“But that would mean that Chalmers himself is the killer,” Lynda said.

Jenson murmured over a faded red volume.

I shook my head. “That’s where truth has to depart from fiction. Chalmers never would have donated fraudulent books to begin with. He’d know that at the college they’d be available to scholars who could expose them.”

“Then if the Chalmers Collection was the real stuff when it got here, parts of it must have been stolen and replaced later,” Lynda said. “That little librarian must have done it, or at least been involved.”

“Yeah,” I said miserably. “Gene wouldn’t be the first academic librarian who peddled rare books, as Queensbury reminded me yesterday. I don’t want to believe it, but that’s where my logic leads me.”

“Well, I’m not sure your logic is so logical. If your scenario is correct, then the two books we found in Matheson’s room must be phonies. Why would the killer leave those behind where somebody else could see the fakery?”

“Because the killer couldn’t find them - he wasn’t as clever at searching as you were. The other book, the one that’s still missing, was hidden somewhere else and he found that one.”

She took a wad of gum out of her mouth and wrapped it in foil. “Back up a minute, Jeff. How could Matheson spot these books for phonies? He was no expert on Sherlockiana. He was a guy with a collection and a lot of bucks to spend on it.”

“That’s what Chalmers said - talking about his bitter rival. We don’t know whether that’s true or he was just dissing the competition.”

I think I had her there, because she said, “All right, then, this gets me back to where I was before: The cops need to know that Matheson had those books.”

Before I had a chance to answer, Jenson poked his soulful gray eyes up over the book in his hands. Three Problems for Solar Pons, the title read. What in the world could that be?

“Excuse me please,” the Swede said. “Your theory is most intriguing, Jefferson,” - Yefferson - “but I do not believe it is so very likely.”

“Why not?” I demanded.

“You expect lots of fakes, ja? Not the missing books only.” He shook his head vigorously. “I have look at ten, fifteen books here. I find no fakes.”

Chapter Twenty-Six - I’ve Got Your Number

Outside the library, in the fresh air of a beautiful spring Sunday, I pulled out my notebook.

“Now what?” Lynda said.

“Just crossing names off Mac’s list.”

When the truth hits you in the face, there’s no point in trying to smack back. I didn’t kid myself that there were another ten or fifteen phony books that Jenson had missed.

“Don’t be too hard on yourself, Jeff. It wasn’t a bad idea, really.”

“I know. In fact, it was as swell idea. I’m going to write it down and use it in a Max Cutter story.”

I flipped through the notebook, looking for a blank page, until I saw something that brought me back from the fictional world of my Philadelphia private eye with a jerk.

“What are you staring at?” Lynda asked. It’s that journalistic DNA of hers; she’s always full of questions.

“Something I’d forgotten all about,” I told her.

I showed her a page containing nothing but three digits - 525. It was the number I’d copied off the notepad in Matheson’s room, presumably a hotel room number that the lawyer had called or intended to call the day he died.

Jenson looked on with a mixture of interest and puzzlement, clearly curious but too polite to ask what was going on. When we reached the Hearth Room we shook hands with him again, thanked him, and let him get back to the lunacy at hand.

I pulled out my phone, tapped on the number for the Winfield from my contacts list, and asked for room 525.

Five rings, six rings, seven...

What are there, ten rings to a minute? I’d given up counting by the time a generic hotel voicemail message kicked in. I disconnected in disgust.

“We should have expected that, you know,” Lynda said. “Whoever has that room isn’t going to be just sitting around waiting for us to call. He’s going to be in there.” She pointed at the Hearth Room across the way. “I mean, it’s got to be one of the Sherlockians. Unless Graham Bentley Post-”

“No, it’s not his room number.”

Although the popular culture maven was staying at the Winfield, I had a clear recollection that the room number he’d written on his business card began with a seven. I pulled it out of my wallet for a quick confirmation: room 718.

“I bet the hotel won’t tell us who’s in that room if we just call them out of nowhere,” Lynda said, “but there must be some way to find out.”

“Yeah. Mac would find a way.”

I cracked open the door at the front of the Hearth Room about four inches. Noah Queensbury was talking but with the air of a man winding down, while Mac looked on benignly from his throne-like chair across the room. I opened the door wider and signaled my brother-in-law with all the agitated movement of a spasmodic semaphore operator. Finally I caught his eye and he caught my meaning. He shook his head no. I shook my head yes. Glowering, he stalked behind Queensbury and over to the door.

“Jefferson,” he said heavily, “eager as I am for another progress report, this is a most infelicitous time. Couldn’t you tell me about your adventures after the Sherlockian auction?”

“Fine, fine.” For what I had to report so far, I was in no hurry. “But we need some help right now.”

“We’re trying to learn the occupant of a certain room at the Winfield,” Lynda said. “It’s probably one of your colloquium people. Can you help us put a name to the number?”

“Of what possible interest-”

“I thought you were in a hurry,” I said. This was my show, and this time Mac was my assistant.

The sound of applause came from inside the Hearth Room, magnified by the speakers in the corridor. Mac looked toward the room and tugged at his beard. “Blast it, nobody ever did this to Nero Wolfe! I do not have access to the colloquium participants’ room numbers. You will have to call Sandy Roeder at the Winfield and ask her who is registered for that room. Mention my name. Sandy is a former student of mine.”

“R-O-E-D-E-R?” Lynda asked. “Doesn’t she own the Winfield?”

“Not yet. Her mother has that distinction. You shall owe me dearly for this.”

Without further farewell, he slipped back into the Hearth Room (if an elephant can slip).

“He means he was happy to be of help,” I told Lynda, who was already pulling out her Android.

Sandy Roeder wasn’t an easy sell. I could tell that from Lynda’s hand gestures, and never mind what they were. But finally she disconnected and stuck the phone back in her purse with a satisfied look on her face.

“I’m not going to try to guess,” I told her, “so just give. Whose room is it?”

“Molly Crocker.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven - Here Comes the Judge

I don’t know that I expected to hear, but not that.

“Molly Crocker doesn’t seem like his type, does she?” Lynda said, noting the shock on my face.

“Come to think of it,” I said, “why not? She’s female.” In fact, she was an attractive, albeit mature, female. “She’s married, but that wouldn’t even slow Matheson down, much less stop him. There must have been some sort of relationship between them - her room number on the writing pad shows that - and romance is certainly one of the possibilities.”

“Certainly. I withdraw what I said about his type. How would I even know, really?”

“And maybe she went to his room at the Winfield yesterday with her hair tucked up in a deerstalker cap. Somebody who saw her from behind might not have been able to tell she was a woman. In fact, now that I think about it, are we sure the witness said anything about gender? I think Oscar used the pronoun ‘he,’ but maybe he was just making an assumption. We should press him on that.”