“Opened! And crack those bindings? This collection is worth a fortune, Mister. I’ve had it appraised. Won’t let nobody read em.”
“But books are made to be read, Mr. Priam. Haven’t you ever been curious about what’s in these pages?”
“Ain’t read a book since I played hooky from public school,” retorted Priam. “Books are for women and longhairs. Newspapers, that’s different. And picture magazines.” His head jerked up with a belligerent reflex. “What are you getting at?”
“I’d like to spend about an hour here, Mr. Priam, looking over your collection. I give you my word, I’ll handle your books with the greatest care. Would you have any objection to that?”
Cunning pinpointed Priam’s eyes. “You’re a book writer yourself, ain’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Ever write articles like in the Sunday magazine sections?”
“Occasionally.”
“Maybe you got some idea about writing up an article on the Priam Book Collection. Hey?”
“You’re a shrewd man, Mr. Priam,” said Ellery with a smile.