Jimmy Fox - Nick Herald 02 - Lineages and Lies (12 page)

“You do not forget the favor of a woman, no?” said Florita, ignorant of Nick’s crime. “Such a man is worth more than money.”

The dimensions of the library surprised him; the street view was deceptive, offering no hint of the vastness and magnificence of the interior. He had never seen so much walnut. Two stories of shelves loaded with books beckoned him.

On the ground floor, in the middle of the splendid facility, were groups of chairs and long tables, where green-shaded lamps provided islands of light. In a commanding position at the far end of the room was a monumental marble grouping, gleaming white, in the emotional, dynamic style of François Rude’s
La Marseillaise
on the Arc de Triomphe, all heroic resistance and noble purpose. Nick didn’t need to read the pages of the open bronze book at the base to know that this was the moment the passengers of the
Allégorie
sighted their new home.

Then again, maybe the captain was cutting through the mosquitoes. Nick banished that sardonic heresy from his mind.

The captain raised his broadsword in prayerful celebration, women wept or dreamily touched their pregnant bellies, men stared off to the horizon with future struggles in mind, children cavorted oblivious. Another crewmember held aloft the banner with the motto:
En Foi, Invincible
.

In larger-than-life portraits, illustrious members of the Society struck dignified poses wherever there was sufficient wall space. A pair of six-foot-high bronze tablets, in the popular style of the Ten Commandments, hung prominently on one wall and identified this year’s “Worthy Shipwrights”—those members who had made substantial donations during life or at death to the “
Allégorie
Foundation.” Nameplates almost completely filled both tablets, and the year wasn’t half over yet. The message was
clear: since you can’t take your loot with you, might as well load it into the groaning hull of the
Allégorie
for a few more months of earthly distinction.

Ten or so employees of various hues busied themselves at computer terminals or shelved books from carts that would never even approximate a squeak. All of them looked wholesome and happy. Well paid, Nick didn’t doubt. They all wore casual, slightly preppy clothes, blouses and shirts bearing in some form the Society’s stylized ship. It seemed that no detail, however small, escaped the attention of Preston Nowell.

A few scattered men and women—all elderly, probably retirees, except for a younger couple exuding moneyed leisure—sat at the tables, surrounded by thick volumes; they scribbled with the desperate concentration of genealogists everywhere racing a library’s closing time. He caught a glimpse of a gray-haired woman hurrying to what was obviously the microfilm room; she carried a stack of small white cardboard boxes containing more reels than she could review in a month.

Within a balustraded enclosure, two young men at their desks engaged in a spirited but hushed discussion of some new group of manuscripts that was being incorporated into the holdings of the library. Nick got the impression that this library ran like clockwork, and that these people genuinely enjoyed working here.

One of these young men noticed Nick wandering about, acting like a tourist. Seeing Nick’s visitor’s pin, he gave him a quick description of the layout and of what was off limits for non-Society members and non-patrons.

“The library has an open-shelf policy, Mr. Herald,” the young man said. “So you can select the books you want, rather than fill out those bothersome request forms and have to wait for the staff member to bring them. We do ask that you not reshelve the books. Just deposit them on the carts at the end of the stacks.”

After that polite orientation, Nick was on his own, free to wander at will.

Most of the bottom floor was devoted to general reference, with a wealth of standard resources sometimes lacking in larger facilities. Even Nick’s handful of humble contributions to genealogical research were here; he mentally saluted the sagacity of the head librarian. A sign informed Nick that a skilled researcher was at his disposal to summon distant data across cyberspace, in case he couldn’t operate one of the half-dozen computers neatly arrayed in a nook between shelving units. The rest of the building held a seemingly endless collection of books, periodicals, original documents, and personal papers, all relating to the First Families and their ancestors and descendants, for the period stretching from the dawn of written history to last week—there was a weekly newsletter.

The Society, Nick learned from perusing a few books, had its own publishing enterprise, established at least a century ago. He saw the Society’s insignia on the spines of hundreds, maybe thousands of well-produced books. Preston Nowell was the present publisher.

Many of these books were family histories, with a heavy sprinkling of “mug books”—local histories featuring engravings
or photos of prominent citizens, along with biographies. Nick, as a professional genealogist, looked on such works with healthy skepticism. The author was often an amateur or a hack, working with non-original sources or hearsay evidence; and the mug books printed whatever the paying customer wanted included, usually only the honorable aspects of a life.

A family history can be a valuable tool in the investigation of a family line, or a counter-productive exercise in ancestor worship on the part of the family or writer. Most of the publishing houses that make their money primarily from such books are known as vanity presses; and self-published family histories don’t get much, or any, peer review prior to publication. Though modern efforts were showing refreshing improvement, Nick had found that most family histories from previous eras were uneven in quality, closer to novels than to professional-grade research. If there were errors in the family mythos, emotional or financial axes to grind, or a disregard for the principles of genealogical evidence, such books might do more harm than good. With the imprimatur of years, a flawed family history or mug book becomes a later “source.” Thus are errors transmitted and lies perpetuated.

But publication of a family history is usually a good deal for the
publisher
, who gets his money up front, and therefore urges a lavish production on the all-too-willing writer, whose head is turned by the thought of becoming a genealogical scholar.

With grudging admiration mixed with a little disdain, Nick was beginning to see that the Society of the
Allégorie
had more moneymaking games than a Louisiana riverboat casino, beginning with the cover charge at the door.

Nick cautioned himself not to point a finger of criticism just yet, on such circumstantial evidence. After all, every library had some family histories, and a few of them, like Nelson Plumlaw’s, were masterpieces of scholarship and style. Nick decided to reserve judgment until he’d had a chance to study examples of recent vintage; surely a first-class place like this put out first-class works of genealogy.

He went up one of the iron spiral staircases to the gallery, where more shelves, more books, more acid-free boxes of family records waited in dustless repose. He found himself at the entrance to a hallway; across the gallery, he noticed a similar one leading off the head of the other spiral staircase. Probably offices, Nick supposed, noticing doors along and at the ends of the halls. More sculpture, more paintings on the walls. What was the annual budget of this place? he wondered. Millions, it had to be.

He turned around and rested his elbows on the gallery railing, a more substantial version of the one below, around the librarians’ enclosure. From up here, it was an even more dramatic view—he felt as if he were hovering over the deck of the
Allégorie
. In mid-air a few feet below the level of the railing, the captain’s marble sword thrust upward, and the banner waved in timeless rigidity. On the far wall, there was a minivan-sized, intricate model of the ship under full sail. Nick hadn’t looked back when he entered the main room, so he’d missed it. What a piece of work; must have taken years to put together!

The really Rare stuff was in a climate-controlled room at the rear of the gallery. Now facing it, Nick saw a sliding glass door and a study area inside. On closer inspection, he noticed
retracted metal doors that probably served to shield the room after hours. There was a keypad to the right of the doorway; a green dot glowed at the top next to a darkened red dot. This was the renowned state-of-the-art preservation unit Nelson Plumlaw had mentioned. It suggested to Nick a maximum-security prison cell.

According to Nick’s guide booklet, scholars and members could study here original letters and testimony of the First Families, certain surviving ship records, family Bibles, and other documents too rare and fragile to leave unprotected. There was only one way in and one way out.

When not in use, the room was emptied of nasty old everyday air, and helium, nitrogen, and argon were pumped in according to a complex protocol to discourage deterioration of the treasures within. Nothing living—not insects, bacteria, or fungi—was supposed to be able to endure in this “anoxic inert atmosphere” of less than 2% oxygen concentration. The Society had even received research grants from the National Archives, which kept the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution under similar conditions, and from the Getty Conservation Institute.

Nowell doesn’t miss a trick. Probably has a Washington lobbyist.

A small sign warned, “Rare Documents Room. Authorized Entry Only: Please consult librarian downstairs.” When he got close enough the door opened automatically, creating a small climatic event as air rushed out of the pressurized room. He felt on his face just the right levels of humidity and coolness for the preservation of fragile documents—45% relative humidity, and
65 degrees Fahrenheit, according to the booklet. He detected an elusive scent of sea and age—but maybe that was his imagination.

The rest of the library had given Nick a warm, welcoming feeling, like that which he remembered on entering other great libraries; he wasn’t sure if it was the staff or the collected knowledge that usually put him at ease. By contrast, this room was sparely furnished and seemed to Nick as sterile as an operating room. The diffuse but adequate light came from unseen sources. Nick guessed that every inch of the decor and every lighting fixture had been vetted for chemical emissions and ultraviolet rays potentially dangerous to the treasures that were studied here.

One man sat at a table with his back to Nick. Behind a tall ticket-counter desk a strapping young man sat on a stool. There was a register book and a stack of white cloth gloves on the counter. To the right, Nick saw the wired-glass enclosure that held the irreplaceable artifacts. In cases along the walls of the study area, the everyday wardrobes and possessions of Society members through the years were displayed on headless mannequins.

Looking up from the military thriller he was reading, the young man said, “I’m sorry, sir. This room is only for—”

“Yeah, I know,” Nick replied. “Society members and library patrons. Just popped in to visit with a friend. I won’t touch anything. Promise. What’s happening, Coldbread?”

Edward Coldbread was trying to hide behind his hands. At the mention of his name, he flinched as if he’d been stabbed, and hastily covered his notes. He looked up slowly. “You’re following me!” he sputtered, pointing a white-gloved hand accusingly at Nick.

The young man at the desk said a few words into a telephone, hung up, and returned to his book, apparently satisfied that Nick was no immediate threat to the precious manuscript collection.

Nick sat down across from Coldbread. On the table were very old handwritten pages, flaking books, and vellum rolls.

Somebody trusts him. Probably not a good idea.

For several years Nick had seen Coldbread frequently at the Plutarch Foundation, without a word passing between them. Then, out of the blue, he showed up at his apartment one night, pointing a revolver at him. He accused Nick of trying to horn in on a fortune in gold stolen during the Battle of New Orleans. Coldbread had been searching for it for years. No clue, no matter how unlikely or distant, was beyond the realm of possibility for Coldbread; his dogged research had turned him into a passable genealogical scholar. Nick managed to disarm him that night, and they had been uneasy friends and quasi business partners ever since.

“Following you? I didn’t even know you were in the country,” Nick said in his defense. “The last I heard, you were hot on the trail in Australia. Say, you’d make a great butler. Those white gloves are a nice touch.”

“Oh shut-up! You know what these are for, as well as I do. Skin oil.” His flaccid, bloodless face lost some of its petulance. “My pursuit led nowhere. But the flight was remarkably pleasant. Excellent foie gras. Did you uncover anything on our”—here he looked around warily—“question?”

A man had just died in southwest Louisiana, supposedly leaving a huge, unexplained bequest in gold to his church. A remnant of the
treasure Coldbread had lusted after for so many years? Coldbread often chased after such wisps of speculation.