The Haunted Bookshop

by Christopher Morley

  Chapter IV

  The Disappearing Volume

  "Well, my dear," said Roger after supper that evening, "I think perhapswe had better introduce Miss Titania to our custom of reading aloud."

  "Perhaps it would bore her?" said Helen. "You know it isn't everybodythat likes being read to."

  "Oh, I should love it!" exclaimed Titania. "I don't think anybody everread to me, that is not since I was a child."

  "Suppose we leave you to look after the shop," said Helen to Roger, ina teasing mood, "and I'll take Titania out to the movies. I thinkTarzan is still running."

  Whatever private impulses Miss Chapman may have felt, she saw by thebookseller's downcast face that a visit to Tarzan would break hisheart, and she was prompt to disclaim any taste for the screen classic.

  "Dear me," she said; "Tarzan--that's all that nature stuff by JohnBurroughs; isn't it? Oh, Mrs. Mifflin, I think it would be verytedious. Let's have Mr. Mifflin read to us. I'll get down my knittingbag."

  "You mustn't mind being interrupted," said Helen. "When anybody ringsthe bell Roger has to run out and tend the shop."

  "You must let me do it," said Titania. "I want to earn my wages, youknow."

  "All right," said Mrs. Mifflin; "Roger, you settle Miss Chapman in theden and give her something to look at while we do the dishes."

  But Roger was all on fire to begin the reading. "Why don't we postponethe dishes," he said, "just to celebrate?"

  "Let me help," insisted Titania. "I should think washing up would begreat fun."

  "No, no, not on your first evening," said Helen. "Mr. Mifflin and Iwill finish them in a jiffy."

  So Roger poked up the coal fire in the den, disposed the chairs, andgave Titania a copy of Sartor Resartus to look at. He then vanishedinto the kitchen with his wife, whence Titania heard the cheerful clankof crockery in a dishpan and the splashing of hot water. "The bestthing about washing up," she heard Roger say, "is that it makes one'shands so clean, a novel sensation for a second-hand bookseller."

  She gave Sartor Resartus what is graphically described as a "onceover," and then seeing the morning Times lying on the table, picked itup, as she had not read it. Her eye fell upon the column headed

  LOST AND FOUND Fifty cents an agate line

  and as she had recently lost a little pearl brooch, she ran hastilythrough it. She chuckled a little over

  LOST--Hotel Imperial lavatory, set of teeth. Call or communicateSteel, 134 East 43 St. Reward, no questions asked.

  Then she saw this:

  LOST--Copy of Thomas Carlyle's "Oliver Cromwell," between GissingStreet, Brooklyn, and the Octagon Hotel. If found before midnight,Tuesday, Dec. 3, return to assistant chef, Octagon Hotel.

  "Why" she exclaimed, "Gissing Street--that's here! And what a funnykind of book for an assistant chef to read. No wonder their luncheshave been so bad lately!"

  When Roger and Helen rejoined her in the den a few minutes later sheshowed the bookseller the advertisement. He was very much excited.

  "That's a funny thing," he said. "There's something queer about thatbook. Did I tell you about it? Last Tuesday--I know it was thenbecause it was the evening young Gilbert was here--a man with a beardcame in asking for it, and it wasn't on the shelf. Then the nextnight, Wednesday, I was up very late writing, and fell asleep at mydesk. I must have left the front door ajar, because I was waked up bythe draught, and when I went to close the door I saw the book stickingout a little beyond the others, in its usual place. And last night,when the Corn Cobs were here, I went out to look up a quotation in it,and it was gone again."

  "Perhaps the assistant chef stole it?" said Titania.

  "But if so, why the deuce would he advertise having done so?" askedRoger.

  "Well, if he did steal it," said Helen, "I wish him joy of it. I triedto read it once, you talked so much about it, and I found it dreadfullydull."

  "If he did steal it," cried the bookseller, "I'm perfectly delighted.It shows that my contention is right: people DO really care for goodbooks. If an assistant chef is so fond of good books that he has tosteal them, the world is safe for democracy. Usually the only booksany one wants to steal are sheer piffle, like Making Life Worth Whileby Douglas Fairbanks or Mother Shipton's Book of Oracles. I don't minda man stealing books if he steals good ones!"

  "You see the remarkable principles that govern this business," saidHelen to Titania. They sat down by the fire and took up their knittingwhile the bookseller ran out to see if the volume had by any chancereturned to his shelves.

  "Is it there?" said Helen, when he came back.

  "No," said Roger, and picked up the advertisement again. "I wonder whyhe wants it returned before midnight on Tuesday?"

  "So he can read it in bed, I guess," said Helen. "Perhaps he suffersfrom insomnia."

  "It's a darn shame he lost it before he had a chance to read it. I'dlike to have known what he thought of it. I've got a great mind to goup and call on him."

  "Charge it off to profit and loss and forget about it," said Helen."How about that reading aloud?"

  Roger ran his eye along his private shelves, and pulled down awell-worn volume.

  "Now that Thanksgiving is past," he said, "my mind always turns toChristmas, and Christmas means Charles Dickens. My dear, would it boreyou if we had a go at the old Christmas Stories?"

  Mrs. Mifflin held up her hands in mock dismay. "He reads them to meevery year at this time," she said to Titania. "Still, they're worthit. I know good old Mrs. Lirriper better than I do most of my friends."

  "What is it, the Christmas Carol?" said Titania. "We had to read thatin school."

  "No," said Roger; "the other stories, infinitely better. Everybodygets the Carol dinned into them until they're weary of it, but no onenowadays seems to read the others. I tell you, Christmas wouldn't beChristmas to me if I didn't read these tales over again every year.How homesick they make one for the good old days of real inns and realbeefsteak and real ale drawn in pewter. My dears, sometimes when I amreading Dickens I get a vision of rare sirloin with floury boiledpotatoes and plenty of horse-radish, set on a shining cloth not farfrom a blaze of English coal----"

  "He's an incorrigible visionary," said Mrs. Mifflin. "To hear him talkyou might think no one had had a square meal since Dickens died. Youmight think that all landladies died with Mrs. Lirriper."

  "Very ungrateful of him," said Titania. "I'm sure I couldn't ask forbetter potatoes, or a nicer hostess, than I've found in Brooklyn."

  "Well, well," said Roger. "You are right, of course. And yetsomething went out of the world when Victorian England vanished,something that will never come again. Take the stagecoach drivers, forinstance. What a racy, human type they were! And what have we now tocompare with them? Subway guards? Taxicab drivers? I have hungaround many an all-night lunchroom to hear the chauffeurs talk. Butthey are too much on the move, you can't get the picture of them theway Dickens could of his types. You can't catch that sort of thing ina snapshot, you know: you have to have a time exposure. I'll grantyou, though, that lunchroom food is mighty good. The best place to eatis always a counter where the chauffeurs congregate. They get awfullyhungry, you see, driving round in the cold, and when they want foodthey want it hot and tasty. There's a little hash-alley calledFrank's, up on Broadway near 77th, where I guess the ham and eggs andFrench fried is as good as any Mr. Pickwick ever ate."

  "I must get Edwards to take me there," said Titania. "Edwards is ourchauffeur. I've been to the Ansonia for tea, that's near there."

  "Better keep away," said Helen. "When Roger comes home from thoseplaces he smells so strong of onions it brings tears to my eyes."

  "We've just been talking about an assistant chef," said Roger; "thatsuggests that I read you Somebody's Luggage, which is all about a headwaiter. I have often wished I could get a job as a waiter or a busboy, just to learn if there really are any such head waiters nowadays.You kno
w there are all sorts of jobs I'd like to have, just to fructifymy knowledge of human nature and find out whether life is really asgood as literature. I'd love to be a waiter, a barber, afloorwalker----"

  "Roger, my dear," said Helen, "why don't you get on with the reading?"

  Roger knocked out his pipe, turned Bock out of his chair, and sat downwith infinite relish to read the memorable character sketch ofChristopher, the head waiter, which is dear to every lover of taverns."The writer of these humble lines being a Waiter," he began. Theknitting needles flashed with diligence, and the dog by the fenderstretched himself out in the luxuriant vacancy of mind only known todogs surrounded by a happy group of their friends. And Roger, enjoyinghimself enormously, and particularly pleased by the chuckles of hisaudience, was approaching the ever-delightful items of the coffee-roombill which is to be found about ten pages on in the first chapter--howsad it is that hotel bills are not so rendered in these times--when thebell in the shop clanged. Picking up his pipe and matchbox, andgrumbling "It's always the way," he hurried out of the room.

  He was agreeably surprised to find that his caller was the youngadvertising man, Aubrey Gilbert.

  "Hullo!" he said. "I've been saving something for you. It's aquotation from Joseph Conrad about advertising."

  "Good enough," said Aubrey. "And I've got something for you. You wereso nice to me the other evening I took the liberty of bringing youround some tobacco. Here's a tin of Blue-Eyed Mixture, it's myfavourite. I hope you'll like it."

  "Bully for you. Perhaps I ought to let you off the Conrad quotationsince you're so kind."

  "Not a bit. I suppose it's a knock. Shoot!" The bookseller led theway back to his desk, where he rummaged among the litter and finallyfound a scrap of paper on which he had written:

  Being myself animated by feelings of affection toward my fellowmen, Iam saddened by the modern system of advertising. Whatever evidence itoffers of enterprise, ingenuity, impudence, and resource in certainindividuals, it proves to my mind the wide prevalence of that form ofmental degradation which is called gullibility. JOSEPH CONRAD.

  "What do you think of that?" said Roger. "You'll find that in thestory called The Anarchist."

  "I think less than nothing of it," said Aubrey. "As your friend DonMarquis observed the other evening, an idea isn't always to be blamedfor the people who believe in it. Mr. Conrad has been reading somequack ads, that's all. Because there are fake ads, that doesn'tcondemn the principle of Publicity. But look here, what I really cameround to see you for is to show you this. It was in the Times thismorning."

  He pulled out of his pocket a clipping of the LOST insertion to whichRoger's attention had already been drawn.

  "Yes, I've just seen it," said Roger. "I missed the book from myshelves, and I believe someone must have stolen it."

  "Well, now, I want to tell you something," said Aubrey. "To-night Ihad dinner at the Octagon with Mr. Chapman." "Is that so?" said Roger."You know his daughter's here now."

  "So he told me. It's rather interesting how it all works out. Yousee, after you told me the other day that Miss Chapman was coming towork for you, that gave me an idea. I knew her father would bespecially interested in Brooklyn, on that account, and it suggested tome an idea for a window-display campaign here in Brooklyn for theDaintybits Products. You know we handle all his sales promotioncampaigns. Of course I didn't let on that I knew about his daughtercoming over here, but he told me about it himself in the course of ourtalk. Well, here's what I'm getting at. We had dinner in theCzecho-Slovak Grill, up on the fourteenth floor, and going up in theelevator I saw a man in a chef's uniform carrying a book. I lookedover his shoulder to see what it was. I thought of course it would bea cook-book. It was a copy of Oliver Cromwell."

  "So he found it again, eh? I must go and have a talk with that chap.If he's a Carlyle fan I'd like to know him."

  "Wait a minute. I had seen the LOST ad in the paper this morning,because I always look over that column. Often it gives me ideas foradvertising stunts. If you keep an eye on the things people areanxious to get back, you know what they really prize, and if you knowwhat they prize you can get a line on what goods ought to be advertisedmore extensively. This was the first time I had ever noticed a LOST adfor a book, so I thought to myself "the book business is coming up."Well, when I saw the chef with the book in his hand, I said to himjokingly, "I see you found it again." He was a foreign-looking fellow,with a big beard, which is unusual for a chef, because I suppose it'slikely to get in the soup. He looked at me as though I'd run a carvingknife into him, almost scared me the way he looked. "Yes, yes," hesaid, and shoved the book out of sight under his arm. He seemed halfangry and half frightened, so I thought maybe he had no right to beriding in the passenger elevator and was scared someone would reporthim to the manager. Just as we were getting to the fourteenth floor Isaid to him in a whisper, "It's all right, old chap, I'm not going toreport you." I give you my word he looked more scared than before. Hewent quite white. I got off at the fourteenth, and he followed me out.I thought he was going to speak to me, but Mr. Chapman was there in thelobby, and he didn't have a chance. But I noticed that he watched meinto the grill room as though I was his last chance of salvation."

  "I guess the poor devil was scared you'd report him to the police forstealing the book," said Roger. "Never mind, let him have it."

  "Did he steal it?"

  "I haven't a notion. But somebody did, because it disappeared fromhere."

  "Well, now, wait a minute. Here's the queer part of it. I didn'tthink anything more about it, except that it was a funny coincidence myseeing him after having noticed that ad in the paper. I had a longtalk with Mr. Chapman, and we discussed some plans for a prune andSaratoga chip campaign, and I showed him some suggested copy I hadprepared. Then he told me about his daughter, and I let on that I knewyou. I left the Octagon about eight o'clock, and I thought I'd runover here on the subway just to show you the LOST notice and give youthis tobacco. And when I got off the subway at Atlantic Avenue, whoshould I see but friend chef again. He got off the same train I did.He had on civilian clothes then, of course, and when he was out of hiswhite uniform and pancake hat I recognized him right off. Who do yousuppose it was?"

  "Can't imagine," said Roger, highly interested by this time.

  "Why, the professor-looking guy who came in to ask for the book thefirst night I was here."

  "Humph! Well, he must be keen about Carlyle, because he was horriblydisappointed that evening when he asked for the book and I couldn'tfind it. I remember how he insisted that I MUST have it, and I huntedall through the History shelves to make sure it hadn't got misplaced.He said that some friend of his had seen it here, and he had come rightround to buy it. I told him he could certainly get a copy at thePublic Library, and he said that wouldn't do at all."

  "Well, I think he's nuts," said Aubrey, "because I'm damn sure hefollowed me down the street after I left the subway. I stopped in atthe drug store on the corner to get some matches, and when I came out,there he was underneath the lamp-post."

  "If it was a modern author, instead of Carlyle," said Roger, "I'd sayit was some publicity stunt pulled off by the publishers. You knowthey go to all manner of queer dodges to get an author's name in print.But Carlyle's copyrights expired long ago, so I don't see the game."

  "I guess he's picketing your place to try and steal the formula foreggs Samuel Butler," said Aubrey, and they both laughed.

  "You'd better come in and meet my wife and Miss Chapman," said Roger.The young man made some feeble demur, but it was obvious to thebookseller that he was vastly elated at the idea of making MissChapman's acquaintance.

  "Here's a friend of mine," said Roger, ushering Aubrey into the littleroom where Helen and Titania were still sitting by the fire. "Mrs.Mifflin, Mr. Aubrey Gilbert, Miss Chapman, Mr. Gilbert."

  Aubrey was vaguely aware of the rows of books, of the shining coals,
ofthe buxom hostess and the friendly terrier; but with the intense focusof an intelligent young male mind these were all merely appurtenancesto the congenial spectacle of the employee. How quickly a young man'ssenses assemble and assimilate the data that are really relevant!Without seeming even to look in that direction he had performed themost amazing feat of lightning calculation known to the humanfaculties. He had added up all the young ladies of his acquaintance,and found the sum total less than the girl before him. He hadsubtracted the new phenomenon from the universe as he knew it,including the solar system and the advertising business, and found theremainder a minus quantity. He had multiplied the contents of hisintellect by a factor he had no reason to assume "constant," and wasstartled at what teachers call (I believe) the "product." And he haddivided what was in the left-hand armchair into his own career, andfound no room for a quotient. All of which transpired in the length oftime necessary for Roger to push forward another chair.

  With the politeness desirable in a well-bred youth, Aubrey's firstinstinct was to make himself square with the hostess. Resolutely heoccluded blue eyes, silk shirtwaist, and admirable chin from his mentalvision.

  "It's awfully good of you to let me come in," he said to Mrs. Mifflin."I was here the other evening and Mr. Mifflin insisted on my staying tosupper with him."

  "I'm very glad to see you," said Helen. "Roger told me about you. Ihope he didn't poison you with any of his outlandish dishes. Wait tillhe tries you with brandied peaches a la Harold Bell Wright."

  Aubrey uttered some genial reassurance, still making the supremesacrifice of keeping his eyes away from where (he felt) they belonged.

  "Mr. Gilbert has just had a queer experience," said Roger. "Tell themabout it."

  In the most reckless way, Aubrey permitted himself to be impaled upon adirect and interested flash of blue lightning. "I was having dinnerwith your father at the Octagon."

  The high tension voltage of that bright blue current felt like ohmsweet ohm, but Aubrey dared not risk too much of it at once. Fearingto blow out a fuse, he turned in panic to Mrs. Mifflin. "You see," heexplained, "I write a good deal of Mr. Chapman's advertising for him.We had an appointment to discuss some business matters. We're planninga big barrage on prunes."

  "Dad works much too hard, don't you think?" said Titania.

  Aubrey welcomed this as a pleasant avenue of discussion leading intothe parkland of Miss Chapman's family affairs; but Roger insisted onhis telling the story of the chef and the copy of Cromwell.

  "And he followed you here?" exclaimed Titania. "What fun! I had noidea the book business was so exciting."

  "Better lock the door to-night, Roger," said Mrs. Mifflin, "or he maywalk off with a set of the Encyclopaedia Britannica."

  "Why, my dear," said Roger, "I think this is grand news. Here's a man,in a humble walk of life, so keen about good books that he even picketsa bookstore on the chance of swiping some. It's the most encouragingthing I've ever heard of. I must write to the Publishers' Weekly aboutit."

  "Well," said Aubrey, "you mustn't let me interrupt your little party."

  "You're not interrupting," said Roger. "We were only reading aloud.Do you know Dickens' Christmas Stories?"

  "I'm afraid I don't."

  "Suppose we go on reading, shall we?"

  "Please do."

  "Yes, do go on," said Titania. "Mr. Mifflin was just reading about amost adorable head waiter in a London chop house."

  Aubrey begged permission to light his pipe, and Roger picked up thebook. "But before we read the items of the coffee-room bill," he said,"I think it only right that we should have a little refreshment. Thispassage should never be read without something to accompany it. Mydear, what do you say to a glass of sherry all round?"

  "It is sad to have to confess it," said Mrs. Mifflin to Titania, "Mr.Mifflin can never read Dickens without having something to drink. Ithink the sale of Dickens will fall off terribly when prohibition comesin."

  "I once took the trouble to compile a list of the amount of liquordrunk in Dickens' works," said Roger, "and I assure you the total wasastounding: 7,000 hogsheads, I believe it was. Calculations of thatsort are great fun. I have always intended to write a little essay onthe rainstorms in the stories of Robert Louis Stevenson. You see R. L.S. was a Scot, and well acquainted with wet weather. Excuse me amoment, I'll just run down cellar and get up a bottle."

  Roger left the room, and they heard his steps passing down into thecellar. Bock, after the manner of dogs, followed him. The smells ofcellars are a rare treat to dogs, especially ancient Brooklyn cellarswhich have a cachet all their own. The cellar of the Haunted Bookshopwas, to Bock, a fascinating place, illuminated by a warm glow from thefurnace, and piled high with split packing-cases which Roger used askindling. From below came the rasp of a shovel among coal, and theclear, musical slither as the lumps were thrown from the iron scooponto the fire. Just then the bell rang in the shop.

  "Let me go," said Titania, jumping up.

  "Can't I?" said Aubrey.

  "Nonsense!" said Mrs. Mifflin, laying down her knitting. "Neither ofyou knows anything about the stock. Sit down and be comfortable. I'llbe right back."

  Aubrey and Titania looked at each other with a touch of embarrassment.

  "Your father sent you his--his kind regards," said Aubrey. That wasnot what he had intended to say, but somehow he could not utter theword. "He said not to read all the books at once."

  Titania laughed. "How funny that you should run into him just when youwere coming here. He's a duck, isn't he?"

  "Well, you see I only know him in a business way, but he certainly is acorker. He believes in advertising, too."

  "Are you crazy about books?"

  "Why, I never really had very much to do with them. I'm afraid you'llthink I'm terribly ignorant----"

  "Not at all. I'm awfully glad to meet someone who doesn't think it's acrime not to have read all the books there are."

  "This is a queer kind of place, isn't it?"

  "Yes, it's a funny idea to call it the Haunted Bookshop. I wonder whatit means."

  "Mr. Mifflin told me it meant haunted by the ghosts of greatliterature. I hope they won't annoy you. The ghost of Thomas Carlyleseems to be pretty active."

  "I'm not afraid of ghosts," said Titania.

  Aubrey gazed at the fire. He wanted to say that he intended from nowon to do a little haunting on his own account but he did not know justhow to break it gently. And then Roger returned from the cellar withthe bottle of sherry. As he was uncorking it, they heard the shop doorclose, and Mrs. Mifflin came in.

  "Well, Roger," she said; "if you think so much of your old Cromwell,you'd better keep it in here. Here it is." She laid the book on thetable.

  "For the love of Mike!" exclaimed Roger. "Who brought it back?"

  "I guess it was your friend the assistant chef," said Mrs. Mifflin."Anyway, he had a beard like a Christmas tree. He was mighty polite.He said he was terribly absent minded, and that the other day he was inhere looking at some books and just walked off with it without knowingwhat he was doing. He offered to pay for the trouble he had caused,but of course I wouldn't let him. I asked if he wanted to see you, buthe said he was in a hurry."

  "I'm almost disappointed," said Roger. "I thought that I had turned upa real booklover. Here we are, all hands drink the health of Mr.Thomas Carlyle."

  The toast was drunk, and they settled themselves in their chairs.

  "And here's to the new employee," said Helen. This also wasdispatched, Aubrey draining his glass with a zeal which did not escapeMiss Chapman's discerning eye. Roger then put out his hand for theDickens. But first he picked up his beloved Cromwell. He looked at itcarefully, and then held the volume close to the light.

  "The mystery's not over yet," he said. "It's been rebound. This isn'tthe original binding."

  "Are you sure?" said Helen in surprise. "It looks the same."

  "The binding has been cleve
rly imitated, but it can't fool me. In thefirst place, there was a rubbed corner at the top; and there was an inkstain on one of the end papers."

  "There's still a stain there," said Aubrey, looking over his shoulder.

  "Yes, but not the same stain. I've had that book long enough to knowit by heart. Now what the deuce would that lunatic want to have itrebound for?"

  "Goodness gracious," said Helen, "put it away and forget about it.We'll all be dreaming about Carlyle if you're not careful."