Mystery, Inc.

by Joyce Carol Oates

  I am thinking—I will change nothing in this beautiful place. The very fountain pens on his desk will be mine. I will simply move in.

  Seeing that he has a very admiring and very curious visitor, Aaron Neuhaus is happy to chat about his possessions. The bookseller’s pride in the privileged circumstances of his life is almost without ego—as one might take pleasure in any natural setting, like the ocean outside his window. Beside the large, stark daguerreotype of Poe are smaller photographs by the surrealist photographer Man Ray, of nude female figures in odd, awkward poses. Some of them are nude torsos lacking heads—very pale, marmoreal as sculpted forms. The viewer wonders uneasily: are these human beings, or mannequins? Are they human female corpses? Neuhaus tells me that the Man Ray photographs are taken from the photographer’s Tresor interdite series of the 1930s—“Most of the work is inaccessible, in private collections, and never lent to museums.” Beside the elegantly sinister Man Ray photographs, and very different from them, are crudely sensational crime photographs by the American photographer Weegee, taken in the 1930s and 1940s: stark portraits of men and women in the crises of their lives, beaten, bleeding, arrested and handcuffed, shot down in the street to lie sprawled, like one welldressed mobster, face down in their own blood.

  “Weegee is the crudest of artists, but he is an artist. What is notable in such ‘journalistic’ art is the absence of the photographer from his work. You can’t comprehend what, if anything, the photographer is thinking about these doomed people …”

  Man Ray, yes. Weegee, no. I detest crudeness, in art as in life; but of course I don’t indicate this to Aaron Neuhaus, whom I don’t want to offend. The man is so boyishly enthusiastic, showing off his treasures to a potential customer.

  Prominent in one of Neuhaus’s glassfronted cabinets is a complete set of the many volumes of the famous British criminologist William Roughead—“Each volume signed by Roughead”; also bound copies of the American detective pulps Dime Detective, Black Mask, and a copy of The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps. These were magazines in which such greats as Dashiell Hammett and Raymond Chandler published stories, Neuhaus tells me, as if I didn’t know.

  In fact, I am more interested in Neuhaus’s collection of great works of the “Golden Era of Mystery”—signed first editions by John Dickson Carr, Agatha Christie, and S.S. Van Dine, among others. (Some of these must be worth more than five thousand dollars apiece, I would think.) Neuhaus confesses that he would be very reluctant to sell his 1888 first edition of A Study in Scarlet in its original paper covers (priced at $100,000), or a signed first edition of The Return of Sherlock Holmes (priced at $35,000); more reluctantly, his first edition of The Hound of the Baskervilles, inscribed and signed, with handsome illustrations of Holmes and Watson (priced at $65,000). He shows me one of his “priceless” possessions—a bound copy of the February 1827 issue of Blackwood’s Magazine containing Thomas de Quincy’s infamous essay, “On Murder Considered as One of the Fine Arts.” Yet more impressively, he has the complete four volumes of the first edition (1794) of Mysteries of Udolpho (priced at $10,000). But the jewel of his collection, which he will never sell, he says, unless he is absolutely desperate for money, is the 1853 first edition, in original cloth with “sepia cabinet photograph of author” of Charles Dickens’s Bleak House (priced at $75,000), signed by Dickens in his strong, assured hand, in ink that has scarcely faded!

  “But this is something that would particularly interest you, ‘Charles Brockden’”— Neuhaus chuckles, carefully taking from a shelf a very old book, encased in plastic, with a loose, faded binding and badly yellowed pages—Charles Brockden Brown’s Wieland; or The Transformation: An American Tale, 1798.

  This is extraordinary! One would expect to see such a rare book under lock and key in the special collections of a great university library, like Harvard.

  For a moment I can’t think how to reply. Neuhaus seems almost to be teasing me. It was a careless choice of a name, I suppose— “Charles Brockden.” If I’d thought about it, of course I would have realized that a bookseller would be reminded of Charles Brockden Brown.

  To disguise my confusion, I ask Aaron Neuhaus how much he is asking for this rare book, and Neuhaus says, “‘Asking’—? I am not ‘asking’ any sum at all. It is not for sale.”

  Again, I’m not sure how to reply. Is Neuhaus laughing at me? Has he seen through my fictitious name, as through my disguise? I don’t think that this is so, for his demeanor is good-natured; but the way in which he smiles at me, as if we are sharing a joke, makes me uneasy.

  It’s a relief when Neuhaus returns the book to its shelf, and locks up the glassfronted cabinets. At last, the cappuccino is ready!

  All this while, the fire has been making me warm—over-warm.

  The ginger-colored whiskers that cover my jaws have begun to itch.

  The heavy black plastic glasses, so much more cumbersome than my preferred wirerim glasses, are leaving red marks on the bridge of my nose. Ah, I am looking forward to tearing both whiskers and glasses from my face with a cry of relief and victory in an hour—or ninety minutes—when I am departing Seabrook in my vehicle, south along the ocean road …

  “Charles! Take care, it’s very hot.”

  Not in a small cappuccino cup but in a hearty coffee mug, Aaron Neuhaus serves me the pungent brewed coffee, with its delightful frothed milk. The liquid is rich, very dark, scalding-hot as he has warned. I am wondering if I should take out of my attaché case the box of Lindt chocolates to share with my host, or whether it is just slightly too soon—I don’t want to arouse his suspicion. If—when— Aaron Neuhaus eats one of these potent chocolates I will want to depart soon after, and our ebullient hour together will come to an abrupt conclusion. It is foolish of me perhaps, but I am almost thinking—well, it is not very realistic, but indeed, I am thinking—Why could we not be partners? If I introduce myself as a serious book collector, one with unerring taste (if not unlimited resources, as he seems to have)—would not Aaron Neuhaus be impressed with me? Does he not, already, like me—and trust me?

  At the same time, my brain is pragmatically pursuing the more probable course of events: if I wait until Aaron Neuhaus lapses into a coma, I could take away with me a select few of his treasures, instead of having to wait until I can purchase Mystery, Inc. Though I am not a common thief, it has been exciting to see such rare items on display; almost, in a sense, dangled before me, by my clueless prey. Several of the less-rare items would be all that I could dare, for it would be a needless risk to take away, for instance, the Dickens first edition valued at $79,000—just the sort of greedy error that could entrap me.

  “Are you often in these parts, Charles? I don’t think that I have seen you in my store before.”

  “No, not often. In the summer, sometimes …” My voice trails off uncertainly. Is it likely that a bookstore proprietor would see, and take note, of every customer who comes into his store? Or am I interpreting Aaron Neuhaus too literally?

  “My former wife and I sometimes drove to Boothbay, Maine. I believe we passed through this beautiful town, but did not stop.” My voice is somewhat halting, but certainly sincere. Blindly I continue, “I am not married now—unfortunately. My wife had been my high school sweetheart but she did not share my predilection for precious old books, I’m afraid.”

  Is any of this true? I am hoping only that such words have the ring of plausibility.

  “I’ve long been a lover of mysteries—in books and in life. It’s wonderful to discover a fellow enthusiast, and in such a beautiful store …”

  “It is! Always a wonderful discovery. I, too, am a lover of mysteries, of course—in life as in books.”

  Aaron Neuhaus laughs expansively. He has been blowing on his mug of cappuccino, for it is still steaming. I am intrigued by the subtle distinction of his remark, but would require some time to ponder it—if indeed it is a significant remark, and not just casual banter.

  Thoughtfully, Neuhaus continues: “It is out of th
e profound mystery of life that ‘mystery books’ arise. And, in turn, ‘mystery books’ allow us to see the mystery of life more clearly, from perspectives not our own.”

  On a shelf behind the affable bookseller’s desk are photographs that I have been trying to see more clearly. One, in an antique oval frame, is of an extraordinarily beautiful, young, black-haired woman—could this be Mrs. Neuhaus? I think it must be, for in another photograph she and a youthful Aaron Neuhaus are together, in wedding finery—a most attractive couple.

  There is something profoundly demoralizing about this sight—such a beautiful woman, married to this man not so very different from myself! Of course—(I am rapidly calculating, cantilevering to a new, objective perspective)—the young bride is no longer young, and would be, like her husband, in her early sixties. No doubt Mrs. Neuhaus is still quite beautiful. It is not impossible to think that, in the devastated aftermath of losing her husband, the widow might not be adverse, in time, to remarriage with an individual who shares so much of her late husband’s interests, and has taken over Mystery, Inc. … Other photographs, surely family photos, are less interesting, though suggesting that Neuhaus is a “family man” to some degree. (If we had more time, I would ask about these personal photos; but I suppose I will find out eventually who Neuhaus’s relatives are.)

  Also on the shelf behind Neuhaus’s desk is what appears to be a homemade art-work— a bonsai-sized tree (fashioned from a coat hanger?)—upon which small items have been hung: a man’s signet ring, a man’s wristwatch, a brass belt buckle, a pocket watch with a gold chain. If I didn’t know that Neuhaus had no children, I would presume that this amateurish “art” has found a place amid the man’s treasures which its artistry doesn’t seem to merit.

  At last, the cappuccino is not so scalding. It is still hot, but very delicious. Now I am wishing badly that I’d prepared a box of macaroons, more appropriate here than chocolate truffles.

  As if I have only just now recalled it, I remove the Lindt box from my attaché case. An unopened box, I suggest to Aaron Neuhaus— freshly purchased and not a chocolate missing.

  (It is true, I am reluctant to hurry our fascinating conversation, but—there is a duty here that must be done.)

  In a display of playful horror Neuhaus half-hides his eyes—“Chocolate truffles—my favorite chocolates—and my favorite truffles! Thank you, Charles, but—I should not. My dear wife will expect me to be reasonably hungry for dinner.” The bookseller’s voice wavers, as if he is hoping to be encouraged.

  “Just one chocolate won’t make any difference, Aaron. And your dear wife will never know, if you don’t tell her.”

  Neuhaus is very amusing as he takes one of the chocolate truffles—(from the first, poisoned row)—with an expression both boyishly greedy and guilty. He sniffs it with delight and seems about to bite into it—then lays it on his desk top as if temporarily, in a show of virtue. He winks at me as at a fellow conspirator—“You are quite right, my dear wife needn’t know. There is much in marriage that might be kept from a spouse, for her own good. Though possibly, I should bring my wife one of these also—if you could spare another, Charles?”

  “Why of course—but—take more than one … Please help yourself—of course.”

  This is disconcerting. But there is no way for me to avoid offering Neuhaus the box again, this time somewhat awkwardly, turning it so that he is led to choose a chocolate truffle out of a row of non-poisoned truffles. And I will eat one with much appetite, so that Neuhaus is tempted to eat his.

  How warm I am! And these damned whiskers itching!

  As if he has only just thought of it, Aaron Neuhaus excuses himself to call his wife—on an old-fashioned black dial phone, talisman of another era. He lowers his voice out of courtesy, not because he doesn’t want his visitor to overhear. “Darling? Just to alert you, I will be a little late tonight. A most fascinating customer has dropped by—whom I don’t want to short-change.” Most fascinating. I am flattered by this, though saddened.

  So tenderly does Neuhaus speak to his wife, I feel an almost overwhelming wave of pity for him, and for her; yet, more powerfully, a wave of envy, and anger. Why does this man deserve that beautiful woman and her love, while I have no one—no love—at all?

  It is unjust, and it is unfair. It is intolerable.

  Neuhaus tells his wife he will be home, he believes, by at least 8:30 PM. Again it is flattering to me, that Neuhaus thinks so well of me; he doesn’t plan to send me away for another hour. Another wife might be annoyed by such a call, but the beautiful (and mysterious) Mrs. Neuhaus does not object. “Yes! Soon. I love you too, darling.” Neuhaus unabashedly murmurs these intimate words, like one who isn’t afraid to acknowledge emotion.

  The chocolate truffle, like the cappuccino, is indeed delicious. My mouth waters even as I eat it. I am hoping that Neuhaus will devour his, as he clearly wants to; but he has left both truffles untouched for the moment, while he sips the cappuccino. There is something touchingly childlike in this procrastination— putting off a treat, if but for a moment. I will not allow myself to think of the awful possibility that Neuhaus will eat the unpoisoned truffle and bring the poisoned truffle home to his wife.

  To avoid this, I may offer Neuhaus the entire box to take home to his wife. In that way, both the owner of Mystery, Inc. and the individual who would inherit it upon his death will depart this earth. Purchasing the store from another, less personally involved heir might be, in fact, an easier stratagem.

  I have asked Aaron Neuhaus who his customers are in this out-of-the-way place, and he tells me that he has a number of “surprisingly faithful, stubbornly loyal” customers who come to his store from as far away as Boston, even New York City, in good weather at least. There are local regulars, and there are the summertime customers—“Mystery, Inc. is one of the most popular shops in town, second only to Starbucks.” Still, most of his sales in the past twenty-five years have been mail-order and online; the online orders are more or less continuous, emails that come in through the night from his “considerable overseas clientele.”

  This is a cruel blow! I’m sure that I have no overseas clientele at all.

  Yet it isn’t possible to take offense, for Aaron Neuhaus is not boasting so much as speaking matter-of-factly. Ruefully I am thinking—The man can’t help being superior. It is ironic, he must be punished for something that is not his fault.

  Like my brother, I suppose. Who had to be punished for something that wasn’t his fault: a mean-spirited soul, envious and malicious regarding me. Though I will regret Aaron Neuhaus’s fate, I will never regret my brother’s fate.

  Still, Aaron Neuhaus has put off eating his chocolate truffle with admirable restraint! By this time I have had a second, and Neuhaus is preparing two more cups of cappuccino. The caffeine is having a bracing effect upon my blood. Like an admiring interviewer I am asking my host where his interest in mystery derives, and Neuhaus replies that he fell under the spell of mystery as a young child, if not an infant—“I think it had to do with my astonishment at peering out of my crib and seeing faces peering at me. Who were they? My mother whom I did not yet know was my mother—my father whom I did not yet know was my father? These individuals must have seemed like giants to me—mythic figures— as in the Odyssey.” He pauses, with a look of nostalgia. “Our lives are odysseys, obviously— continuous, ever-unexpected adventures. Except we are not journeying home, like Odysseus, but journeying away from home inexorably, like the Hubble universe.”

  What is this?—“Hubble universe”? I’m not sure that I fully understand what Aaron Neuhaus is saying, but there is no doubt that my companion is speaking from the heart.

  As a boy he fell under the spell of mystery fiction—boys’ adventure, Sherlock Holmes, Ellery Queen, Mark Twain’s Pudd’head Wilson— and by the age of thirteen he’d begun reading true crime writers (like the esteemed Roughead) of the kind most readers don’t discover until adulthood. Though he has a deep and enduring love for American
hard-boiled fiction, his long-abiding love is for Wilkie Collins and Charles Dickens—“Writers not afraid of the role coincidence plays in our lives, and not afraid of over-the-top melodrama.”

  This is true. Coincidence plays far more of a role in our lives than we (who believe in free will) wish to concede. And lurid, over-the-top melodrama, perhaps a rarity in most lives, but inescapable at one time or another.

  Next, I ask Aaron Neuhaus how he came to purchase his bookstore, and he tells me with a nostalgic smile that indeed it was an accident— a “marvelous coincidence”—that one day when he was driving along the coast to visit relatives in Maine, he happened to stop in Seabrook—“And there was this gem of a bookstore, right on High Street, in a row of beautiful old brownstones. The store wasn’t quite as it is now, slightly rundown, and neglected, yet with an intriguing sign out front— Mystery, Inc.: M. Rackham Books. Within minutes I saw the potential of the store and the location, and I fell in love with something indefinable in the very air of Seabrook, New Hampshire.”

  At this time, in 1982, Aaron Neuhaus owned a small bookstore that specialized in mystery, detective, and crime fiction in the West Village, on Bleecker Street; though he worked in the store as many as one hundred hours a week, with two assistants, he was chafing under the burden of circumscribed space, high rent and high taxes, relentless book-theft, and a clientele that included homeless derelicts and junkies who wandered into the store looking for public lavatories or for a place to sleep. His wife yearned to move out of New York City and into the country—she had an education degree and was qualified to teach school, but did not want to teach in the New York City public school system, nor did Neuhaus want her to. And so Neuhaus made a decision almost immediately to acquire the Seabrook bookstore—“If it were humanly possible.”