The Rare Book Caper

It was so terribly cold. Snow was falling, and it was almost dark…

I thought for sure my time had come. I had visions of my grandma’s welcoming embrace and the aroma of hot cocoa on the stove was so inviting that I let myself go.

*******

Brenda and I met a few years ago. It is hard to recall an exact number when you have lived on the streets for a while and one day blends into the next. I think that the first time she spoke to me was on a gorgeous spring day when it seemed everyone was out enjoying the warmth and brightness of the sun after a long winter. In another life, I was a pretty respectable guy. I had a good paying job, rented a townhouse in a great neighborhood, and had a very nice fiancée. I was an illustrator for a small publishing company. I never had any formal training but I can draw anything from animal, birds, and flowers for encyclopedias to cartoon characters for children’s books. Everything was going splendidly until my employer’s company was bought by a big multinational and I was made redundant. I was too young to retire and too old for all the places I applied to for a job. The fact that I did not have a proper diploma was a hindrance and going back to school was not an option in my mind. The first few months of idleness felt like a vacation and I was the perfect stay-at-home boyfriend. I cooked her dinner every night, I cleaned and even did laundry her way. We often drank wine at dinner, but as the weeks passed, I started to drink earlier and earlier in the day. With each job rejection, I was feeling more and more depressed and without purpose. The wine helped me forget about the bad things. Eventually, the wedding plans fizzled out and my fiancée moved out. She did not like who I was becoming and certainly did not care for my pessimistic and increasingly belligerent attitude.

Without the possibility of sharing expenses, no family nearby and the end of my unemployment payments, I eventually became homeless. I was lucky to find my way to a shelter for people down on their luck and started my journey to sobriety. On good days, I sit at the top of outdoor stairs near Place des Arts, a busy tourist spot. From there I have a nice view and I can make drawings to get a few dollars. I have a piece of cardboard on which I pin them with toothpicks I got at the shelter. 

It was on such a day that Brenda met me, or rather that her foot met my cardboard display. She was looking for something in a tote bag the size of a small suitcase and missed a step sending my artwork flying at the bottom of the stairs. Thankfully, she was able to regain her balance on the landing after a frighteningly swift and teetering descent. She picked up the drawings and apologized profusely for the mishap.

 ‘I am so very sorry about this. I was so distraught at the thought that I had forgotten my swipe card at home that I even got off at the wrong metro station’ I said. 

Before handing them back to me, she started looking at them more closely. One in particular caught her eye. It was that of a delicate hummingbird with its long, slender bill and almost glittery and brightly colored feathers. 

‘Wow, is this your work?’ Brenda asked.

I nodded my assent.

Brenda responded ‘This illustration is magnificent! Actually, all the drawings are beautiful but your representations of birds are exceptional. They remind me of what I see in rare and precious books from the collections at the university.’ 

‘Oh, thank you… Birds were my favorite things to sketch and I even went on a couple of bird watching trips for my job…’

‘Where do you work?’

‘I don’t anymore…I got laid off a while back…’

‘What a pity, you are very talented.’

Most of the people on the street look at me with condescension or ignore me altogether.

But this lady was different. It’s not the first time my cardboard easel goes flying and nobody has ever retrieved it and handed it back to me. Sometimes, I get a smile or “they’re beautiful” as the person just keeps on walking. 

Over the course of the next few months, when the weather was nice, Brenda would purposefully get off at “my” metro station to see my latest drawings and talk for a bit. She told me about her part-time job as a curator of the Blacker-Wood Natural History collection at the McGill University library. We would have nice chats about anything and everything, as well as whatever was happening in her life. She offered numerous times to help me find a job and a place to live, but I declined every time. Pride, stubbornness and I was too set in my ways.

*******

In a room of the Queen Elizabeth Hotel, a business meeting is taking place between three dubious individuals.

‘I have an old client who is hiring us to obtain for him a first edition of “Birds of America” by J.J. Audubon.’  a woman starts. ‘Only about a dozen individuals worldwide own one, out of a total of 120 copies known to have survived. And I did a bit more digging on this and here is what Wikipedia had to say:’

“Around 1820, John James Audubon was about 35 years old when he decided he wanted to paint every bird in North America. He sold the copper engraving plates through a subscription basis in North America and Europe. Those subscribed obtained five plates at a time. Each subscriber received prints of three smaller birds, a larger bird and a mid-sized bird. It is thought that no more than 120 complete sets exist today. Each set consists of 435 individual plates that are based upon the original paintings. Each plate was engraved, printed and hand-colored by Robert Havell of London. The original edition was printed on handmade paper about 100 cm tall by 72 cm wide.”

She goes on to say ‘Apparently, our client has been wanting to add this set of bird artwork to his rare book collection for a while now,  He told me that in 2000 it came for auction at Christie’s and some Sheikh from Qatar bought it from under him for 8.8 millions dollars. In 2010, he was outbid by a by a British art dealer in London by a mere 11.5 millions. The client said that the last straw was in December 2019 when he lost his bid again at Sotheby’s in New York.’

‘I guess that’s why he decided it was time to contact us, my dear Claire’ replies one of the men. He continues ‘He was satisfied with the last rare book that “disappeared” from an old heiress’s collection. She probably still hasn’t noticed it’s gone. And even if she did, there’s no way to trace it back to us. We, that is “I” covered our tracks magnificently, if I do say so myself’. 

‘Stop your bragging Robin’, declares Claire ‘and concentrate on the task at hand. After looking at this carefully, I cannot see a way to get a first edition specimen from the private collectors. So then, I searched to see which institutions in North America have a complete set, because there is no way we will go to Australia or Japan. Some of the places that popped up are: the University of Pittsburgh, Trinity College in Connecticut, the Library of the Canadian Parliament in Ottawa, as well as the McGill University library. I checked out the layout of those places and McGill University is the place where we have the best chance for a successful operation. Once about every two to three years, there is a complete inspection of their collection of rare books. That means they come out of a special vault and only one or two people with the utmost qualifications are allowed near the books. Last week, I was able to pass for a visiting curator from New York and got pertinent information regarding when “Birds of America” will be examined and who will be in charge.’

‘Wow, you go Claire!’, says another male voice.

‘Please do not patronize me Finch. Robin, you are now responsible for figuring out the details for the execution of this operation… and YOU, Finch, make sure we have options for escape routes. Remember, it will likely be cold and snowy at that time of year. Once you guys have definite and coherent plans, I’ll let the client know.’

*******

Last week Brenda told me that, exceptionally, she would have to go to work on a Sunday night, only three days before Christmas. She said she was responsible for a very special task in the vault of the library. It is done at this seemingly inconvenient time because that is when virtually all the rest of the staff and the students are away on holiday. She also told me that she would really enjoy taking me out for dinner afterwards to celebrate the upcoming Holidays.

I can meet her at the library, the security guard will let me in as a special favor.  

Brrr, it sure doesn’t look great out there. I heard a passerby tell his buddy that it was -25 degrees Celsius with the wind chill factor. I tie my coat with the three buttons that are left, wrap a well-worn scarf around my head and neck and shove my hands in my pockets as I make my way towards the library. The wind is so intense, it takes my breath away. The snow is now falling so hard and there is so much accumulation on the sidewalk that it makes it hard to walk. Especially in these boots that are a full size too big. I have to stop near building entrances to catch my breath and warm up a bit. I finally reach my destination on McTavish street. 

As expected, the security guard notices from behind the glass window of his station and gives me a nodding smile. I see him disappear momentarily and then come out through a plain door with a keypad lock on the outside.  He takes out a big set of keys and unlocks one of the huge glass doors giving access to the entrance hall of the library. I guess Brenda must have given him my description. There are a couple of benches along the wall with a set of washrooms between them. That’s handy, I think I’ll make use of those before Brenda is done.

I suddenly hear a very loud noise and it almost feels like the walls are vibrating. Is this an explosion? Another loud noise quickly follows. Could it be a gunshot? No… here, that’s not possible! I get on the ground and carefully open the washroom door ever so slightly. At first, I cannot see anything. Then I see a pair of black boots lying sideways. 

‘Hey Finch tie him up and take his cell phone, walkie-talkie and keys while I get our stuff ready for phase two’, says a voice with a British accent.

Another voice answers ‘alright Robin, its done. Now, help me drag him behind that bench in case anybody would be crazy enough to walk by in this nasty weather and see him through the glass doors.’

The guy with the British accent then says ‘he’ll be out for a while with that bonk on the head you just gave him, you haggis-eating brute! Still, there’s no time to waste. Let’s take care of that librarian in the vault, get the books and get out. The alarms and the cameras are only disabled for about another 15 minutes.’

I hear the sound of footsteps gradually disappearing. I risk pulling the door open a bit more. Nothing. I get up, careful to make as little noise as possible and slowly pull the door open enough to see more of the entrance hall. No one is there. No one except for the inanimate figure of the guard lying sideways on the floor with his wrists and ankles tie-wrapped.

There’s some blood on his forehead, but it looks like it’s probably just a flesh wound.

I place my hand on the side of his neck; thank goodness he still has a pulse. I try to stir him awake, no success. 

No pay phones anywhere anymore. The door to his station is locked, and I don’t have anything to break its glass window either to get to the landline. Maybe there’s a fire alarm somewhere nearby. I spot one and pull on it and nothing happens.

‘Think, think!’ I tell myself.

I pat down my coat and the pockets of my pants as if, by some miracle, a cell phone or some kind of weapon would materialize. All I find is the little bundle of bird drawings I did for Brenda. If I can’t contact 911 or the police, I could at least write down what I remember hearing. Maybe it will be helpful to nab those thieves.

They had accents and weird names. Yep, bird names…I untie the piece of string that holds them together and go through the bird drawings one by one. Here’s a dove, a starling, a robin…

Yes! That was one of them and I think he had some kind of a British accent.

I scribble “Brit?” at the top of that little square of paper and put it aside. How about the other one… a peregrine, a sparrow, a raven, a finch, a falcon…that’s it! I pull the finch drawing back out and jot down “Scot?”. Are those real names? Did I mix up their accents?

I didn’t get to ponder that question for too long. Bright red lights are illuminating the hall. Could it somehow be the police?

No such luck. I duck behind one of the built-in benches along the wall.

A vehicle backs up onto the sidewalk and stops very close to the glass doors while keeping the motor running. Those lights belong to a dark mini-van. There’s some kind of a logo on the back but I can’t quite make out what it is without being seen. What about the license plate. I take another peek lower down and I can just about make out most of the digits, except for the last one: F 671 54? I write this down at the back of the piece of paper with the finch.

I inadvertently drop my pen and it is rolling away. Without thinking, I make a move to try and grab it. At the same time, the thieving “birds” are back in the entrance hall transporting a large and seemingly heavy crate between them.

As soon as they see me, they put the crate down and lunge at me.

‘Where the heck did this guy come from anyway? Finch, restrain him while I bring the library lady here so we can tie them all here’, says the guy with the British accent.

‘What a silly name for such a big galoot’, I say under my breath.

‘What did you say?’ utters Finch.

‘I said you better not have harmed my librarian friend or …’

‘Or what?...’ he answers with a sneer while pointing his gun in my direction.

A couple of minutes later, Robin is back holding Brenda’s arm as she has her hands roped behind her back. The finch is momentarily distracted by her arrival so I get up and try to kick the gun out of his hand. It worked but he was able to overpower me with a series of kicks and punches…Then everything went black.

******

‘After that’, says Brenda ‘you were dragged outside unconscious and dumped in a snow bank. I was so afraid you would die in this frigid weather, especially since you were losing so much blood. The guard managed to get up, access the keypad on the door, get in and he called call 911 using the landline. It seemed to take an eternity for the police and ambulance to arrive. At first, they had not noticed you outside since you were partly buried in the snow. I had to direct them to you and because of your appearance they were convinced you were just another homeless guy who had frozen to death tonight. That is until you lifted your hand and patted the right pocket of your coat. They found two pieces of paper with scribbling on them. Then, you turned your head towards me and patted the other pockets and I got your other drawings. Thank you so much!’

‘It’s nothing…’

‘Anyway, the police were able to locate the van with the partial plate you wrote down. And thank goodness, the crate containing the precious books was still inside. The criminals had fled, but I’m sure it’s only a question of time until they find them.’ 

‘I obviously don’t remember any of this, but I’m glad you’re here and you were looking out for me. The only things I can recall is that it was so terribly cold. Snow was falling, and all was dark…’