A black Mercedes stopped in front of Gaston’s and Thomas Kendrick got out. He was in and out in less than a minute and left with the manuscript. He went straight to his office, where Dr. Jeffrey Brown was waiting, along with another Princeton librarian. They opened the boxes and marveled at the prize.
Patience was required, but the waiting was torturous. Bruce changed clothes and went for a long walk. At a sidewalk café on Rue des écoles in the Latin Quarter, he managed to choke down a salad. Two tables away, Noelle sat down for a coffee. They ignored each other until he left, with a backpack she had placed in a chair. A few minutes after one, he entered Gaston’s again and was surprised to see him chatting with a customer. Bruce eased to the rear and placed the backpack on his office desk. When Gaston managed to slip away, they opened the second cedar box and looked at Fitzgerald’s scrawl. Bruce said, “The Beautiful and Damned. Published in 1922 and perhaps his weakest effort.”
“Looks fine to me,” Gaston said.
“Make the call,” Bruce said and left. Fifteen minutes later the wire transfers were confirmed. Not long after that, the same black Mercedes stopped in the same place, and Thomas Kendrick fetched number two from Gaston.
Gatsby was next in order of publication, but Bruce was saving it for last. His fortune was coming together nicely, but he still worried about the final delivery. He found Noelle sitting in the shade of an elm tree in Luxembourg Gardens. Beside her was a brown paper bag with the name of a bakery on it. For good measure, the end of a baguette protruded out the top. He broke it off and chomped away as he headed for Gaston’s. At 2:30, he entered the bookstore, handed over the bag and what was left of the baguette, along with Tender Is the Night, to his friend, and hustled away.
To mix things up, the third wire went to a Deutsche Bank branch in Zurich, then to a numbered account in a London bank. When the two were confirmed, his fortune went from seven figures to eight.
Kendrick appeared again to pick up number three. Back in his office, Dr. Jeffrey Brown was giddy as the collection grew.
The fourth manuscript, that of The Last Tycoon, was hidden in a Nike gym bag Noelle carried into a Polish bookstore on Boulevard St.-Germain. While she browsed, Bruce carried it away and walked four minutes to Librairie Chappelle.
The Swiss banks would close at five. At a few minutes before four, Gaston called Thomas Kendrick and passed along some somber news. For Gatsby, his acquaintance wished to be paid in advance. Kendrick kept his cool but argued that this was not acceptable. They had an agreement, and so far both sides had behaved.
“True,” Monsieur Chappelle said politely. “But the danger, as my contact sees it, is that he makes the final delivery and those on your end decide to forgo the last installment.”
“And what if we wire the final payment and he decides to keep the manuscript?” Kendrick replied.
“I suppose that’s a risk you’ll have to take,” Gaston said. “He is rather adamant.”
Kendrick took a deep breath and looked at the horror-stricken face of Dr. Brown. “I’ll call you back in fifteen minutes,” he said to Gaston.
Dr. Brown was already on the phone to Princeton, where President Carlisle had not left his desk for the past five hours. There was really nothing to discuss. Princeton wanted Gatsby far worse than the crook needed another four million. They would take their chances.
Kendrick called Chappelle and passed along the news. When the final wire transfer was confirmed at 4:45, Chappelle called Kendrick back and informed him that he was holding the Gatsby manuscript in the rear seat of a taxi waiting outside his office building on Avenue Montaigne.
Kendrick bolted from his office with Dr. Brown and his colleague giving chase. They sprinted down the wide stairway, rushed past the startled receptionist and out the front door just as Gaston was emerging from the taxi. He handed over a thick briefcase and said that Gatsby was all there, with the exception of page 1 of chapter 3.
Leaning against a tree not fifty yards away, Bruce Cable watched the exchange and enjoyed a good laugh.
EPILOGUE
Eight inches of overnight snow had blanketed the campus, and by mid-morning crews were hustling with plows and shovels to clear the walkways and doorsteps so that classes could go on. Students in heavy boots and coats wasted little time between classes. The temperature was in the teens and the wind was biting.
According to the schedule he’d found online, she should be in a classroom in Quigley Hall, teaching a class in creative writing. He found the building, found the room, and managed to hide and stay warm in a second-floor lobby until 10:45. He slipped back into the winter and loitered on a sidewalk beside the building, pretending to chat on his cell phone to avoid any suspicion. It was too cold for anyone to notice or care. Bundled as he was, he could have been just another student. She came out the front door and headed away from him in a crowd, one that swelled as other buildings emptied with the change of classes. He followed at a distance and noticed she was accompanied by a young man, one with a backpack. They turned here and there and appeared to be headed for the Strip, a row of shops and cafés and bars just off the campus of Southern Illinois University. They crossed a street, and as they did her companion took her elbow as if to help. As they walked on, even faster, he let it go.
They ducked into a coffeehouse and Bruce stepped into the bar next door. He stuffed his gloves in a coat pocket and ordered black coffee. He waited fifteen minutes, time enough to knock off the chill, then went to the coffeehouse. Mercer and her friend were huddled over a small table, coats and scarves draped over their chairs, fancy espresso drinks in front of them, deep in conversation. Bruce was beside the table before she saw him.
“Hello, Mercer,” he said, ignoring her friend.
She was startled, even stunned, and seemed to gasp. Bruce turned to her friend and said, “I’m sorry, but I need a few minutes with her. I’ve come a long way.”
“What the hell?” the guy said, ready for a row.
She touched his hand and said, “It’s okay. Just give us a few minutes.”
He slowly got to his feet, took his coffee, and as he left them he brushed by Bruce, who let it go. Bruce took the guy’s chair and smiled at Mercer. “Cute guy. One of your students?”
She collected herself and said, “Seriously? Is that really any of your business?”
“Not at all. You look great, Mercer, minus the tan.”
“It’s February in the Midwest, a long way from the beach. What do you want?”
“I’m doing fine, thanks for asking. And how are you?”
“Great. How’d you find me?”
“You’re not exactly hiding. Mort Gasper had lunch with your agent, who told the sad story of Wally Starke dropping dead the day after Christmas. They needed a pinch hitter this spring for the writer in residence, and here you are. You like this place?”
“It’s okay. It’s cold and the wind blows a lot.” She took a sip of coffee. Neither looked away.
“So how’s the novel coming along?” he asked, smiling.
“Good. Half-finished and writing every day.”
“Zelda and Ernest?”