The Haunted Bookshop by Christopher Morley (parable of the sower read online TXT) 📕

“When are you coming home?” she was saying.

“About seven o’clock,” said Roger. “Listen, is everything absolutely OK?”

“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 anyone 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 anyone take it until we⁠—until I get back.”

“I promise,” said Titania blithely.

“Goodbye,” 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 today, 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