"Randolph Z. Quaid!"

"What's that, Mr. Anderson?" asked Clark Harrison, the assistant at Anderson's International Book Store on the Upper East Side of New York City. The lanky young man spoke from the top of a ladder. He was shelving volumes of European poetry near the ceiling of the dusty, rambling shop. He gently shoved aside the black cat that had been curled on one previously under-populated shelf. The cat good-naturedly jumped down and went to find a perch that was not in demand for yet more books.

"Randolph Z. Quaid!" Anderson sounded excited as he repeated the name in a slightly louder voice.

"I beg your pardon," said Harrison patiently after he had climbed down from the ladder. He looked over his boss's shoulder to find out what he was looking at on the store's front counter. "Who's Randolph Z. Quaid?"

"I have no idea," said the balding Anderson as he repositioned the wire-rimmed reading glasses on his nose and examined the books on the counter before him.

"You've lost me, Mr. Anderson," said Harrison to the boss for whom he had worked for over a year. The young assistant ran a hand through his long, straw-colored hair to rid himself of dust from the upper shelves.

"I never did find out who he actually was," said the store's proprietor in his calm, highly educated voice.

"Who who was?"

"Randolph Z. Quaid." Anderson sounded as if he thought his assistant had momentarily lost his mind.

"Please, sir, kindly explain," said Harrison, trying not to sound impatient or stupid. If he annoyed his boss, he might never get an answer.

"Oh, sorry, Harrison," said Anderson as he continued to examine each book in turn from the stack on the store's front counter. He continued avidly, "The money here on the counter – do you have any idea who left it or why?"

"What does that have to do with," Harrison started to ask. Then he stopped, knowing that there had to be a connection he wasn't seeing yet. Anderson was eccentric but not rude and certainly not stupid. "I didn't see anyone leave any money. I didn't sell anything while you were gone. There were only a couple of people in. Isn't there a note or a bill or anything with the cash?"

Anderson looked severely disappointed at this news. "Damn! There's nothing except the books stacked on the counter next to the cash – a selection of our own books that the person who left the money must have pulled from the shelves. The amount is twelve dollars and twenty-three cents. It was the exact amount of Quaid's last bill. The mail order went out two years ago last Thursday. It was never paid – until today."

Harrison was not at all surprised that his boss would remember such a number for so long. In fact, it was typical of the man. "How can you be sure it was this man Quaid, Mr. Anderson? There's no indication of who put the money there or why. I didn't see anyone leave it there. It can't be that rare a number, sir. You must have filled any number of orders for $12.23 worth of books over the years."

But Anderson was increasingly excited. "Probably. But this was the mysterious Randolph Z. Quaid, himself. It must be! What bad luck for me to return just minutes too late! Look at the books he chose: Bashforth's Ballistic Experiments from 1864 to 1880,the latest Hoyle on card games, Hamlet, Poe's Complete Stories and Poems, and Machiavelli's The Prince. An unlikely grouping of volumes, you must admit. Every one of these books was included in Quaid's orders over the years we did business – in fact it was in the very order in which they are now stacked that he ordered these titles, which were among his favorites. He could not have signed his name more plainly." Anderson caressed the leather-bound volumes with affection. The book store's proprietor turned again to his faithful assistant. "You're sure you didn't see who left the money?"

Harrison shook his head. "No, sir. But there were only a few customers in here this morning. And only one was in all those sections – a young man. I didn't see him leave any money . . . He was just looking at books. He was here for quite a while."

"You saw him?" Anderson's brown eyes sparkled with interest behind his glasses.

Harrison tried not to be too positive – it was obviously important to his boss that this be right. "Maybe, sir. I did see that man – and he did look at books on games, ballistics, drama – I can't be sure of all the sections. But I was in and out. I could have missed seeing someone else."

"Tell me about the man you saw. Tell me all about him. Everything you saw, heard." Anderson spoke more slowly, but with intensity. "Give me your best imitation of our friend Holmes."

Harrison smiled back at his fellow enthusiast of the new works by Arthur Conan Doyle. He spoke slowly as he thought back to capture all he could remember about a man to whom he had paid relatively little attention at the time. But he had watched the man – as he would watch anyone who was handling a lot of merchandise. "Well, he was a youngish man – maybe 30? No grey in his hair, although he had a start on crow's feet around his eyes. A good looking fellow. Long, brown, straight hair. Thin. A little under six feet. Brown eyes. He was wearing a dark suit, not expensive, but with no sign of wear. And over that, fully opened in the warmth of the shop, a heavy dark wool coat. It is cold out, for autumn."

"What about his hands?"

"His hands?" Harrison looked at his own, long, slender hands.

"His hands! They can tell so much about a man."

Harrison nodded and suppressed a smile at his peculiar boss. "True, sir. Very neat hands, as a matter of fact. I noticed them because he was handling books. But once I saw how he careful he was with the volumes, I felt no anxiety that he would damage them. His hands were clean with no visible callouses. He had short, clean nails. He had a pair of well-worn black leather gloves tucked into his belt."

"Did you see him inspecting any of the books on the counter?"

Harrison thought for a moment, running his fingers through his long, blonde hair. "Yes, I saw him looking with great interest at new additions of Shakespeare. He looked particularly at Hamlet, as it happens. The same edition that is on the counter."

Anderson was excited again. "Surely the same man!"

"Yes. He must have been." Harrison, too, was starting to get interested in this mysterious man.

Anderson looked intently over his reading glasses as his assistant. "Anything further? Did you hear him speak? Any accent?"

"No, he didn't say a word. I came down and offered to help him, but he waved me off and shook his head. Then I went in the back to get the books I was just shelving. I was gone for maybe ten minutes. I guess he left while I was gone. You missed him by maybe five minutes."

"Goodness! So close to a man I always knew from a great distance!"

"So you did mail order business with this Quaid?"

Anderson looked thoughtful as he exercised his strangely precise memory. "Yes, Harrison, between 1878 and the autumn of 1883. We had quite the correspondence – far more than simple book orders."

"But then you must know a lot about him. Like his address."

"On the contrary, Harrison. Much as we wrote back and forth and many books as he ordered, he remained a cipher. The books were delivered to an address in Cheyenne Wyoming. It proved to be a warehouse. The books were, I was told, picked up by a different person every time. Sometimes the people sounded pretty colorful – cowboys, a bartender, a Chinaman, a drunken preacher. The man at the warehouse never knew who it would be. Quaid always paid by postal money order on an amount he had paid in cash – totally untraceable. The book orders were apparently taken some distance away. His letters in reply were never dated closer than about a week after the orders were delivered to the warehouse. He could have been anywhere in Wyoming or Montana. But sometimes there was a gap of weeks or months between his letters. He would make excuses for his slow replies. He said he often had to travel without warning. But he did always reply – until that last order in October 1883. As I said, two years ago last Thursday. It was never picked up, never paid for."

"How intriguing. And worrying. He hadn't paid you!"

"Oh, that was nothing. I missed him. I still do. He had become a sort of student of mine, you might say. Certainly a friend. And yet, I never met him. And I could find no third party anywhere who had ever heard of him."

"Really? Tell me about your friend. To have caught your attention that way – he must have been – unusual."

"Oh, yes. At first he just ordered a book. It was on mathematics or ballistics or some such technical thing, I recall. The first few orders were like that. Just pure business – not even gracefully stated and with no added words. And written in appallingly bad handwriting with poor English. But then, he wrote and asked, rather hesitantly, if I might advise him on some literature. At first his handwriting was very poor, and his spelling and grammar were not good at all. He admitted to having little education. But he wanted to learn. And he did – oh how he did! I pointed him to Shakespeare. He was ecstatic over Hamlet as if it had just been published! And he was in transports over Henry IV and V. He loved history, fact or fiction. With the works he requested on money and book keeping, I assumed he was a businessman of some kind – maybe a rancher or fur trader. The books on ballistics and explosives had me thinking he was a miner."

"Interesting," commented Harrison, turning over the problem in his head.

"I guessed that Machiavelli might appeal to him – it turned out to be a favorite that he often quoted back to me in letters. As he read the books I sent him, I could see his grammar and spelling improving. Especially after he bought a dictionary. He was building quite a varied and interesting library. Yes, his questions and comments become more and more sophisticated. He was certainly highly intelligent. Not that his handwriting ever improved. And his grammar and spelling never got to a very high standard. He had a long way to go. He was self-conscious about it – always apologetic. Always grateful for my help. It seemed so evident that, given time, he would become a formidable man. In some ways, he already was."

Harrison was becoming nearly as intrigued by the mysterious Mr. Quaid as his boss was. "Did he say how he made his living? He must have made good money if he could afford such a good library."

"Yes, I suppose so. But when I asked him anything about where he was from or where he lived or how he made his living, he was evasive. He said he had done a variety of things. He implied that he lived far from town and that he travelled a great deal around the West. And now and then he would tell colorful stories about poker games or strange Western characters he encountered. I remember once his handwriting even got worse – he admitted to having fallen off of his horse and hurt himself. I always wondered if it might be something actually more violent than that. I had the feeling he could be dangerous, when roused. He certainly knew ballistics, and not only in a theoretical way. If a book made a mistake in the area, he could spot it effortlessly. And he found books by eastern authors about the West very amusing for their many inadvertent errors." Anderson chuckled in memory.

"What's so funny?"

"Oh, Quaid had quite the sense of humor. He made wonderful jokes. I recall his comparing some lame western outlaw who tried to rob him to the character of Pistol in Shakespeare. He loved the idea of a man named for a gun. But then, there was that last order – never picked up, never paid for."

"What happened?" asked Harrison.

"I don't know. There was no explanation. I tried very hard, for many months, to figure it out. I asked my agents, my fellow book dealers, the local warehouse man, my customers. I questioned Wyoming and Montana bankers with which a businessman such as Mr. Quaid would have had to have done business. I even contacted local law enforcement in case he had met with a violent end. But no one had any evidence of a Mr. Quaid leaving Wyoming or dying or going out of business. It was as if he had vanished off the face of the earth. In fact, it was very much as if he had never existed in the first place. I could find no evidence, other than my own correspondence and the name on his post office box in Cheyenne, that any Randolph Z. Quaid had ever existed. I was very upset to have him vanish."

"If he exists. Did if ever occur to you that the reason you weren't able to find Quaid might have been that he was using an alias?"

"Yes, I it did occur to me. But why would a book buyer need an alias? Could he be a rich recluse, a celebrity of some kind, a notorious criminal? I thought of them all. But all the possibilities seemed so unlikely. So fantastical. I gave it up and stopped looking for him. Until now. I wonder what on earth could have brought him to New York at last. He always said that he wanted to visit. He wouldn't explain why he couldn't do so. He surely had the funds."

Anderson stopped and studied the pile of books on the counter.

"Harrison, I forgot to ask the most important thing. How did he look? I mean, the emotion in his face, his gestures. What was his expression like?"

Harrison looked quizzically at his boss, wondering at the question. "At first, I thought he was excited, maybe even nervous. But then, I would say, meditative, wistful as he looked from book to book. And terribly embarrassed when I came up and tried to help him. I asked him what I could for him and he wouldn't say a word."

"Silent? And embarrassed? I wonder . . . If that man ever returns you must find me and bring me. And don't let him leave before I meet him! I don't care what I'm doing! I must meet him. That has to be Quaid. I'd bet – well, I'd bet $12.23 on it. Randolph Z. Quaid. I wonder . . . "

"What do you wonder?"

"Many things. But try to remember – did you see evidence of any injuries? A limp? Any kind of wound – especially to the head?"

"Oh my goodness, I almost forget. Yes! He pushed his long hair back from his face and I caught a glimpse of a long, diagonal scar on his left temple. It looked severe and fairly recent."

"I knew it!" Anderson said in triumph.

"How did you know it, boss?" Harrison was dumbfounded.

"I'd better not say. One day, I hope we will have all of our questions answered. Perhaps the mysterious Mr. Quaid may return and answer them – if he can. Our man from the West has a special errand in this town, I feel sure of it. And I might just know what it is."

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Three weeks later, Dr. Leutze, of Leutze's Clinic for Aphasia Patients, was in Anderson's International Book Store. He was, as usual, keeping an eye on the latest medical publications as well as a range of other literature. Mr. Anderson hurried up to his old friend and faithful customer. "Doctor," he said eagerly, "this is taking a chance – but do you happen to have a new patient who could have been here – and who answers this description: about 30 years old, brown hair, brown eyes, thin, a little under six feet? A man wounded in the head and unable to speak? Who came from the West? Does that sound familiar?"

Leutze bristled. "Anderson, you know I can't discuss my patients! Their privacy is vital."

"In other words, yes, you do have such a man there. Otherwise you'd just say no. Is he from Wyoming? Or Montana? Come now, we've known each other for ten years or more. You know I would never endanger one of your patients!"

Anderson watched the doctor's eyes – knowing they would tell him more than his words. He wasn't sure about the response – there was no shock of recognition in Leutze's sensitive blue eyes, but a frantic anger. "I can't discuss my patients, Anderson!"

Anderson tried to calm the doctor, "I don't want to violate the man's privacy. I just want to know his name. And to have you ask him to come back here and . . . talk with me."

Leutze laughed bitterly. "Very funny, Anderson. If I had such a man as a patient – if I did – why would he be at my clinic? Because, as you said, he couldn't talk! So no, there's no one I could ask to come talk to you. And I surely won't tell you any names."

"His name isn't Quaid, is it?"

Again, there was no sign of recognition in the doctor's eyes. "On my honor, I have no patient by that name. And if you keep bothering me about it, you will lose a customer. And I'll tell my patients never to come here."

"Alright, alright. I promise, on my honor, not to visit your place in search of him. But at least let me tell you about why I'm asking the question . . ."

Leutze pretended not to be interested. But as he listened to Anderson's strange tale, he started to realize how very interested he was in the past of someone with quite a different name than Quaid. In fact, with two different names. The doctor gave no hints to Anderson of what he already knew about the man's storied past. The doctor wondered how many names his patient had used – his patient who could not now say any of those names. He was afraid that he would be forced to tell his patient never to return to that particular book store. Or at least, not until or unless his legal status changed completely.