your brother’s bedroom closet?” Mike asked.

“Because Tally’s first wife-his late first wife-was a very dear friend of mine. I went there often when she was alive to borrow some of the pieces my mother had left to her. And yes, she died of natural causes-don’t think I wasn’t on his case about that.”

“There’s a bureau in my dressing room, Detective. I kept the book in a false drawer. Actually locked in that drawer, at the base of the bureau.”

“Locked…with a key?”

“Yes.”

“Do you still have the key?” I asked, thinking of the one I found on the floor in the stacks.

“I do. It’s at home. You can have it if you like.”

“Was the lock broken?”

“Not at all. Picked, I’d say.”

“Who knew about the drawer?”

“Well, obviously, my wife.”

Minerva crossed her arms and let out a long, low “moo.”

“I’m not sure anyone else would know.”

“The housekeeper?”

“Certainly, she cleans in there, but I can’t imagine she’d be involved. She’s been with me for twenty years, Mr. Chapman.”

“Anyone else?” Mike asked. “Workmen, guys doing construction or repairs, people in the building?”

“It’s a Park Avenue building. Quite secure. And no one was doing any work for us inside the apartment.”

“Who was helping you in the library?” Minerva asked, rearranging the French tulips in a vase near the sofa. “You’ve always had someone to watch out for the books. Who now, Tally?”

“The same curator I’ve had for years. He’ll be happy to talk with you. He’s only there one day a week.”

Minerva Hunt snapped the stem off one of the flowers and focused her attention on her brother. “That’s not what I mean, Tally. Who’s your book doctor these days, hmmm? Who’s been doing your preservation assessments? Mending your tears? Checking your clamshell boxes?”

Talbot Hunt was trying to ignore Minerva, but she was like a steam engine picking up speed.

“Now I see it,” she said. “Tell the nice detectives what they ought to know.”

“It has nothing to do with this.”

“Tina Barr was working for my father, Mr. Chapman. She was treated well here, as you might guess. Then all of a sudden she quit. Quite abruptly.”

“And started working for Alger Herrick,” Talbot said.

“Only part-time,” I said. That’s what Herrick had told us.

“You hired her away from Father, didn’t you? You knew Tina had all the information about his collection that you weren’t able to get from him yourself. How far in did you let her, Tally?”