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we call reading copies in the trade: old books to be sure, but old in itself means nothing. To a casual eye they might look valuable but to a bookseller their wholesale value was no more than ten dollars each.
    Now I came into the room and made a slow trek around it, my eyes skimming the spines on each shelf. Occasionally I gestured at a book and Willis nodded his permission to touch it; I took it off the shelf and opened the cover gently to the title page, looked at the copyright page and returned it immediately to its place. So far they were all juveniles and illustrated, mostly very fine first editions with occasional cheap reprints. I took out my notebook and scribbled some words—facts on the left of the rule, impressions on the right. I stopped at half a shelf of Helen Bannerman books— The Story of Little Black Quibba, Little Black Mingo, Little Black Bobtail, and others. Most were mid-range first editions but over the top of their market in such beautiful shape as these. They were gorgeous, flawless, perfect books, now nearly one hundred years old, almost sensual in their original bindings.
    Willis noticed my interest and said, “Tell me about those.”
    â€œThey’re beautiful. You’d have to go a long way to find any of these titles in such fresh condition. That freshness is the big factor. How many copies like this are available? You said Mr. Ritchey knew that great books seldom fall in value, but I wonder if he really understood the dynamic of what would happen in the future…today, for example, in the age of greed. If there are no others in this condition, there might as well be none at all. The value doubles and doubles again, year by year, on a far more impressive scale than any bank would pay you in interest. Forget auction records and price guides—a dealer can ask what he pleases. Mr. Ritchey was right, these kinds of books are among the best investments you can make.”
    â€œAnd there’s no question that they’re real.”
    â€œOh, they’re real, all right…except for the most valuable title. Your Little Black Sambo ’s a Chatto & Windus reprint from the 1930s.”
    â€œWhat does that mean?”
    I thought he knew full well what it meant but I told him. “It’s a very nice book, Mr. Willis, but it’s worth $50, more or less.”
    â€œAnd the original would be what?”
    â€œI’d be guessing.”
    â€œThen guess.”
    â€œIn the same kind of condition, which as I’ve said you just can’t find today, maybe twenty grand. These kids’ books were made for kids. They were often flimsily made and treated badly. They just didn’t hold up.”
    He let out a long breath. “Goddammit!” he whispered.
    â€œA real collector with deep pockets might pay two or even three times that,” I said. “There’s an old cliché in the book trade about the world’s best copy. I think almost any bookseller would say that about these books.”
    â€œGod damm it!” He slammed his way down into a chair.
    â€œSorry,” I said.
    â€œWhat about the ones that are left?”
    â€œDon’t hold me to the fire on this; I’d really have to look ’em up. But a ballpark figure for each might be in the thousand-, two-thousand range.”
    â€œSo he took the right one.”
    â€œLooks like it. Which means he knew what he was after.”
    I moved on. It was the same story on the Frank Baum shelves: Superb, lovely first editions with notable gaps. The Daring Twins was here; The Wonderful Wizard of Oz was gone, replaced with an early reprint, authentic-looking as hell on the face of it; The Life and Adventures of Santa Claus had been replaced with a 1902 later printing, actually worth fair money I thought, until I saw some silverfish damage hidden inside the backboard; The Flying Girl was real, in a gorgeous, untouched 1911 dust jacket, but The Road to Oz was missing. I made a