You utter idiot," said Roger, half an hour later. "Why
didn't you
tell me all this sooner? Good Lord, man, there's some
devil's work
going on!"
"How the deuce was I to know you knew nothing about it?"
said Aubrey impatiently. "You'll grant everything pointed
against you?
When I saw that guy go into the shop with his own key,
what could I
think but that you were in league with him? Gracious,
man, are you
so befuddled in your old books that you don't see what's
going on
round you?"
"What time did you say that was?" said Roger shortly.
"One o'clock Sunday morning."
Roger thought a minute. "Yes, I was in the cellar with
Bock,"
he said. "Bock barked, and I thought it was rats. That
fellow
must have taken an impression of the lock and made himself
a key.
He's been in the shop hundreds of times, and could easily
do it.
That explains the disappearing Cromwell. But WHY?
What's the idea?"
"For the love of heaven," said Aubrey. "Let's get back
to Brooklyn
as soon as we can. God only knows what may have happened.
Fool that I was, to go away and leave those women all
alone.
Triple-distilled lunacy!"
"My dear fellow," said Roger, "I was the fool to be lured
off
by a fake telephone call. Judging by what you say, Weintraub
must
have worked that also."
Aubrey looked at his watch. "Just after three," he said.
"We can't get a train till four," said Roger. "That means
we can't
get back to Gissing Street until nearly seven."
"Call them up," said Aubrey.
They were still in the private office at the rear of Leary's.
Roger was
well-known in the shop, and had no hesitation in using
the telephone.
He lifted the receiver.
"Long Distance, please," he said. "Hullo? I want to get
Brooklyn,
Wordsworth 1617-W."
They spent a sour twenty-five minutes waiting for the
connection.
Roger went out to talk with Warner, while Aubrey fumed
in the back office.
He could not sit still, and paced the little room in a
fidget
of impatience, tearing his watch out of his pocket every
few minutes.
He felt dull and sick with vague fear. To his mind recurred
the spiteful buzz of that voice over the wire--"Gissing
Street
is not healthy for you." He remembered the scuffle on
the Bridge,
the whispering in the alley, and the sinister face of
the druggist
at his prescription counter. The whole series of events
seemed a grossly fantastic nightmare, yet it frightened
him.
"If only I were in Brooklyn," he groaned, "it wouldn't
be so bad.
But to be over here, a hundred miles away, in another
cursed bookshop,
while that girl may be in trouble--Gosh!" he muttered.
"If I get
through this business all right I'll lay off bookshops
for the rest of
my life!"
The telephone rang, and Aubrey frantically beckoned to
Roger,
who was outside, talking.
"Answer it, you chump!" said Roger. "We'll lose the connection!"
"Nix," said Aubrey. "If Titania hears my voice she'll
ring off.
She's sore at me."
Roger ran to the instrument. "Hullo, hullo?" he said,
irritably.
"Hullo, is that Wordsworth----? Yes, I'm calling Brooklyn--Hullo!"
Aubrey, leaning over Roger's shoulder, could hear a clucking
in
the receiver, and then, incredibly clear, a thin, silver,
distant voice.
How well he knew it! It seemed to vibrate in the air
all about him.
He could hear every syllable distinctly. A hot perspiration
burst out
on his forehead and in the palms of his hands.
"Hullo," said Roger. "Is that Mifflin's Bookshop?"
"Yes," said Titania. "Is that you, Mr. Mifflin? Where
are you?"
"In Philadelphia," said Roger. "Tell me, is everything
all right?"
"Everything's dandy," said Titania. "I'm selling loads
of books.
Mrs. Mifflin's gone out to do some shopping."
Aubrey shook to hear the tiny, airy voice, like a trill
of birdsong,
like a tinkling from some distant star. He could imagine
her standing
at the phone in the back of the shadowy bookshop, and
seemed to see her
as though through an inverted telescope, very minute
and very perfect.
How brave and exquisite she was!
"When are you coming home?" she was saying.
"About seven o'clock," said Roger. "Listen, is everything
absolutely
O. K.?"
"Why, yes," said Titania. "I've been having lots of fun.
I went down just now and put some coal on the furnace.
Oh, yes.
Mr. Weintraub came in a little while ago and left a suitcase
of books.
He said you wouldn't mind. A friend of his is going to
call for them
this afternoon."
"Hold the wire a moment," said Roger, and clapped his
hand over
the mouthpiece. "She says Weintraub left a suitcase of
books
there to be called for. What do you make of that?"
"For the love of God, tell her not to touch those books."
"Hullo?" said Roger. Aubrey, leaning over him, noticed
that
the little bookseller's naked pate was ringed with crystal
beads.
"Hullo?" replied Titania's elfin voice promptly.
"Did you open the suitcase?"
"No. It's locked. Mr. Weintraub said there were a lot
of old books
in it for a friend of his. It's very heavy."
"Look here," said Roger, and his voice rang sharply. "This
is important.
I don't want you to touch that suitcase. Leave it wherever
it is,
and DON'T TOUCH IT. Promise me."
"Yes, Mr. Mifflin. Had I better put it in a safe place?"
"DON'T TOUCH IT!"
"Bock's sniffing at it now."
"Don't touch it, and don't let Bock touch it. It--it's
got valuable
papers in it."
"I'll be careful of it," said Titania.
"Promise me not to touch it. And another thing--if any
one calls
for it, don't let them take it until I get home."
Aubrey held out his watch in front of Roger. The latter
nodded.
"Do you understand?" he said. "Do you hear me all right?"
"Yes, splendidly. I think it's wonderful! You know I never
talked
on long distance before----"
"Don't touch the bag," repeated Roger doggedly, "and don't
let
any one take it until we--until I get back."
"I promise," said Titania blithely.
"Good-bye," said Roger, and set down the receiver. His
face looked
curiously pinched, and there was perspiration in the
hollows
under his eyes. Aubrey held out his watch impatiently.
"We've just time to make it," cried Roger, and they rushed
from
the shop.
It was not a sprightly journey. The train made its accustomed
detour
through West Philadelphia and North Philadelphia before
getting
down to business, and the two voyagers felt a personal
hatred of
the brakemen who permitted passengers from these suburbs
to straggle
leisurely aboard instead of flogging them in with knotted
whips.
When the express stopped at Trenton, Aubrey could easily
have turned
a howitzer upon that innocent city and blasted it into
rubble.
An unexpected stop at Princeton Junction was the last
straw.
Aubrey addressed the conductor in terms that were highly
treasonable,
considering that this official was a government servant.
The winter twilight drew in, gray and dreary, with a threat
of snow.
For some time they sat in silence, Roger buried in a
Philadelphia
afternoon paper containing the text of the President's
speech
announcing his trip to Europe, and Aubrey gloomily recapitulating
the schedule of his past week. His head throbbed, his
hands were wet
with nervousness so that crumbs of tobacco adhered to
them annoyingly.
"It's a funny thing," he said at last. "You know I never
heard of your
shop until a week ago to-day, and now it seems like the
most important
place on earth. It was only last Tuesday that we had
supper together,
and since then I've had my scalp laid open twice, had
a desperado lie
in wait for me in my own bedroom, spent two night vigils
on Gissing Street, and endangered the biggest advertising account our agency
handles. I don't wonder you call the place haunted!"
"I suppose it would all make good advertising copy?" said
Roger peevishly.
"Well, I don't know" said Aubrey. "It's a bit too rough,
I'm afraid.
How do you dope it out?"
"I don't know what to think. Weintraub has run that drug
store for twenty
years or more. Years ago, before I ever got into the
book business,
I used to know his shop. He was always rather interested
in books,
especially scientific books, and we got quite friendly
when I
opened up on Gissing Street. I never fell for his face
very hard,
but he always seemed quiet and well-disposed. It sounds
to me like
some kind of trade in illicit drugs, or German incendiary
bombs.
You know what a lot of fires there were during the war--those
big grain
elevators in Brooklyn, and so on."
"I thought at first it was a kidnapping stunt," said Aubrey.
"I thought you had got Miss Chapman planted in your shop
so that these
other guys could smuggle her away."
"You seem to have done me the honour of thinking me a
very
complete rascal," said Roger.
Aubrey's lips trembled with irritable retort, but he checked
himself heroically.
"What was your particular interest in the Cromwell book?"
he asked after a pause.
"Oh, I read somewhere--two or three years ago--that it
was
one of Woodrow Wilson's favourite books. That interested
me,
and I looked it up."
"By the way," cried Aubrey excitedly, "I forgot to show
you
those numbers that were written in the cover." He pulled
out his memorandum book, and showed the transcript he
had made.
"Well, one of these is perfectly understandable," said
Roger.
"Here, where it says 329 ff. cf. W. W. That simply means
`pages
329 and following, compare Woodrow Wilson.' I remember
jotting
that down not long ago, because that passage in the book
reminded
me of some of Wilson's ideas. I generally note down in
the back
of a book the numbers of any pages that interest me specially.
These other page numbers convey nothing unless I had
the book
before me."
"The first bunch of numbers was in your handwriting, then;
but underneath were these others, in Weintraub's--or at any rate in his
ink.
When I saw that he was jotting down what I took to be
code stuff
in the backs of your books I naturally assumed you and
he were
working together----"
"And you found the cover in his drug store?"
"Yes."
Roger scowled. "I don't make it out," he said. "Well,
there's nothing
we can do till we get there. Do you want to look at the
paper?
There's the text of Wilson's speech to Congress this
morning."
Aubrey shook his head dismally, and leaned his hot forehead
against the pane. Neither of them spoke again until they
reached
Manhattan Transfer, where they changed for the Hudson
Terminal.
It was seven o'clock when they hurried out of the subway
terminus
at Atlantic Avenue. It was a raw, damp evening, but the
streets
had already begun to bustle with their nightly exuberance
of light
and colour. The yellow glitter of a pawnshop window reminded
Aubrey
of the small revolver in his pocket. As they passed a
dark alley,
he stepped aside to load the weapon.
"Have you anything of this sort with you?" he said, showing
it
to Roger.
"Good Lord, no," said the bookseller. "What do you think
I am,
a moving-picture hero?"
Down Gissing Street the younger man set so rapid a pace
that
his companion had to trot to keep abreast. The placid
vista
of the little street was reassuring. Under the glowing
effusion
of the shop windows the pavement was a path of checkered
brightness.
In Weintraub's pharmacy they could see the pasty-faced
assistant
in his stained white coat serving a beaker of hot chocolate.
In the stationer's shop people were looking over trays
of Christmas cards.
In the Milwaukee Lunch Aubrey saw (and envied) a sturdy
citizen
peacefully dipping a doughnut into a cup of coffee.
"This all seems very unreal," said Roger.
As they neared the bookshop, Aubrey's heart gave a jerk
of apprehension.
The blinds in the front windows had been drawn down.
A dull shining
came through them, showing that the lights were turned
on inside.
But why should the shades be lowered with closing time
three
hours away?
They reached the front door, and Aubrey was about to seize
the handle
when Roger halted him.
"Wait a moment," he said. "Let's go in quietly. There
may be
something queer going on."
Aubrey turned the knob gently. The door was locked.
Roger pulled out his latchkey and cautiously released
the bolt.
Then he opened the door slightly--about an inch.
"You're taller than I am," he whispered. "Reach up and
muffle
the bell above the door while I open it."
Aubrey thrust three fingers through the aperture and blocked
the trigger of the gong. Then Roger pushed the door wide,
and they tiptoed in.
The shop was empty, and apparently normal. They stood
for an instant
with pounding pulses.
From the back of the house came a clear voice, a little
tremulous:
"You can do what you like, I shan't tell you where it
is.
Mr. Mifflin said----"
There followed the bang of a falling chair, and a sound
of rapid movement.
Aubrey was down the aisle in a flash, followed by Roger,
who had delayed just long enough to close the door. He
tiptoed up
the steps at the back of the shop and looked into the
dining room.
At the instant his eyes took in the scene it seemed as
though the whole
room was in motion.
The cloth was spread for supper and shone white under
the drop lamp.
In the far corner of the room Titania was struggling
in the grasp
of a bearded man whom Aubrey instantly recognized as
the chef.
On the near side of the table, holding a revolver levelled
at the girl, stood Weintraub. His back was toward the
door.
Aubrey could see the druggist's sullen jaw crease and
shake
with anger.
Two strides took him into the room. He jammed the muzzle
of his pistol
against the oily cheek. "Drop it!" he said hoarsely.
"You Hun!"
With his left hand he seized the man's shirt collar and
drew it tight
against the throat. In his tremor of rage and excitement
his arms
felt curiously weak, and his first thought was how impossible
it would
be to strangle that swinish neck.
For an instant there was a breathless tableau. The bearded
man still had
his hands on Titania's shoulders. She, very pale but
with brilliant eyes,
gazed at Aubrey in unbelieving amazement. Weintraub stood
quite
motionless with both hands on the dining table, as though
thinking.
He felt the cold bruise of metal against the hollow of
his cheek.
Slowly he opened his right hand and his revolver fell
on the linen cloth.
Then Roger burst into the room.
Titania wrenched herself away from the chef.
"I wouldn't give them the suitcase!" she cried.
Aubrey kept his pistol pinned against Weintraub's face.
With his left hand he picked up the druggist's revolver.
Roger was about to seize the chef, who was standing uncertainly
on
the other side of the table.
"Here," said Aubrey, "take this gun. Cover this fellow
and leave
that one to me. I've got a score to settle with him."
The chef made a movement as though to jump through the
window
behind him, but Aubrey flung himself upon him. He hit
the man
square on the nose and felt a delicious throb of satisfaction
as the rubbery flesh flattened beneath his knuckles.
He seized the man's hairy throat and sank his fingers
into it.
The other tried to snatch the bread knife on the table,
but was too late.
He fell to the floor, and Aubrey throttled him savagely.
"You blasted Hun," he grunted. "Go wrestling with girls,
will you?"
Titania ran from the room, through the pantry.
Roger was holding Weintraub's revolver in front of the
German's face.
"Look here," he said, "what does this mean?"
"It's all a mistake," said the druggist suavely, though
his eyes
slid uneasily to and fro. "I just came in to get some
books I left
here earlier in the afternoon."
"With a revolver, eh?" said Roger. "Speak up, Hindenburg,
what's the big idea?"
"It's not my revolver," said Weintraub. "It's Metzger's."
"Where's this suitcase of yours?" said Roger. "We're going
to have a look at it."
"It's all a stupid mistake," said Weintraub. "I left a
suitcase
of old books here for Metzger, because I expected to
go out of town
this afternoon. He called for it, and your young woman
wouldn't
give it to him. He came to me, and I came down here to
tell her it
was all right."
"Is that Metzger?" said Roger, pointing to the bearded
man who was
trying to break Aubrey's grip. "Gilbert, don't choke
that man,
we want him to do some explaining."
Aubrey got up, picked his revolver from the floor where
he had
dropped it, and prodded the chef to his feet.
"Well, you swine," he said, "how did you enjoy falling
downstairs
the other evening? As for you, Herr Weintraub, I'd like
to know
what kind of prescriptions you make up in that cellar
of yours."
Weintraub's face shone damply in the lamplight. Perspiration
was
thick on his forehead.
"My dear Mifflin," he said, "this is awfully stupid. In
my eagerness,
I'm afraid----"
Titania ran back into the room, followed by Helen, whose
face
was crimson.
"Thank God you're back, Roger," she said. "These brutes
tied me up
in the kitchen and gagged me with a roller-towel. They
threatened
to shoot Titania if she wouldn't give them the suitcase."
Weintraub began to say something, but Roger thrust the
revolver
between his eyes.
"Hold your tongue!" he said. "We're going to have a look
at those books of yours."
"I'll get the suitcase," said Titania. "I hid it. When
Mr. Weintraub
came in and asked for it, at first I was going to give
it to him,
but he looked so queer I thought something must be wrong."
"Don't you get it," said Aubrey, and their eyes met for
the first time.
"Show me where it is, and we'll let friend Hun bring
it."
Titania flushed a little. "It's in my bedroom cupboard,"
she said.
She led the way upstairs, Metzger following, and Aubrey
behind Metzger
with his pistol ready. Outside the bedroom door Aubrey
halted.
"Show him the suitcase and let him pick it up," he said.
"If he makes a wrong movement, call me, and I'll shoot
him."
Titania pointed out the suitcase, which she had stowed
at the back
of her cupboard behind some clothes. The chef showed
no insubordination,and the three returned downstairs.
"Very well," said Roger. "We'll go down in the shop where
we can
see better. Perhaps he's got a first folio Shakespeare
in here.
Helen, you go to the phone and ring up the McFee Street
police station.
Ask them to send a couple of men round here at once."
"My dear Mifflin," said Weintraub, "this is very absurd.
Only a few old books that I had collected from time to
time."
"I don't call it absurd when a man comes into my house
and ties my wife
up with clothesline and threatens to shoot a young girl,"
said Roger.
"We'll see what the police have to say about this, Weintraub.
Don't make any mistake: if you try to bolt I'll blow
your brains out."
Aubrey led the way down into the shop while Metzger carried
the suitcase. Roger and Weintraub followed, and Titania brought up the
rear.
Under a bright light in the Essay alcove Aubrey made the
chef lay
the bag on the table.
"Open her up," he said curtly.
"It's nothing but some old books," said Metzger.
"If they're old enough they may be valuable," said Roger.
"I'm interested in old books. Look sharp!"
Metzger drew a key from his pocket and unlocked the bag.
Aubrey held the pistol at his head as he threw back the
lid.
The suitcase was full of second-hand books closely packed
together.
Roger, with great presence of mind, was keeping his eyes
on Weintraub.
"Tell me what's in it," he said.
"Why, it's only a lot of books, after all, " cried Titania.
"You see," said Weintraub surlily, "there's no mystery
about it.
I'm sorry I was so----"
"Oh, look!" said Titania; "There's the Cromwell book!"
For an instant Roger forgot himself. He looked instinctively
at the suitcase, and in that moment the druggist broke
away,
ran down the aisle, and flew out of the door. Roger dashed
after him,
but was too late. Aubrey was holding Metzger by the collar
with the pistol at his head.
"Good God," he said, "why didn't you shoot?"
"I don't know" said Roger in confusion. "I was afraid
of hitting him.
Never mind, we can fix him later."
"The police will be here in a minute," said Helen, calling
from
the telephone. "I'm going to let Bock in. He's in the
back yard."
"I think they're both crazy," said Titania. "Let's put
the Cromwell
back on the shelf and let this creature go." She put
out her hand
for the book.
"Stop!" cried Aubrey, and seized her arm. "Don't touch
that book!"
Titania shrank back, frightened by his voice. Had everyone
gone insane?
"Here, Mr. Metzger," said Aubrey, "you put that book back
on the shelf where it belongs. Don't try to get away.
I've got this revolver pointed at you."
He and Roger were both startled by the chef's face.
Above the unkempt beard his eyes shone with a half-crazed
lustre,
and his hands shook.
"Very well," he said. "Show me where it goes."
"I'll show you," said Titania.
Aubrey put out his arm in front of the girl. "Stay where
you are,"
he said angrily.
"Down in the History alcove," said Roger. "The front alcove
on the other side of the shop. We've both got you covered."
Instead of taking the volume from the suitcase, Metzger
picked
up the whole bag, holding it flat. He carried it to the
alcove
they indicated. He placed the case carefully on the floor,
and picked the Cromwell volume out of it.
"Where would you want it to go?" he said in an odd voice.
"This is a valuable book."
"On the fifth shelf," said Roger. "Over there----"
"For God's sake stand back," said Aubrey. "Don't go near
him.
There's something damnable about this."
"You poor fools!" cried Metzger harshly. "To hell with
you
and your old books." He drew his hand back as though
to throw
the volume at them.
There was a quick patter of feet, and Bock, growling,
ran down the aisle.
In the same instant, Aubrey, obeying some unexplained
impulse,
gave Roger a violent push back into the Fiction alcove,
seized Titania
roughly in his arms, and ran with her toward the back
of the shop.
Metzger's arm was raised, about to throw the book, when
Bock darted
at him and buried his teeth in the man's leg. The Cromwell
fell
from his hand.
There was a shattering explosion, a dull roar, and for
an instant
Aubrey thought the whole bookshop had turned into a vast
spinning top.
The floor rocked and sagged, shelves of books were hurled
in
every direction. Carrying Titania, he had just reached
the steps
leading to the domestic quarters when they were flung
sideways into
the corner behind Roger's desk. The air was full of flying
books.
A row of encyclopedias crashed down upon his shoulders,
narrowly missing Titania's head. The front windows were
shivered
into flying streamers of broken glass. The table near
the door
was hurled into the opposite gallery. With a splintering
crash
the corner of the gallery above the History alcove collapsed,
and hundreds of volumes cascaded heavily on to the floor.
The lights went out, and for an instant all was silence.
"Are you all right?" said Aubrey hastily. He and Titania
had fallen
sprawling against the bookseller's desk.
"I think so," she said faintly. "Where's Mr. Mifflin?"
Aubrey put out his hand to help her, and touched something
wet
on the floor. "Good heavens," he thought. "She's dying!"
He struggled to his feet in the darkness. "Hullo, Mr.
Mifflin,"
he called, "where are you?"
There was no answer.
A beam of light gushed out from the passageway behind
the shop,
and picking his way over fallen litter he found Mrs.
Mifflin standing
dazed by the dining-room door. In the back of the house
the lights
were still burning.
"For heaven's sake, have you a candle?" he said.
"Where's Roger?" she cried piteously, and stumbled into
the kitchen.
With a candle Aubrey found Titania sitting on the floor,
very faint,
but unhurt. What he had thought was blood proved to be
a pool
of ink from a quart bottle that had stood over Roger's
desk.
He picked her up like a child and carried her into the
kitchen.
"Stay here and don't stir," he said.
By this time a crowd was already gathering on the pavement.
Someone came in with a lantern. Three policemen appeared
at
the door.
"For God's sake," cried Aubrey, "get a light in here so
we can
see what's happened. Mifflin's buried in this mess somewhere.
Someone ring for an ambulance."
The whole front of the Haunted Bookshop was a wreck.
In the pale glimmer of the lantern it was a disastrous
sight.
Helen groped her way down the shattered aisle.
"Where was he?" she cried wildly.
"Thanks to that set of Trollope," said a voice in the
remains
of the Fiction alcove, "I think I'm all right. Books
make
good shock-absorbers. Is any one hurt?"
It was Roger, half stunned, but undamaged. He crawled
out from
under a case of shelves that had crumpled down upon him.
"Bring that lantern over here," said Aubrey, pointing
to a dark
heap lying on the floor under the broken fragments of
Roger's
bulletin board.
It was the chef. He was dead. And clinging to his leg
was all
that was left of Bock. |
