Roux the Day by Peter King

HARBURG, BOOKBINDER , on an old hand-carved wooden door. I banged on the brass doorknocker twice with no result so I walked around to the back. An addition had been built onto the cottage, an awkward-looking extension that must have been practical because it certainly wasn’t aesthetic.
    Another handmade wooden door was there though not nearly as elaborate as at the front. Knocking brought no response here, either. I tried the knob and the door was open. I called out Harburg’s name but could hear no reply. I went in.
    This added structure was a workshop and had all the materials that might be expected in a bookbinder’s—stocks of paper of all kinds, pots of inks and glues, packs of cardboard and thin sheets of leather. This was a dying art, I knew, and only a handful of craftsmen, mostly from Europe, still plied the trade. That Herman Harburg was one of those, I had no doubt, and the conviction was reinforced by the various pieces of equipment. They were old, built of iron, well-used but still serviceable—printing presses, guillotines, collators, stackers and binders.
    The walls were hung with examples of Herman Harburg’s work, covers, first sheets, spines, letters describing satisfaction with a difficult rebinding job, certificates and diplomas that were brown with age and curling at the corners.
    I called Harburg’s name again but still there was no response. I looked around more carefully and noticed a door set flush into one wall that I had not noticed before. I knocked without expectation of any reply. There was none. I tried the door and it was locked. A shelf nearby had several old iron tools on it and I moved one aside—sure enough, behind it was a key. It was the old-fashioned kind and so was the door lock. I tried it, it fitted and I went in.
    The small room was equipped like a draftsman’s office before they became computerized. Tilted drafting tables, bright spotlights, a glass-topped bench with lighting underneath, shelves with ink bottles and racks full of pens and engraving tools. A tiny electric furnace was in one corner and beside it were two ceramic crucibles in stands and a stack of small shiny metal ingots.
    I looked over the benches. Sheets of paper, some new but mostly old. Several books, all with different bindings, again some new and some old.
    Somewhere, a door banged. I hastily exited, locked the door and put the key back. I just had time to be standing, looking idle, when in came a figure.

CHAPTER TEN
    I RODE THE ST . Charles streetcar line back into town, my head buzzing with conflicting thoughts. I had had at the back of my mind the nasty idea that I might be about to find another body. Two in a row would be hard to explain, even to a cop as friendly as Lieutenant Patrick Delancey.
    It was Herman Harburg who had almost caught me in his inner sanctum. A small, frail man with wispy, gray hair who was probably close to eighty, he moved with a little difficulty, probably due to arthritis, but his mind was alert. He was none too pleased at my intrusion.
    “I go over to my neighbor’s and come back finding you in my workshop!”
    I apologized as profusely as I knew how, tossing in the names of Mrs. Gracewell and Mrs. Pargeter and referring to the charity book auction. I managed to convey the impression that I knew both ladies well and was closely connected with the auction committee. He was partly placated but I saw his eyes stray to the door to his other room. He seemed to be satisfied to see it still locked.
    I began to explain why I was there and he was shaking his head long before I had finished.
    “Bookbinding is my business. I get lotsa books—all kindsa people.” His words were German-accented, the softer German, probably of Bavaria. “Sometimes I look at names of books but not much. This time, I gotta lotta work. I didn’t look, just called Mrs. Pargeter to come get ’em.”
    “You might have noticed this book,” I told him. “I don’t know exactly what it looks like but