Houses of Stone, KATHY [classic literature books TXT] 📗

would only say something you would regret. Let me explain."

She seized on the words that offered hope. "Not now? When?"

"After the proper procedures have been followed. Listen to me! Do you have any idea what this battered object is worth? I am talking of money, Karen—crude and vulgar of me, no doubt, but this is how I earn my living, by buying and selling books."

"Well, of course. I expected to pay for it, that's the only way I would ..." She heard her voice start to rise, and fought to control it. This was business, not friendship. That was how she wanted it. One didn't take advantage of a friend. "How much are you asking for it?"

Undeceived by her pretense at coolness, Simon eyed her warily. "Are you familiar with the motto of antiquities dealers? 'An object is worth only what someone is willing to pay for it.' It is possible to estimate the value of a particular book by studying what comparable volumes have brought in the market. But that's the problem. With what can I compare this? I could make an educated guess as to what a Bronte or Dickens manuscript might bring; the original manuscripts of known works do appear on the market from time to time. But an unknown, unpublished manuscript by a little-known writer . . . who knows? The only way to find out is to offer it for sale."

"Where? At auction?"

He remained maddeningly calm. "I could do that, but I won't. If it sold to a private collector, he or she might not make it available to scholars, which would be a pity. I intend instead to invite bids from major universities and libraries."

"I'll top your highest bid. Isn't there a procedure for that in your business? Preferred bidder, or something?"

"Karen—" His eyes moved from hers. Following his gaze, she saw that, without being conscious of movement, she had placed both hands on the manuscript, fingers flexed, palms pressing down.

"I understand your position, Simon," she said steadily. "Now hear mine. The first person to get hold of this manuscript, by hook or crook or legal purchase, will be the one to publish it. If it goes to a university or library, they'll pick one of their own people to handle it. I wouldn't have a chance."

"You believe you can persuade your college to—"

"Simon, you're not listening! Even if the college would put up the money, which is unlikely, there's at least one other person on the faculty who would lay claim to it. He'd probably succeed, too, because he sucks up to the board and the faculty senate and I don't. Bill Meyer at Yale, and Dorothea Angelo at Berkeley—to name only two—would kill for the chance to get this. And both institutions have a hell of a lot more money than my college."

"Yes, I understand that. But you—"

"Let me finish." He hated being interrupted, and now she had done it twice. She plunged on, desperately seeking words that would convince him. "Do you know what a less scrupulous person would do in my place? Accept your invitation to spend the night, slip you a sleeping pill and sneak out, with the manuscript, to one of those all-night copying places."

Simon's eyes widened. "That would be a despicable act."

"Of course. I'd never commit it, but I can think of several other people who wouldn't hesitate for a second. You of all people ought to know that the definition of legal ownership with regard to old manuscripts is hideously complex. The pages themselves, the physical manuscript, can be bought or sold, inherited, given away. I would be guilty of theft if I stole it. But what about the text—the words? They can't be copyrighted, they are old enough to be in the public domain. If I had a copy of the text, I doubt very much if you could prevent me from publishing it. I'd sure as hell be willing to take that chance—and so would Bill Meyer, or dear old Joe Cropsey, my favorite departmental chairman. That's why I have to own it, Simon, and guard it with my life—to keep other people from getting their hands on it. It wouldn't take more than two hours to have a copy made."

She was breathless when she finished, but she had made her point. Simon was looking very sober. "I hadn't thought of it that way. It is true that there are other interested parties. Your own fault, Karen; you were the one who made Ismene famous. How many copies of your edition of the poems were sold? How many articles on her have appeared since then?"

Karen didn't answer. It was particularly embittering to realize that if she hadn't made Ismene famous, in the scholarly world at least, she wouldn't have to fear competition. On the other hand, Simon would not have called her first if she had not been the acknowledged authority. The manuscript itself might have been overlooked, discarded, if she had not publicized that vital name. The very idea made her break into a cold sweat.

"Where did you get it?" she asked.

"From a trunk in a dusty attic, of course. Isn't that the traditional source for such finds? In fact, most discoveries of this nature do come from places like that. Remember the first half of the Huckleberry Finn manuscript that was found a few years ago? Mark Twain had sent it to a friend, who evidently mislaid it; it remained in a trunk in Gluck's attic for over a century."

Karen smiled sweetly. "If you think you are going to distract me, Simon, you are sadly mistaken."

Simon sighed. "The house from which this manuscript came belonged to an old gentleman who was a pack rat, like his ancestors before him. When he died, the new owner called in a local auctioneer and told him to clear the place out in preparation for a sale. The auctioneer is a man with whom I've dealt before; local dealers often consult me about books and manuscripts.