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

“Here,” said Aubrey, “take this gun. Cover this fellow and leave that one to me. I’ve got a score to settle with him.”

The chef made a movement as though to jump through the window behind him, but Aubrey flung himself upon him. He hit the man square on the nose and felt a delicious throb of satisfaction as the rubbery flesh flattened beneath his knuckles. He seized the man’s hairy throat and sank his fingers into it. The other tried to snatch the bread knife on the table, but was too late. He fell to the floor, and Aubrey throttled him savagely.

“You blasted Hun,” he grunted. “Go wrestling with girls, will you?”

Titania ran from the room, through the pantry.

Roger was holding Weintraub’s revolver in front of the German’s face.

“Look here,” he said, “what does this mean?”

“It’s all a mistake,” said the druggist suavely, though his eyes slid uneasily to and fro. “I just came in to get some books I left here earlier in the afternoon.”

“With a revolver, eh?” said Roger. “Speak up, Hindenburg, what’s the big idea?”

“It’s not my revolver,” said Weintraub. “It’s Metzger’s.”

“Where’s this suitcase of yours?” said Roger. “We’re going to have a look at it.”

“It’s all a stupid mistake,” said Weintraub. “I left a suitcase of old books here for Metzger, because I expected to go out of town this afternoon. He called for it, and your young woman wouldn’t give it to him. He came to me, and I came down here to tell her it was all right.”

“Is that Metzger?” said Roger, pointing to the bearded man who was trying to break Aubrey’s grip. “Gilbert, don’t choke that man, we want him to do some explaining.”

Aubrey got up, picked his revolver from the floor where he had dropped it, and prodded the chef to his feet.

“Well, you swine,” he said, “how did you enjoy falling downstairs the other evening? As for you, Herr Weintraub, I’d like to know what kind of prescriptions you make up in that cellar of yours.”

Weintraub’s face shone damply in the lamplight. Perspiration was thick on his forehead.

“My dear Mifflin,” he said, “this is awfully stupid. In my eagerness, I’m afraid–-”

Titania ran back into the room, followed by Helen, whose face was crimson.

“Thank God you’re back, Roger,” she said. “These brutes tied me up in the kitchen and gagged me with a roller-towel. They threatened to shoot Titania if she wouldn’t give them the suitcase.”

Weintraub began to say something, but Roger thrust the revolver between his eyes.

“Hold your tongue!” he said. “We’re going to have a look at those books of yours.”

“I’ll get the suitcase,” said Titania. “I hid it. When Mr. Weintraub came in and asked for it, at first I was going to give it to him, but he looked so queer I thought something must be wrong.”

“Don’t you get it,” said Aubrey, and their eyes met for the first time. “Show me where it is, and we’ll let friend Hun bring it.”

Titania flushed a little. “It’s in my bedroom cupboard,” she said.

She led the way upstairs, Metzger following, and Aubrey behind Metzger with his pistol ready. Outside the bedroom door Aubrey halted. “Show him the suitcase and let him pick it up,” he said. “If he makes a wrong movement, call me, and I’ll shoot him.”

Titania pointed out the suitcase, which she had stowed at the back of her cupboard behind some clothes. The chef showed no insubordination, and the three returned downstairs.

“Very well,” said Roger. “We’ll go down in the shop where we can see better. Perhaps he’s got a first folio Shakespeare in here. Helen, you go to the phone and ring up the McFee Street police station. Ask them to send a couple of men round here at once.”

“My dear Mifflin,” said Weintraub, “this is very absurd. Only a few old books that I had collected from time to time.”

“I don’t call it absurd when a man comes into my house and ties my wife up with clothesline and threatens to shoot a young girl,” said Roger. “We’ll see what the police have to say about this, Weintraub. Don’t make any mistake: if you try to bolt I’ll blow your brains out.”

Aubrey led the way down into the shop while Metzger carried the suitcase. Roger and Weintraub followed, and Titania brought up the rear. Under a bright light in the Essay alcove Aubrey made the chef lay the bag on the table.

“Open her up,” he said curtly.

“It’s nothing but some old books,” said Metzger.

“If they’re old enough they may be valuable,” said Roger. “I’m interested in old books. Look sharp!”

Metzger drew a key from his pocket and unlocked the bag. Aubrey held the pistol at his head as he threw back the lid.

The suitcase was full of second-hand books closely packed together. Roger, with great presence of mind, was keeping his eyes on Weintraub.

“Tell me what’s in it,” he said.

“Why, it’s only a lot of books, after all,” cried Titania.

“You see,” said Weintraub surlily, “there’s no mystery about it. I’m sorry I was so–-”

“Oh, look!” said Titania; “There’s the Cromwell book!”

For an instant Roger forgot himself. He looked instinctively at the suitcase, and in that moment the druggist broke away, ran down the aisle, and flew out of the door. Roger dashed after him, but was too late. Aubrey was holding Metzger by the collar with the pistol at his head.

“Good God,” he said, “why didn’t you shoot?”

“I don’t know” said Roger in confusion. “I was afraid of hitting him. Never mind, we can fix him later.”

“The police will be here in a minute,” said Helen, calling from the telephone. “I’m going to let Bock in. He’s in the back yard.”

“I think they’re both crazy,” said Titania. “Let’s put the Cromwell back on the shelf and let this creature go.” She put out her hand for the book.

“Stop!” cried Aubrey, and seized her arm. “Don’t touch that book!”

Titania shrank back, frightened by his voice. Had everyone gone insane?

“Here, Mr. Metzger,” said Aubrey, “you put that book back on the shelf where it belongs. Don’t try to get away. I’ve got this revolver pointed at you.”

He and Roger were both startled by the chef’s face. Above the unkempt beard his eyes shone with a half-crazed lustre, and his hands shook.

“Very well,” he said. “Show me where it goes.”

“I’ll show you,” said Titania.

Aubrey put out his arm in front of the girl. “Stay where you are,” he said angrily.

“Down in the History alcove,” said Roger. “The front alcove on the other side of the shop. We’ve both got you covered.”

Instead of taking the volume from the suitcase, Metzger picked up the whole bag, holding it flat. He carried it to the alcove they indicated. He placed the case carefully on the floor, and picked the Cromwell volume out of it.

“Where would you want it to go?” he said in an odd voice. “This is a valuable book.”

“On the fifth shelf,” said Roger. “Over there–-”

“For God’s sake stand back,” said Aubrey. “Don’t go near him. There’s something damnable about this.”

“You poor fools!” cried Metzger harshly. “To hell with you and your old books.” He drew his hand back as though to throw the volume at them.

There was a quick patter of feet, and Bock, growling, ran down the aisle. In the same instant, Aubrey, obeying some unexplained impulse, gave Roger a violent push back into the Fiction alcove, seized Titania roughly in his arms, and ran with her toward the back of the shop.

Metzger’s arm was raised, about to throw the book, when Bock darted at him and buried his teeth in the man’s leg. The Cromwell fell from his hand.

There was a shattering explosion, a dull roar, and for an instant Aubrey thought the whole bookshop had turned into a vast spinning top. The floor rocked and sagged, shelves of books were hurled in every direction. Carrying Titania, he had just reached the steps leading to the domestic quarters when they were flung sideways into the corner behind Roger’s desk. The air was full of flying books. A row of encyclopedias crashed down upon his shoulders, narrowly missing Titania’s head. The front windows were shivered into flying streamers of broken glass. The table near the door was hurled into the opposite gallery. With a splintering crash the corner of the gallery above the History alcove collapsed, and hundreds of volumes cascaded heavily on to the floor. The lights went out, and for an instant all was silence.

“Are you all right?” said Aubrey hastily. He and Titania had fallen sprawling against the bookseller’s desk.

“I think so,” she said faintly. “Where’s Mr. Mifflin?”

Aubrey put out his hand to help her, and touched something wet on the floor. “Good heavens,” he thought. “She’s dying!” He struggled to his feet in the darkness. “Hullo, Mr. Mifflin,” he called, “where are you?”

There was no answer.

A beam of light gushed out from the passageway behind the shop, and picking his way over fallen litter he found Mrs. Mifflin standing dazed by the dining-room door. In the back of the house the lights were still burning.

“For heaven’s sake, have you a candle?” he said.

“Where’s Roger?” she cried piteously, and stumbled into the kitchen.

With a candle Aubrey found Titania sitting on the floor, very faint, but unhurt. What he had thought was blood proved to be a pool of ink from a quart bottle that had stood over Roger’s desk. He picked her up like a child and carried her into the kitchen. “Stay here and don’t stir,” he said.

By this time a crowd was already gathering on the pavement. Someone came in with a lantern. Three policemen appeared at the door.

“For God’s sake,” cried Aubrey, “get a light in here so we can see what’s happened. Mifflin’s buried in this mess somewhere. Someone ring for an ambulance.”

The whole front of the Haunted Bookshop was a wreck. In the pale glimmer of the lantern it was a disastrous sight. Helen groped her way down the shattered aisle.

“Where was he?” she cried wildly.

“Thanks to that set of Trollope,” said a voice in the remains of the Fiction alcove, “I think I’m all right. Books make good shock-absorbers. Is any one hurt?”

It was Roger, half stunned, but undamaged. He crawled out from under a case of shelves that had crumpled down upon him.

“Bring that lantern over here,” said Aubrey, pointing to a dark heap lying on the floor under the broken fragments of Roger’s bulletin board.

It was the chef. He was dead. And clinging to his leg was all that was left of Bock.

Chapter XV Mr. Chapman Waves His Wand

Gissing Street will not soon forget the explosion at the Haunted Bookshop. When it was learned that the cellar of Weintraub’s pharmacy contained just the information for which the Department of Justice had been looking for four years, and that the inoffensive German-American druggist had been the artisan of hundreds of incendiary bombs that had been placed on American and Allied shipping and in ammunition plants— and that this same Weintraub had committed suicide when arrested on Bromfield Street in Boston the next day—Gissing Street hummed with excitement. The Milwaukee Lunch did a roaring business among the sensation seekers who came to view the ruins of the bookshop. When it became known that fragments of a cabin plan of the George Washington had been found in Metzger’s pocket, and the confession of an accomplice on the