“Well, one of these evenings when the good doctor had an exceptional roast of mutton and a hubbard squash just in from the farm and a wee bit of something beside, he had me over. While we waited to be served I was glancing over his books and chanced to note the book you now have in your hand. ‘I see,’ I said to him jokingly, ‘that you have come into a legacy.’
“‘Why, no,’ he says looking up surprised. ‘Why should you think that?’
“I pointed to this little copy of ‘The Compleat Angler’ and said, ‘Only them as are very rich can afford to possess such as this one.’
“He looked at me in surprise, then smiled as he said, ‘I did pay a little too much for it, I guess, but the print was rather unusual; besides, it’s a great book. I don’t mind admitting that it cost me fifteen dollars.’
“‘Fifteen dollars!’ I exploded.
“‘Got trimmed, did I?’ he smiled back. ‘Well, you know the old saying about the clergy, no business heads on them, so we’ll let it stand at that.’
“‘Trimmed nothing!’ I fairly yelled. ‘The book’s a small fortune in itself; one of those rare finds. Why—I’d venture to risk six hundred dollars on it myself without opening the covers of it. It’s a first edition or I’m not a book seller at all.’
“‘Sold!’ he cried in high glee. ‘There are three families in my parish who are in dire need. This book was sent, no doubt, to assist me in tiding them over.’
“So that’s how I came into possession of the book. I sold it to Vining at Burtnoe’s, as you no doubt know.”
“But,” exclaimed Lucile breathlessly, feeling that the scent was growing fresher all the while, “from whom did the doctor purchase it at so ridiculous a price?”
“From a fool bookstore-keeper of course; one of those upstarts who know nothing at all about books; who handle them as pure merchandise, purchased at so much and sold for forty and five per cent more, regardless of actual value. He’d bought it to help out some ignorant foreigner, a Spaniard I believe. He’d paid ten dollars and had been terribly pleased within himself when he made five on the deal.”
“Who was he?” Lucile asked eagerly, “and where was his shop?”
“That I didn’t trouble to find out. Very likely he’s out of business by now. Such shops are like grass in autumn, soon die down and the snow covers them up. The doctor could tell you though. I’ll give you his address and you may go and ask him.”
The short afternoon was near spent and the shades of night were already falling when at last Lucile entered the shop of the unfortunate bookseller who had not realized the value of the little book. Lunch had delayed her, then the doctor had been out making calls and had kept her waiting for two hours. The little shop had been hard to find, but here at last she was.
A pitiful shop it was, possessing but a few hundred volumes and presided over by a grimy-fingered man who might but the day before have been promoted from the garbage wagon so far as personal appearance was concerned. Indeed, as Lucile looked over the place she was seized with the crazy notion that the whole place, books, shelves and proprietor, had but recently climbed down from the junk cart.
“And yet,” she told herself, “it was from this very heap of dusty paper and cardboard that this precious bit of literature which I have in my pocket, was salvaged. I must not forget that.
“I believe,” she told herself with an excited intake of breath, “that I am coming close to the end of my search. All day I have been descending step by step; first the wonderful Burtnoe’s Book Store with all its magnificence and its genius of a bookman, then Dan Whitner and the doctor, now this place, and then perhaps, whoever the person is who sold the book to this pitiful specimen of a bookseller.”
Her heart skipped a beat as the bookman, having caught sight of her, began to amble in her direction.
She made her question short and to the point. “Where did you get this book?”
“That book?” he took it and turned it over in his hand. He scratched his head. “That, why that book must have been one I bought with a lot at an auction sale last week. Wanna buy it?”
“No. No!” exclaimed Lucile, seizing the book. “It’s not your book. It is mine but you had it once and sold it. What I wish to know is, where did you get it?”
Three customers were thumbing through the books. One seated at a table turned and looked up. His face impressed the girl at once as being particularly horrible. Dark featured, hook-nosed, with a blue birthmark covering half his chin, he inspired her with an almost uncontrollable fear.
“We—we—” she faltered “—may we not step back under the light where you can see the book better?”
The shopkeeper followed her in stolid silence.
It was necessary for her to tell him the whole story of the purchase and sale of the book before he recognized it as having once been on his shelves.
“Oh, yes,” he exclaimed at last. “Made five dollars on her. Thought I had made a mistake, but didn’t; not that time I didn’t. Where’d I get her? Let’s see?”
As he stood there attempting to recall the name of the purchaser, Lucile’s gaze strayed to an opening between two rows of books. Instantly her eyes were caught as a bird’s by a serpent, as she found herself looking into a pair of cruel, crafty, prying eyes. They vanished instantly but left her with a cold chill running up her spine. It was the man who had been seated at the table, but why had he been spying? She had not long to wait before a possible solution was given her.
“I know!” exclaimed the shopkeeper at this instant, “I bought it from a foreigner. Bought two others from him, too. Made good money on ’em all, too. Why!” he exclaimed suddenly, “he was in here when you came. Had another book under his arm, he did; wanted to sell it, I judge. I was just keeping him waiting a little so’s he wouldn’t think I wanted it too bad. If they think you want their books bad they stick for a big price.” His voice had dropped to a whisper; his eyes had narrowed to what was meant to be a very wise-meaning expression.
“May be here yet.” He darted around the stand of books.
“That’s him just going out the door. Hey, you!” he shouted after the man.
Paying not the least attention, the person passed out, slamming the door after him.
Passing rapidly down the room, the proprietor poked his head out of the door and shouted twice. After listening for a moment he backed into the room and shut the door.
“Gone,” he muttered. “Worse luck to me. Sometimes we wait too long and sometimes not long enough. Now some other lucky dog will get that book.”
In the meantime Lucile had glanced about the shop. Two persons were reading beneath a lamp in the corner. Neither was the man with the birthmark. It was natural enough to conclude that it was he who had left the room.
“Did he have a birthmark on his chin, this man you bought the book from?” she asked as the proprietor returned.
“Yes, ma’am, he did.”
“Then I saw him here a moment ago. When is he likely to return?”
“That no one can tell. Perhaps tomorrow, perhaps never. He has not been here before in three months. Did you wish to speak with him?”
Lucile shivered. “Well, perhaps not,” she half whispered.
“Huh!” grunted the proprietor suddenly, “what’s this? Must be the book he brought. He’s forgotten it. Now he is sure to be back.”
Lucile was rather of the opinion that he would not soon return. She believed that there had been some trickery about the affair of these valuable books which were being sold to the cheapest book dealer in the city for a very small part of their value. “Perhaps they were stolen,” she told herself. At once the strangeness of the situation came to her; here she was with a book in her possession which had been but recently stolen from Frank Morrow’s book shop by a girl and now circumstances seemed to indicate that this very book had been stolen by some person who had sold it to this bookmonger, who had passed it on to the doctor who had sold it to Dan Whitner, who had sold it to Rode
rick Vining, who had sold it to Frank Morrow.
“Sounds like the house that Jack built,” she whispered to herself. “But then I suppose some valuable books have been stolen many times. Frank Morrow said one of his had been stolen twice within a week by totally different persons.”
Turning to the shopkeeper, she asked if she might see the book that had been left behind.
As she turned back the cover a low exclamation escaped her lips. In the corner of that cover was the same secret mark as had been in all the mystery books, the gargoyle and the letter L.
Hiding her surprise as best she could, she handed the book to the man with the remark:
“Of course you cannot sell the book, since it is not your own?”
“I’d chance it.”
“I’ll give you ten dollars for it. If he returns and demands more, I will either pay the price or return the book. I’ll give you my address.”
“Done!” he exclaimed. “I don’t think you’ll ever hear from me. I’ll give him seven and he’ll be glad enough to get it. Pretty good, eh?” he rubbed his hands together gleefully. “Three dollars clean profit and not a cent invested any of the time.”
Like the ancient volume on fishing, this newly acquired book was small and thin, so without examining its contents she thrust it beside the other in the large pocket of her coat.
“I suppose I oughtn’t to have done it,” she whispered to herself as she left the shop, “but if I hadn’t, he’d have sold it to the first customer. It’s evidence in the case and besides it may be valuable.”
A fog hung over the city. The streets were dark and damp. Here and there a yellow light struggled to pierce the denseness of the gloom. As she turned to the right and walked down the street, not knowing for the moment quite what else to do, she fancied that a shadow darted down the alley to her left.
“Too dark to tell. Might have been a dog or anything,” she murmured. Yet she shivered and quickened her pace. She was in a great, dark city alone and she was going—where? That she did not know. The day’s adventures had left her high and dry on the streets of a city as a boat is left by the tide on the sand.
CHAPTER XXI
A THEFT IN THE NIGHT
There is no feeling of desolation so complete as that which sweeps over one who is utterly alone in a great city at night. The desert, the Arctic wilderness, the heart of the forest, the boundless sea, all these have their terrors, but for downright desolation give me the heart of a strange city at night.
Hardly had Lucile covered two blocks on her journey from the book shop when this feeling of utter loneliness engulfed her like a bank of fog. Shuddering, she paused to consider, and, as she did so, fancied she caught the bulk of a shadow disappearing into a doorway to the right of her.
“Where am I and where am I to go?” she asked herself in a wild attempt to gather her scattered senses. In vain she endeavored to recall the name of the street she was on at that moment. Her efforts to recall the route she had taken in getting there were quite as futile.
“Wish I were in Chicago,” she breathed. “The very worst of it is better than this. There at least I have friends somewhere. Here I have none anywhere. Wish Florence were here.”
At that she caught herself up; there was no use in wishing for things that could not be. The question was, what did she intend to do? Was she to seek out a hotel and spend the night there, to resume her search for the first person in America who had sold the ancient copy of the Angler, or was she to take the first train back to Chicago? She had a feeling that she had seen the man she sought and that weeks of search might not reveal him again; yet she disliked going back to Frank Morrow with so little to show for his hundred dollars invested.
“Anyway,” she said at last with a shudder, “I’ve got to get out of here. Boo! it seems like the very depths of the slums!”
She started on at a brisk pace. Having gone a half block she faced about suddenly; she fancied she heard footsteps behind her. She saw nothing but an empty street.
“Nerves,” she told herself. “I’ve got to get over that. I know what’s the matter with me though; I haven’t eaten for hours. I’ll find a restaurant pretty soon and get a cup of coffee.”
There is a strange thing about our great cities; in certain sections you may pass a half dozen coffee shops and at least three policemen in a single block; in other sections you may go an entire mile without seeing either. Evidently, eating places, like policemen, crave company of their own kind. Lucile had happened upon a policeless and eat-shopless section of New York. For a full twenty minutes she tramped on through the fog, growing more and more certain at every step that she was being followed by someone, and not coming upon a single person or shop that offered her either food or protection.
Suddenly she found herself in the midst of a throng of people. A movie theater had disgorged this throng. Like a sudden flood of water, they surrounded her and bore her on. They poured down the street to break up into two smaller streams, one of which flowed on down the street and the other into a hole in the ground. Having been caught in the latter stream, and not knowing what else to do, eager for companionship of whatever sort, the girl allowed herself to be borne along and down into the hole. Down a steep flight of steps she was half carried, to be at last deposited on a platform, alongside of which in due time a train of electric cars came rattling in.
“The subway,” she breathed. “It will take me anywhere, providing I know where I want to go.”
Just as she was beginning to experience a sense of relief from contact with this flowing mass of humanity she was given a sudden shock. To the right of her, through a narrow gap in the throng, she recognized a face. The gap closed up at once and the face disappeared, but the image of it remained. It was the face of the man she had seen in the shop, he of the birthmark on his chin.
“No doubt of it now,” she said half aloud. “He is following me.” Then, like some hunted creature of the wild, she began looking about her for a way of escape. Before her there whizzed a train. The moving cars came to a halt. A door slid open. She leaped within. The next instant the door closed and she was borne away. To what place? She could not tell. All she knew was that she was on her way.
Quite confident that she had evaded her pursuer, she settled back in her seat to fall into a drowsy stupor. How far she rode she could not tell. Having at last been roused to action by the pangs of hunger, she rose and left the car. “Only hope there is some place to eat near,” she sighed.
Again she found herself lost in a jam; the legitimate theaters were disgorging their crowds. She was at this time, though she did not know it, in the down town district.
Her right hand was disengaged; in her left she carried a small leather bag. As she struggled through the throng, she experienced difficulty in retaining her hold on this bag. Of a sudden she felt a mighty wrench on its handle and the next instant it was gone. There could be no mistaking that sudden pull. It had been torn from her grasp by a vandal of some sort. As she turned with a gasp, she caught sight of a face that vanished instantly, the face of the man with the birthmark on his chin.
Instantly the whole situation flashed through her mind; this man had been following her to regain possession of one or both of the books which at this moment reposed in her coat pocket. He had made the mistake of thinking these books were in the bag. He would search the bag and then—
She reasoned no further; a car door was about to close. She dashed through it at imminent risk of being caught in the crush of its swing and the next instant the car whirled away.
“Missed him that time,” she breathed. “He will search the bag. When he discovers his mistake it will be too late. The bird has flown. As to the bag, he may keep it. It contains only a bit of a pink garment which I can afford to do without, and two clean handkerchiefs.”
Fifteen minutes later when she left the car she found herself in a very much calmer state of mind. Convinced that she had shaken herself free from her undesirable shadow, and fully
convinced also that nothing now remained but to eat a belated supper and board the next train for her home city, she went about the business of finding out what that next train might be and from what depot it left.
Fortunately, a near-by hotel office was able to furnish her the information needed and to call a taxi. A half hour later she found herself enjoying a hot lunch in the depot and at the same time mentally reveling in the soft comfort of “Lower 7” of car 36, which she was soon to occupy.
CHAPTER XXII
MANY MYSTERIES
One might have supposed that, considering she was now late into the night of the most exacting and exciting day of her whole life, Lucile, once she was safely stowed away in her berth on the train, would immediately fall asleep. This, however, was not the case. Her active brain was still at work, still struggling to untangle the many mysteries that, during the past weeks, had woven themselves into what seemed an inseparable tangle. So, after a half hour of vain attempt to sleep, she sat bolt upright in her berth and snapped on the light, prepared if need be to spend the few remaining hours of that night satisfying the demands of that irreconcilable mind of hers.
The train had already started. The heavy green curtains which hid her from the little outside world about her waved gently to and fro. Her white arms and shoulders gleamed in the light. Her hair hung tumbled in a mass about her. As the train took a curve, she was swung against the hammock in which her heavy coat rested. Her bare shoulder touched something hard.
“The books,” she said. “Wonder what my new acquirement is like?”
She drew the new book from her pocket and, brushing her hair out of her eyes, scanned it curiously.
“French,” she whispered. “Very old French and hard to read.” As she thumbed the pages she saw quaint woodcuts of soldiers and officers. Here was a single officer seated impressively upon a horse; here a group of soldiers scanning the horizon; and there a whole battalion charging a very ancient fieldpiece.
“Something about war,” she told herself. “That’s about all I can make out.” She was ready to close the book when her eye was caught by an inscription written upon the fly leaf.
The Girl Detective Megapack: 25 Classic Mystery Novels for Girls Page 78