Murder at Teatime by Stefanie Matteson Page A

learned of this, he was tried for murder. In a heroic effort to save him, his lawyer tracked down another copy of the volume in a Paris library. The lawyer argued that since more than one copy of the book existed, it was impossible to prove that Don Vincente’s book was the one in question.
    “But on hearing this,” Felix concluded, “Don Vincente broke down. ‘Alas,’ he cried. ‘My copy is not unique.’ You see, he didn’t care about the consequences, he only cared about possessing the one book that no one else could ever hope to own.”
    For a moment there was silence as they contemplated the fate of Don Vincente, who, Felix added, was hanged for murder.
    “But,” said Charlotte, “doesn’t it take more than this drive to possess to build an outstanding book collection? I should think it would take a great deal of intelligence and taste. After all, anyone can accumulate books, but not everyone can build a great collection.”
    Felix looked at her, his eyebrows raised like circumflexes above his lively hazel eyes. “This is true, meine gnädige Frau, ” he said. “May I compliment you on your perspicacity. The act of collecting is a game. In the words of one of the great collectors: ‘After love, the most exhilarating game of all.’ Nicht wahr , Herr Professor?”
    Thornhill, who was lighting his pipe, chuckled at the reference to his impending marriage.
    “Like any game, it requires attributes such as skill, cunning, perseverance, patience, and boldness.”
    “Then, skill is more important than money,” said Daria.
    “Absolutely. Our dear host is a case in point. From his youth, he has been a collector of—how shall I put it?—uncommon daring. He has assembled one of the finest privately owned botanical collections in the country. A remarkable achievement for a man who, although wealthy, to be sure, has never possessed the vast wealth of the other great collectors of his generation.”
    “Thank you, my good man,” said Thornhill, basking in the compliment. “But I never could have done it without your guidance.”
    “Not true,” said Felix. “Our dear host possesses all the skills of the great book collector. I will give you an example. For years, our host was known in the book-collecting world as the arch-rival of another of this century’s greatest collectors, Charles W. MacMillan.”
    The name rang a bell with Charlotte—MacMillan was the reclusive heir to a New England brass and copper fortune.
    “Mr. MacMillan was a man of tremendous wealth, and yet our dear host has assembled a collection that is every bit the equal of his. The MacMillan collection today forms the foundation of the world-renowned botanical library of the New York Botanical Society.”
    “My collection is a damn sight more than the equal of his,” interjected Thornhill testily. “It surpasses his any day.”
    “My apologies, my dear Herr Professor,” said Felix. “I will correct myself: the Thornhill collection as it stands today surpasses the MacMillan collection as it stood at the time of Mr. MacMillan’s death.”
    Charlotte sensed a sardonic edge to Felix’s voice, but she could have been wrong. She had a tendency to read meanings into words that weren’t there, a product of the actor’s eye for detail combined with her own overactive imagination.
    “Picking nits, aren’t you Felix?” said Thornhill. He continued: “I’ll never forget the look on old Mac’s face when I bought that nurseryman’s catalogue out from under him.” He chuckled to himself. “Tell them that story.”
    “One of the legendary moments in book-collecting annals,” said Felix.
    He proceeded to tell another tale involving a rare seed catalogue that MacMillan needed to complete a collection of early American nurseryman’s catalogues, a special interest of his. Thornhill was the victor in an auction room duel for the catalogue, but he paid a price many times more than what it was worth. “In the huddle following the sale, our