“No.” The word came out cracked. He seemed fascinated by the binding.
Keats turned in disgust. “I guess he doesn’t know at that. Well―”
“Just a moment, Lieutenant.” Ellery was at the shelves, riffling through books. They were beautiful books, the products of private presses chiefly ― handmade paper, lots of gold leaf, colored inks, elaborate endpaper designs, esoteric illustrations, specially designed type fonts; each was hand-bound and expensively hand-tooled. And the titles were impeccable, all the proper classics. The only thing was, after riffling through two dozen books, Ellery had still to find one in which the pages had been cut.
The books had never been read. It was likely, from their stiff pristine condition, that they had not been opened since leaving the hands of the bookbinder.
“How long have you had these books, Mr. Priam?”
“How long?” Priam licked his lips. “How long is it, Delia?”
“Since shortly after we were married.”
“Library means books,” Priam muttered, nodding. “Called in a fancy dealer and had him measure the running feet of shelf space and told him to go out and get enough books to fill the space. Highbrow stuff, I told him; only the best.” He seemed to gain confidence through talking; a trace of arrogance livened his heavy voice. “When he lugged them around, I threw ‘em back in his face. ‘I said the best!’ I told him. ‘Take this junk back and have it bound up in the most expensive leather and stuff you can find. It’s got to look the money or you don’t get a plugged nickel.’ ”
Keats had dropped his impatience. He edged back.
“And a very good job he did, too,” murmured Ellery. “I see they’re in the original condition, Mr. Priam. Don’t seem to have been opened, any of them.”