The Haunted Bookshop - Christopher Morley (spanish books to read TXT) 📗
- Author: Christopher Morley
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He entered eagerly, and looked about. The shop was comfortably busy, with a number of people browsing. They seemed normal enough from behind, but in their eyes he detected the wild, peering glitter of the bibliomaniac. Here and there stood members of the staff. Upon their features Aubrey discerned the placid and philosophic tranquillity which he associated with second-hand booksellers— all save Mifflin.
He paced through the narrow aisles, scanning the blissful throng of seekers. He went down to the educational department in the basement, up to the medical books in the gallery, even back to the sections of Drama and Pennsylvania History in the raised quarterdeck at the rear. There was no trace of Roger.
At a desk under the stairway he saw a lean, studious, and kindly-looking bibliosoph, who was poring over an immense catalogue. An idea struck him.
“Have you a copy of Carlyle’s Letters and Speeches of Oliver Cromwell?” he asked.
The other looked up.
“I’m afraid we haven’t,” he said. “Another gentleman was in here asking for it just a few minutes ago.”
“Good God!” cried Aubrey. “Did he get it?”
This emphasis brought no surprise to the bookseller, who was accustomed to the oddities of edition hunters.
“No,” he said. “We didn’t have a copy. We haven’t seen one for a long time.”
“Was he a little bald man with a red beard and bright blue eyes?” asked Aubrey hoarsely.
“Yes—Mr. Mifflin of Brooklyn. Do you know him?”
“I should say I do!” cried Aubrey. “Where has he gone? I’ve been hunting him all over town, the scoundrel!”
The bookseller, douce man, had seen too many eccentric customers to be shocked by the vehemence of his questioner.
“He was here a moment ago,” he said gently, and gazed with a mild interest upon the excited young advertising man. “I daresay you’ll find him just outside, in Ludlow Street.”
“Where’s that?”
The tall man—and I don’t see why I should scruple to name him, for it was Philip Warner—explained that Ludlow Street was the narrow alley that runs along one side of Leary’s and elbows at right angles behind the shop. Down the flank of the store, along this narrow little street, run shelves of books under a penthouse. It is here that Leary’s displays its stock of ragamuffin ten-centers— queer dingy volumes that call to the hearts of gentle questers. Along these historic shelves many troubled spirits have come as near happiness as they are like to get … for after all, happiness (as the mathematicians might say) lies on a curve, and we approach it only by asymptote… . The frequenters of this alley call themselves whimsically The Ludlow Street Business Men’s Association, and Charles Lamb or Eugene Field would have been proud to preside at their annual dinners, at which the members recount their happiest book-finds of the year.
Aubrey rushed out of the shop and looked down the alley. Half a dozen Ludlow Street Business Men were groping among the shelves. Then, down at the far end, his small face poked into an open volume, he saw Roger. He approached with a rapid stride.
“Well,” he said angrily, “here you are!”
Roger looked up from his book good-humouredly. Apparently, in the zeal of his favourite pastime, he had forgotten where he was.
“Hullo!” he said. “What are you doing in Brooklyn? Look here, here’s a copy of Tooke’s Pantheon–-”
“What’s the idea?” cried Aubrey harshly. “Are you trying to kid me? What are you and Weintraub framing up here in Philadelphia?”
Roger’s mind came back to Ludlow Street. He looked with some surprise at the flushed face of the young man, and put the book back in its place on the shelf, making a mental note of its location. His disappointment of the morning came back to him with some irritation.
“What are you talking about?” he said. “What the deuce business is it of yours?”
“I’ll make it my business,” said Aubrey, and shook his fist in the bookseller’s face. “I’ve been trailing you, you scoundrel, and I want to know what kind of a game you’re playing.”
A spot of red spread on Roger’s cheekbones. In spite of his apparent demureness he had a pugnacious spirit and a quick fist.
“By the bones of Charles Lamb!” he said. “Young man, your manners need mending. If you’re looking for display advertising, I’ll give you one on each eye.”
Aubrey had expected to find a cringing culprit, and this back talk infuriated him beyond control.
“You damned little bolshevik,” he said, “if you were my size I’d give you a hiding. You tell me what you and your pro-German pals are up to or I’ll put the police on you!”
Roger stiffened. His beard bristled, and his blue eyes glittered.
“You impudent dog,” he said quietly, “you come round the corner where these people can’t see us and I’ll give you some private tutoring.”
He led the way round the corner of the alley. In this narrow channel, between blank walls, they confronted each other.
“In the name of Gutenberg,” said Roger, calling upon his patron saint, “explain yourself or I’ll hit you.”
“Who’s he?” sneered Aubrey. “Another one of your Huns?”
That instant he received a smart blow on the chin, which would have been much harder but that Roger misgauged his footing on the uneven cobbles, and hardly reached the face of his opponent, who topped him by many inches.
Aubrey forgot his resolution not to hit a smaller man, and also calling upon his patron saints—the Associated Advertising Clubs of the World— he delivered a smashing slog which hit the bookseller in the chest and jolted him half across the alley.
Both men were furiously angry—Aubrey with the accumulated bitterness of several days’ anxiety and suspicion, and Roger with the quick-flaming indignation of a hot-tempered man unwarrantably outraged. Aubrey had the better of the encounter in height, weight, and more than twenty years juniority, but fortune played for the bookseller. Aubrey’s terrific punch sent the latter staggering across the alley onto the opposite curb. Aubrey followed him up with a rush, intending to crush the other with one fearful smite. But Roger, keeping cool, now had the advantage of position. Standing on the curb, he had a little the better in height. As Aubrey leaped at him, his face grim with hatred, Roger met him with a savage buffet on the jaw. Aubrey’s foot struck against the curb, and he fell backward onto the stones. His head crashed violently on the cobbles, and the old cut on his scalp broke out afresh. Dazed and shaken, there was, for the moment, no more fight in him.
“You insolent pup,” panted Roger, “do you want any more?” Then he saw that Aubrey was really hurt. With horror he observed a trickle of blood run down the side of the young man’s face.
“Good Lord,” he said. “Maybe I’ve killed him!”
In a panic he ran round the corner to get Leary’s outside man, who stands in a little sentry box at the front angle of the store and sells the outdoor books.
“Quick,” he said. “There’s a fellow back here badly hurt.”
They ran back around the corner, and found Aubrey walking rather shakily toward them. Immense relief swam through Roger’s brain.
“Look here,” he said, “I’m awfully sorry—are you hurt?”
Aubrey glared whitely at him, but was too stunned to speak. He grunted, and the others took him one on each side and supported him. Leary’s man ran inside the store and opened the little door of the freight elevator at the back of the shop. In this way, avoiding notice save by a few book-prowlers, Aubrey was carted into the shop as though he had been a parcel of second-hand books.
Mr. Warner greeted them at the back of the shop, a little surprised, but gentle as ever.
“What’s wrong?” he said.
“Oh, we’ve been fighting over a copy of Tooke’s Pantheon,” said Roger.
They led Aubrey into the little private office at the rear. Here they made him sit down in a chair and bathed his bleeding head with cold water. Philip Warner, always resourceful, produced some surgical plaster. Roger wanted to telephone for a doctor.
“Not on your life,” said Aubrey, pulling himself together. “See here, Mr. Mifflin, don’t flatter yourself you gave me this cut on the skull. I got that the other evening on Brooklyn Bridge, going home from your damned bookshop. Now if you and I can be alone for a few minutes, we’ve got to have a talk.”
“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
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