Mercer’s jaw dropped as she stared in disbelief and eased closer. She tried to speak but couldn’t find the words.
Inside the box was a stack of faded letter-sized sheets of paper, perhaps four inches thick, obviously well aged and a relic from another time. There was no title page; indeed, it appeared as though Fitzgerald had simply plunged into chapter 1 with the thought of tidying things up later. His cursive was not pretty and hard to read, and he had begun making notes in the margins from the very beginning. Bruce touched the edges of the manuscript and went on, “When he died suddenly in 1940, the novel was far from finished, but he worked from an outline and left behind a considerable amount of notes and summaries. He had a close friend named Edmund Wilson, who was an editor and a critic, and Wilson cobbled the story together and the book was published a year later. Many critics consider it to be Fitzgerald’s finest work, which, as you said, is remarkable given his health.”
“You are kidding, right?” she managed to say.
“Kidding about what?”
“This manuscript. Is this the one that was stolen?”
“Oh yes, but not by me.”
“Okay. What’s it doing here?”
“It’s a very long story and I won’t bore you with the details, many of which I know nothing about. All five were stolen last fall from the Firestone Library at Princeton. There was a gang of thieves and they got spooked when the FBI grabbed two of them almost immediately. The others unloaded their loot and disappeared. The manuscripts quietly entered the black market. From there they were sold off separately. I don’t know where the other four are but I suspect they’ve left the country.”
“Why are you involved, Bruce?”
“It’s complicated, but I’m really not that involved. You want to touch the pages?”
“No. I don’t like being here. This makes me nervous.”
“Relax. I’m just hiding this for a friend.”
“Must be a helluva friend.”
“He is. We’ve been trading for a long time and I trust him implicitly. He’s in the process of brokering a deal with a collector in London.”
“What’s in it for you?”
“Not much. I’ll get a few bucks down the road.”
Mercer stepped away and moved to the other side of the table. “For a few bucks it seems like you’re assuming a rather significant risk. You’re in possession of major stolen property. That’s a felony that could get you sent away for a long time.”
“It’s a felony only if you get caught.”
“And now you’ve made me complicit in this scheme, Bruce. I’d like to leave now.”
“Come on, Mercer, you’re too uptight. No risk, no reward. And you’re not complicit in anything, because no one will ever know. How can anyone possibly prove you ever saw this manuscript?”
“I don’t know. Who else has seen this?”
“Only the two of us.”
“Noelle doesn’t know.”
“Of course not. She doesn’t care. She runs her business and I run mine.”
“And part of your business is trafficking in stolen books and manuscripts?”
“Occasionally.” He closed the archival storage box and placed it back in the wooden one. Carefully, he replaced it in the drawer and shoved it closed.
“I really want to go,” she said.
“Okay, okay. I didn’t think you’d freak out. You said you’ve just finished The Last Tycoon and I thought you’d be impressed.”
“Impressed? I might be overwhelmed, bewildered, scared to death, a lot of things right now, but I’m not impressed, Bruce. This is crazy stuff.”
He locked the safe, then the vault, and as they started up the stairs he flipped off the lights. On the ground floor, Mercer headed for the front door. “Where are you going?” he asked.
“I’m leaving. Please unlock the door.”
Bruce grabbed her, turned her around, squeezed her tightly, and said, “Look, I’m sorry, okay?”
She pulled back hard and said, “I want to go. I’m not staying in this store.”
“Come on, you’re overreacting, Mercer. Let’s go upstairs and finish the champagne.”
“No, Bruce, I’m not in the mood right now. I can’t believe this.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You’ve already said that; now please unlock the door.”
He found a key and unlocked the dead bolt. She hurried through the door without another word and walked around the corner to her car.
14.
The plan had been built on assumptions and speculation and no small measure of hope, but now it had succeeded. They had the proof, the answer they so desperately needed, but could she deliver? Could she take the next crucial step and make the call that would send Bruce to prison for the next ten years? She thought about his downfall, his ruin and humiliation, and his horror of being caught red-handed, arrested, hauled into court, then taken away. What would happen to his beautiful and important bookstore? His home? His friends? His cherished collection of rare books? His money? Her betrayal would have enormous consequences and damage more than one person. Perhaps Cable deserved all that was coming, but not his employees, not his friends, not even Noelle.
At midnight, Mercer was still on the beach, wrapped in a shawl, toes dug into the sand, staring at the moonlit ocean and asking herself again why she ever said yes to Elaine Shelby. She knew the answer, but the money seemed much less important now. The destruction she was about to sow was far greater than the money behind it. The truth was she liked Bruce Cable, his beautiful smile and easy manner, his good looks, his unique wardrobe, his wit and intelligence, his admiration of writers, his skill as a lover, his presence around others, his friends, his reputation, his charisma that at times seemed magnetic. She was secretly thrilled to be so close to him, to be considered among his inner circle, and, yes, to be just another in his long line of women. Because of him, she’d had more fun in the past six weeks than in the last six years.
One option at the moment was to simply keep quiet and allow things to run their course. Elaine and her gang and perhaps the FBI would continue doing whatever they had to do. Mercer could go through the motions, feigning frustration at not being able to accomplish more. She’d made it down to the basement vault and delivered plenty of evidence. Hell, she’d even slept with the guy and might again. She had done her best so far and would continue to play along. Maybe Bruce would unload Tycoon just as he said, without a trace, into the murky vastness of the black market, and his vault would be clean when the Feds rolled in. Before long, her six months would be over and she would leave the island, and do so with fond memories. She might even return, for summer vacations at her cottage, or, better yet, on a book tour one day with a fine new novel. And then another.
Her agreement was not contingent on a successful operation. She was to be paid regardless. Her student loans were already history. Half the fee was in the bank. She felt certain the other half would arrive as promised.