The Haunted Bookshop - Christopher Morley (spanish books to read TXT) 📗

had been tied down to the bookshop so long that a day’s excursion seemed too good to be true. He bought two cigars—an unusual luxury— and let the morning paper lie unheeded in his lap as the train drummed over the Hackensack marshes. He felt a good deal of pride in having been summoned to appraise the Oldham library. Mr. Oldham was a very distinguished collector, a wealthy Philadelphia merchant whose choice Johnson, Lamb, Keats, and Blake items were the envy of connoisseurs all over the world. Roger knew very well that there were many better-known dealers who would have jumped at the chance to examine the collection and pocket the appraiser’s fee. The word that Roger had had by long distance telephone was that Mr. Oldham had decided to sell his collection, and before putting it to auction desired the advices of an expert as to the prices his items should command in the present state of the market. And as Roger was not particularly conversant with current events in the world of rare books and manuscripts, he spent most of the trip in turning over some annotated catalogues of recent sales which Mr. Chapman had lent him. “This invitation,” he said to himself, “confirms what I have always said, that the artist, in any line of work, will eventually be recognized above the mere tradesman. Somehow or other Mr. Oldham has heard that I am not only a seller of old books but a lover of them. He prefers to have me go over his treasures with him, rather than one of those who peddle these things like so much tallow.”

Aubrey’s humour was far removed from that of the happy bookseller. In the first place, Roger was sitting in the smoker, and as Aubrey feared to enter the same car for fear of being observed, he had to do without his pipe. He took the foremost seat in the second coach, and peering occasionally through the glass doors he could see the bald poll of his quarry wreathed with exhalements of cheap havana. Secondly, he had hoped to see Weintraub on the same train, but though he had tarried at the train-gate until the last moment, the German had not appeared. He had concluded from Weintraub’s words the night before that druggist and bookseller were bound on a joint errand. Apparently he was mistaken. He bit his nails, glowered at the flying landscape, and revolved many grievous fancies in his prickling bosom. Among other discontents was the knowledge that he did not have enough money with him to pay his fare back to New York, and he would either have to borrow from someone in Philadelphia or wire to his office for funds. He had not anticipated, when setting out upon this series of adventures, that it would prove so costly.

The train drew into Broad Street station at ten o’clock, and Aubrey followed the bookseller through the bustling terminus and round the City Hall plaza. Mifflin seemed to know his way, but Philadelphia was comparatively strange to the Grey-Matter solicitor. He was quite surprised at the impressive vista of South Broad Street, and chagrined to find people jostling him on the crowded pavement as though they did not know he had just come from New York.

Roger turned in at a huge office building on Broad Street and took an express elevator. Aubrey did not dare follow him into the car, so he waited in the lobby. He learned from the starter that there was a second tier of elevators on the other side of the building, so he tipped a boy a quarter to watch them for him, describing Mifflin so accurately that he could not be missed. By this time Aubrey was in a thoroughly ill temper, and enjoyed quarrelling with the starter on the subject of indicators for showing the position of the elevators. Observing that in this building the indicators were glass tubes in which the movement of the car was traced by a rising or falling column of coloured fluid, Aubrey remarked testily that that old-fashioned stunt had long been abandoned in New York. The starter retorted that New York was only two hours away if he liked it better. This argument helped to fleet the time rapidly.

Meanwhile Roger, with the pleasurable sensation of one who expects to be received as a distinguished visitor from out of town, had entered the luxurious suite of Mr. Oldham. A young lady, rather too transparently shirtwaisted but fair to look upon, asked what she could do for him.

“I want to see Mr. Oldham.”

“What name shall I say?”

“Mr. Mifflin—Mr. Mifflin of Brooklyn.”

“Have you an appointment?”

“Yes.”

Roger sat down with agreeable anticipation. He noticed the shining mahogany of the office furniture, the sparkling green jar of drinking water, the hushed and efficient activity of the young ladies. “Philadelphia girls are amazingly comely,” he said to himself, “but none of these can hold a candle to Miss Titania.”

The young lady returned from the private office looking a little perplexed.

“Did you have an appointment with Mr. Oldham?” she said. “He doesn’t seem to recall it.”

“Why, certainly,” said Roger. “It was arranged by telephone on Saturday afternoon. Mr. Oldham’s secretary called me up.”

“Have I got your name right?” she asked, showing a slip on which she had written Mr. Miflin.

“Two f’s,” said Roger. “Mr. Roger Mifflin, the bookseller.”

The girl retired, and came back a moment later.

“Mr. Oldham’s very busy,” she said, “but he can see you for a moment.”

Roger was ushered into the private office, a large, airy room lined with bookshelves. Mr. Oldham, a tall, thin man with short gray hair and lively black eyes, rose courteously from his desk.

“How do you do, sir,” he said. “I’m sorry, I had forgotten our appointment.”

“He must be very absent minded,” thought Roger. “Arranges to sell a collection worth half a million, and forgets all about it.”

“I came over in response to your message,” he said. “About selling your collection.”

Mr. Oldham looked at him, rather intently, Roger thought.

“Do you want to buy it?” he said.

“To buy it?” said Roger, a little peevishly. “Why, no. I came over to appraise it for you. Your secretary telephoned me on Saturday.”

“My dear sir,” replied the other, “there must be some mistake. I have no intention of selling my collection. I never sent you a message.”

Roger was aghast.

“Why,” he exclaimed, “your secretary called me up on Saturday and said you particularly wanted me to come over this morning, to examine your books with you. I’ve made the trip from Brooklyn for that purpose.”

Mr. Oldham touched a buzzer, and a middle-aged woman came into the office. “Miss Patterson,” he said, “did you telephone to Mr. Mifflin of Brooklyn on Saturday, asking him–-”

“It was a man that telephoned,” said Roger.

“I’m exceedingly sorry, Mr. Mifflin,” said Mr. Oldham. “More sorry than I can tell you—I’m afraid someone has played a trick on you. As I told you, and Miss Patterson will bear me out, I have no idea of selling my books, and have never authorized any one even to suggest such a thing.”

Roger was filled with confusion and anger. A hoax on the part of some of the Corn Cob Club, he thought to himeslf. He flushed painfully to recall the simplicity of his glee.

“Please don’t be embarrassed,” said Mr. Oldham, seeing the little man’s vexation. “Don’t let’s consider the trip wasted. Won’t you come out and dine with me in the country this evening, and see my things?”

But Roger was too proud to accept this balm, courteous as it was.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “but I’m afraid I can’t do it. I’m rather busy at home, and only came over because I believed this to be urgent.”

“Some other time, perhaps,” said Mr. Oldham. “Look here, you’re a bookseller? I don’t believe I know your shop. Give me your card. The next time I’m in New York I’d like to stop in.”

Roger got away as quickly as the other’s politeness would let him. He chafed savagely at the awkwardness of his position. Not until he reached the street again did he breathe freely.

“Some of Jerry Gladfist’s tomfoolery, I’ll bet a hat,” he muttered. “By the bones of Fanny Kelly, I’ll make him smart for it.”

Even Aubrey, picking up the trail again, could see that Roger was angry.

“Something’s got his goat,” he reflected. “I wonder what he’s peeved about?”

They crossed Broad Street and Roger started off down Chestnut. Aubrey saw the bookseller halt in a doorway to light his pipe, and stopped some yards behind him to look up at the statue of William Penn on the City Hall. It was a blustery day, and at that moment a gust of wind whipped off his hat and sent it spinning down Broad Street. He ran half a block before he recaptured it. When he got back to Chestnut, Roger had disappeared. He hurried down Chestnut Street, bumping pedestrians in his eagerness, but at Thirteenth he halted in dismay. Nowhere could he see a sign of the little bookseller. He appealed to the policeman at that corner, but learned nothing. Vainly he scoured the block and up and down Juniper Street. It was eleven o’clock, and the streets were thronged.

He cursed the book business in both hemispheres, cursed himself, and cursed Philadelphia. Then he went into a tobacconist’s and bought a packet of cigarettes.

For an hour he patrolled up and down Chestnut Street, on both sides of the way, thinking he might possibly encounter Roger. At the end of this time he found himself in front of a newspaper office, and remembered that an old friend of his was an editorial writer on the staff. He entered, and went up in the elevator.

He found his friend in a small grimy den, surrounded by a sea of papers, smoking a pipe with his feet on the table. They greeted each other joyfully.

“Well, look who’s here!” cried the facetious journalist. “Tamburlaine the Great, and none other! What brings you to this distant outpost?”

Aubrey grinned at the use of his old college nickname.

“I’ve come to lunch with you, and borrow enough money to get home with.”

“On Monday?” cried the other. “Tuesday being the day of stipend in these quarters? Nay, say not so!”

They lunched together at a quiet Italian restaurant, and Aubrey narrated tersely the adventures of the past few days. The newspaper man smoked pensively when the story was concluded.

“I’d like to see the girl,” he said. “Tambo, your tale hath the ring of sincerity. It is full of sound and fury, but it signifieth something. You say your man is a second-hand bookseller?”

“Yes.”

“Then I know where you’ll find him.”

“Nonsense!”

“It’s worth trying. Go up to Leary’s, 9 South Ninth. It’s right on this street. I’ll show you.”

“Let’s go,” said Aubrey promptly.

“Not only that,” said the other, “but I’ll lend you my last V. Not for your sake, but on behalf of the girl. Just mention my name to her, will you?

“Right up the block,” he pointed as they reached Chestnut Street. “No, I won’t come with you, Wilson’s speaking to Congress to-day, and there’s big stuff coming over the wire. So long, old man. Invite me to the wedding!”

Aubrey had no idea what Leary’s was, and rather expected it to be a tavern of some sort. When he reached the place, however, he saw why his friend had suggested it as a likely lurking ground for Roger. It would be as impossible for any bibliophile to pass this famous second-hand bookstore as for a woman to go by a wedding party without trying to see the bride. Although it was a bleak day, and a snell wind blew down