I arrived five minutes early, only to find that Kurzmann Buchladen was already open for business. There was even a customer ahead of me, a dissipated-looking fellow in a long wool coat and a floppy brown hat that slouched on his head like a dumpling. I took him at first for a wino, then noticed how assiduously he was working the shelves, like an ingenious piece of farm machinery that can simultaneously harrow, weed, and cultivate. Three volumes were tucked beneath his left arm and a fourth bulged from a coat pocket. He looked up as the door shut behind me, jingling a bell. Then he wrote me off as inconsequential and resumed his harvesting.
I looked around. Sellers of rare and antiquarian books are often messy housekeepers, but even by those standards the conditions at Kurzmann’s were unforgivable. The framed prints and maps hanging from the walls were dusty and crooked. Several had cracked glass. The watermarked ceiling was beaded with moisture-a death sentence for all that cloth and pulp below-and the musty air smelled faintly of cat urine. Mounted on the wall behind the register was an ancient color engraving of Prince Metternich, Europe’s original celebrity power broker, the Kissinger of his day. He glared out at the merchandise in apparent disdain.
Creaking floorboards drew my attention toward the back, where a short balding man in an unbuttoned vest emerged from the gloom. A tape measure was draped around his neck, as if he were a tailor who’d been called away from his sewing.
“Yes?” he asked in English, pegging my nationality. He ignored the other customer, and looked surprised by my presence, which was odd given yesterday’s phone call.
“Are you Christoph?” I asked in German. He answered in the same language.
“Do I know you?”
“You telephoned yesterday about a special order. I’m Bill Cage.”
A book slapped to the floor in the aisle where the other man was browsing. He snatched up the dropped copy and glanced my way with a gleam in his eye, or maybe I imagined it. The only noise was the muffled sound of rush hour traffic from the Ring, half a block away.
“Ah, yes.” Christoph said. He shuffled toward the register. “Your book has arrived.”
“For someone named Dewey, you said.”
He shot me a sidelong glance but said nothing.
“Well, is it or not?”
Stopping behind the counter, he glanced toward the harvester, who was working at a more deliberate pace than before. Then he glared at me and hissed beneath his breath: “Do you always conduct your business so sloppily?”
He quickly turned away and, with some effort, climbed a stepladder to a long shelf stuffed with books. Yellow labels scribbled with names poked from every copy, although the amount of dust suggested that most of the customers had either died or forgotten their orders. But my parcel looked clean as a whistle when he pulled it free. It was wrapped in brown butcher paper and tied with a crisscross of white string. Something about this presentation stirred a distant memory which I couldn’t quite place. The name “Dewey” was written on the butcher paper in black ink. Christoph handed it over, still glaring.
“Fifty euros, Mr…?”
“Cage.”
“Yes. Mr. Cage.”
“Fifty? That’s practically seventy dollars.”
“The price is marked. You can take it or leave it.”
I got out my wallet.
“Will that be all, sir?”
“No. I have a question.” He winced and glanced behind me. There was no sound at all from the harvester. Feeling his eyes on my back, and remembering my father’s warning to be discreet, I lowered my voice to a whisper.
“My father told me to ask you why he might suspect this was some sort of job for the Agency.” I felt like an idiot. “You know, the