By John Dean
Most book dealers love their profession. Sometimes they come across rare and exciting books, and the dealers are usually happy knowing that they are going to make some serious collectors happy too.
Once in while a book or two disappear from the shelves – a book thief at work.
I can think of two cases involving theft when I had my bookshop in Glenferrie Road, Hawthorn, Melbourne.
Light Fingers Number One
In the 1990s I had eight or ten boxes of books outside the shop to catch the eye of passers-by. At 5.30 each afternoon, I began to bring the boxes inside. One afternoon a man moved quickly inside the shop and that puzzled me. He would have had about one minute to look at books.
I followed the man and found him trying to stuff a volume of CEW Bean’s set of World War I histories inside the front of his trousers. A very fat book which would have given a very impressive appearance. However . . .
‘Hey!,’ I said. ‘That is not hygienic.’
The man pulled the book out, placed it quickly on the shelf and with face averted, walked swiftly away and out of the shop.
I have often wondered if this man acquired that dreadful affliction, book worm, from Mr Bean. Being rather mean I like to think so.
Light Fingers Number Two
One afternoon, also in the 1990s, a young man of about 18 or 19 came into the shop. He had a large rucksack, from which he produced about 15 old books – a wonderful collection of cook books from the early 1700s, later 1700s, and 1800s. They included a first of Mrs Beeton and all were in good to fine condition. There was only one ‘ordinary’ book from the 1900s.
The youth said he wanted to sell the books. I asked him how he had acquired the collection. ‘My grandmother has died, and she left them to me,’ he said. I asked him for his name and address. He said he lived with his parents. Both name and address checked out with a Hawthorn address in the telephone directory. I had quite a bit of folding money, and I paid him several hundred dollars.
Those were the days when dealers could sell their purchases immediately, and not keep them for several days. One collector on my list was a lady who wanted only cook books. I rang her, offering her first look at the collection. She came in straight away and bought all but the 20th century book, which I put away in a steel cabinet.
Three or four days later a man I did not know came in and asked if I had any cook books. I took him to a shelf, and he looked for a minute or two, then left the shop.
Late on Saturday morning, when there were five or six people browsing, this man came back into the shop with a lady I presumed to be his wife. He was practically jumping up and down. ‘Did you buy a collection of old cook books this week?’ he thundered.
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘They are ours!’ he said. ‘Give them to us immediately!’
I explained that I had sold all but one.
‘Show me that one,’ he stormed. I should add that the five or six people already there were pretending not to listen.
I took the 20th century book out of the cabinet.
‘That is one of them!’ he screamed. ‘Get all the others back!’
I said that I had bought them all in good faith from a young man whose grandmother had died and left the books to him, and I had checked his address.
‘She is still alive!’ he shouted. ‘They are my wife’s books! You got them from our son!’
Now, if this had been quieter and more rational I believe I would have tried to get the books back from the lady who bought them, despite the damage to whatever reputation I had. However, he was convincing my customers that I was a buyer of stolen goods, and I didn’t like it.
‘I have a suggestion,’ I said. ‘Your son presumably is working. If not, tell him to get a job and pay your wife so that in a year she will have replaced all the books.
This went down like a lead balloon.
‘No! You get the books back!,’ he ordered. His wife was standing back and looked acutely embarrassed.
There was only one thing for it. I pulled the telephone towards me and lifted the receiver (no mobiles yet).
‘This is a matter for the police,’ I said. ‘I have bought stolen goods. The police will want to speak to your son.’
Well, that middle-aged man would have beaten Jesse Owens in the 1936 Berlin Olympics given his speed when leaving the shop; his embarrassed wife following more slowly.
I never heard from them again.
Did I do the right thing? I sometimes wonder.
(From Biblionews 416, December 2022, pp 149-150)