Schemers: A Nameless Detective Novel (Nameless Detective Novels) by Bill Pronzini

talks people into financing his get-rich-quick schemes. No doubt his various lady friends do the same behind their husbands’ backs.”
    “But he doesn’t get any from you.”
    “There was a time when I was foolish enough to fall for his line, but that time is long past.”
    “The two of you don’t get along, then.”
    “Hardly. Jeremy can’t stand me any more than I can stand him. He would steal the gold fillings out of my teeth if he thought he could get away with it.”
    “If that’s the way it is, why do you let him live here?”
    “Oh, I’ve come close to throwing him out half a dozen times. I would have, long ago, if it weren’t for my wife.”
    “You mean she asked you not to?”
    “On the contrary. She doesn’t get along with Jeremy either.”
    “I don’t understand.”
    “It’s a complicated situation. You might say we feed off our dislike for one another.”
    That didn’t sound too healthy to me. More to it than that? None of my business unless it had a bearing on my investigation, and too soon to press Pollexfen about it in any case.
    I asked him, “Did you confront your brother-in-law about the theft?”
    “If you mean did I accuse him, no, not without evidence. I did suggest that if I found out he was guilty, he would pay dearly for it. He laughed in my face.”
    “Does he know anything about rare books?”
    “Very little, so far as I’m aware.”
    “Then how would he know which ones to steal? And where to sell them?”
    “It wouldn’t be difficult to find out. The Internet, booksellers, other collectors—the information is available to anyone who cares to do a little research.”
    I went across to the windows, drew the drapes aside on both. Barred. Sashes locked down tight.
    “The drapes are always closed,” Pollexfen offered. “Sunlight fades dust jacket backstrips. Even natural light will cause fading to some colors.”
    “I know. I have a similar arrangement in my home.”
    “Ah, yes. Pulp magazine spines fade, too, of course.”
    “I take it the door and windows are the only ways in and out of this room.”
    “Certainly. Were you thinking of secret panels or hidden nooks?”
    “No. Asking questions, covering all the bases.”
    “Thorough man. I like that.”
    I went to examine the door locks. They were the kind that could be keyed from both sides, so Pollexfen could seal himself inside when he didn’t want to be disturbed. No scratches or marks on them or anywhere on the door and jamb to indicate that they might have been forced.
    As I started over to the desk, light reflecting off the barrels of the mounted shotgun caught my eye. Pollexfen took my upward glance as a sign of interest in the weapon. “A beauty, isn’t it?” he said. “Nineteen twenty-six Parker GHE, twelve-gauge. Twenty-eight-inch uncut barrels, dual triggers, pistol grip stock, loads two-and-a-half-inch shells.”
    I didn’t say anything. I’m not big on guns, even though—or maybe because—I own one and have had occasion to use it more than once.
    “Inherited from my father,” Pollexfen said. “We used to go hunting together—birds, mostly. Angelina and I did, too, when we were first married. She’s a very good shot for a woman.”
    I had no comment on that, either.
    “My only other hobby, hunting,” he said. “Until a few years ago. Too old and arthritic now to tramp around the countryside.”
    Another pass. The hunter gene was left out of me; I like blood sports even less than guns. I gave my attention to the desk. Computer, telephone, a stack of what appeared to be auction catalogs, a pile of unused Mylar jacket protectors. The books stacked there, some with dust wrappers, some without, were apparently new acquisitions, awaiting shelving—not that there was much room left for them on any of the shelves.
    “You do all the book buying yourself?” I asked.
    “All the ordering, yes. Mainly from auction catalogs, a handful of antiquarian dealers, and through trades with other