The Haunted Bookshop by Christopher Morley (good books to read for 12 year olds .txt) 📕

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