The Haunted Bookshop

by Christopher Morley

  Chapter V

  Aubrey Walks Part Way Home--and Rides The Rest of the Way

  It was a cold, clear night as Mr. Aubrey Gilbert left the HauntedBookshop that evening, and set out to walk homeward. Without making avery conscious choice, he felt instinctively that it would be agreeableto walk back to Manhattan rather than permit the roaring disillusion ofthe subway to break in upon his meditations.

  It is to be feared that Aubrey would have badly flunked any quizzing onthe chapters of Somebody's Luggage which the bookseller had read aloud.His mind was swimming rapidly in the agreeable, unfettered fashion of astream rippling downhill. As O. Henry puts it in one of his mostdelightful stories: "He was outwardly decent and managed to preservehis aquarium, but inside he was impromptu and full of unexpectedness."To say that he was thinking of Miss Chapman would imply too much powerof ratiocination and abstract scrutiny on his part. He was notthinking: he was being thought. Down the accustomed channels of hisintellect he felt his mind ebbing with the irresistible movement oftides drawn by the blandishing moon. And across these shimmeringestuaries of impulse his will, a lost and naked athlete, was painfullyattempting to swim, but making much leeway and already almost resignedto being carried out to sea.

  He stopped a moment at Weintraub's drug store, on the corner of GissingStreet and Wordsworth Avenue, to buy some cigarettes, unfailing solaceof an agitated bosom.

  It was the usual old-fashioned pharmacy of those parts of Brooklyn:tall red, green, and blue vases of liquid in the windows threw blotchesof coloured light onto the pavement; on the panes was affixed whitechina lettering: H. WE TRAUB, DEUT CHE APOTHEKER. Inside, thecustomary shelves of labelled jars, glass cases holding cigars,nostrums and toilet knick-knacks, and in one corner an ancientrevolving bookcase deposited long ago by the Tabard Inn Library. Theshop was empty, but as he opened the door a bell buzzed sharply. In aback chamber he could hear voices. As he waited idly for the druggistto appear, Aubrey cast a tolerant eye over the dusty volumes in thetwirling case. There were the usual copies of Harold MacGrath's TheMan on the Box, A Girl of the Limberlost, and The Houseboat on theStyx. The Divine Fire, much grimed, leaned against Joe Chapple's HeartThrobs. Those familiar with the Tabard Inn bookcases still to be foundin outlying drug-shops know that the stock has not been "turned" formany a year. Aubrey was the more surprised, on spinning the the caseround, to find wedged in between two other volumes the empty cover of abook that had been torn loose from the pages to which it belonged. Heglanced at the lettering on the back. It ran thus:

  CARLYLE ---- OLIVER CROMWELL'S LETTERS AND SPEECHES

  Obeying a sudden impulse, he slipped the book cover in his overcoatpocket.

  Mr. Weintraub entered the shop, a solid Teutonic person withdiscoloured pouches under his eyes and a face that was a potentargument for prohibition. His manner, however, was that of one anxiousto please. Aubrey indicated the brand of cigarettes he wanted. Havinghimself coined the advertising catchword for them--They're mild--butthey satisfy--he felt a certain loyal compulsion always to smoke thiskind. The druggist held out the packet, and Aubrey noticed that hisfingers were stained a deep saffron colour.

  "I see you're a cigarette smoker, too," said Aubrey pleasantly, as heopened the packet and lit one of the paper tubes at a little alcoholflame burning in a globe of blue glass on the counter.

  "Me? I never smoke," said Mr. Weintraub, with a smile which somehowdid not seem to fit his surly face. "I must have steady nerves in myprofession. Apothecaries who smoke make up bad prescriptions."

  "Well, how do you get your hands stained that way?"

  Mr. Weintraub removed his hands from the counter.

  "Chemicals," he grunted. "Prescriptions--all that sort of thing."

  "Well," said Aubrey, "smoking's a bad habit. I guess I do too much ofit." He could not resist the impression that someone was listening totheir talk. The doorway at the back of the shop was veiled by aportiere of beads and thin bamboo sections threaded on strings. Heheard them clicking as though they had been momentarily pulled aside.Turning, just as he opened the door to leave, he noticed the bamboocurtain swaying.

  "Well, good-night," he said, and stepped out onto the street.

  As he walked down Wordsworth Avenue, under the thunder of the L, pastlighted lunchrooms, oyster saloons, and pawnshops, Miss Chapman resumedher sway. With the delightful velocity of thought his mind whirled ina narrowing spiral round the experience of the evening. The smallbook-crammed sitting room of the Mifflins, the sparkling fire, thelively chirrup of the bookseller reading aloud--and there, in the oldeasy chair whose horsehair stuffing was bulging out, that blue-eyedvision of careless girlhood! Happily he had been so seated that hecould study her without seeming to do so. The line of her ankle wherethe firelight danced upon it put Coles Phillips to shame, he averred.Extraordinary, how these creatures are made to torment us with theirintolerable comeliness! Against the background of dusky bindings herhead shone with a soft haze of gold. Her face, that had an air ofnaive and provoking independence, made him angry with its unnecessarysurplus of enchantment. An unaccountable gust of rage drove himrapidly along the frozen street. "Damn it," he cried, "what right hasany girl to be as pretty as that? Why--why, I'd like to beat her!" hemuttered, amazed at himself. "What the devil right has a girl got tolook so innocently adorable?"

  It would be unseemly to follow poor Aubrey in his vacillations of rageand worship as he thrashed along Wordsworth Avenue, hearing and seeingno more than was necessary for the preservation of his life at streetcrossings. Half-smoked cigarette stubs glowed in his wake;[2] hisburly bosom echoed with incoherent oratory. In the darker stretches ofFulton Street that lead up to the Brooklyn Bridge he fiercelyexclaimed: "By God, it's not such a bad world." As he ascended theslope of that vast airy span, a black midget against a froth of stars,he was gravely planning such vehemence of exploit in the advertisingprofession as would make it seem less absurd to approach the Presidentof the Daintybits Corporation with a question for which no progenitorof loveliness is ever quite prepared.

  [2] NOTE WHILE PROOFREADING: Surely this phrase was unconsciouslylifted from R. L. S. But where does the original occur? C. D. M.

  In the exact centre of the bridge something diluted his mood; hehalted, leaning against the railing, to consider the splendour of thescene. The hour was late--moving on toward midnight--but in the tallblack precipices of Manhattan scattered lights gleamed, in an odd,irregular pattern like the sparse punctures on the raffle-board--"takea chance on a Milk-Fed Turkey"--the East Indian elevator-boy presentsto apartment-house tenants about Hallowe'en. A fume of golden lighteddied over uptown merriment: he could see the ruby beacon on theMetropolitan Tower signal three quarters. Underneath the airy deckingof the bridge a tug went puffing by, her port and starboard lampstrailing red and green threads over the tideway. Some great argosy ofthe Staten Island fleet swept serenely down to St. George, past Libertyin her soft robe of light, carrying theatred commuters, dazed withweariness and blinking at the raw fury of the electric bulbs. Overheadthe night was a superb arch of clear frost, sifted with stars. Bluesparks crackled stickily along the trolley wires as the cars groanedover the bridge.

  Aubrey surveyed all this splendid scene without exact observation. Hewas of a philosophic turn, and was attempting to console hisdiscomfiture in the overwhelming lustre of Miss Titania by the thoughtthat she was, after all, the creature and offspring of the science heworshipped--that of Advertising. Was not the fragrance of herpresence, the soft compulsion of her gaze, even the delirious frill ofmuslin at her wrist, to be set down to the credit of his chosen art?Had he not, pondering obscurely upon "attention-compelling" copy andlay-out and type-face, in a corner of the Grey-Matter office,contributed to the triumphant prosperity and grace of this unconsciousbeneficiary? Indeed she seemed to him, fi
ercely tormenting himselfwith her loveliness, a symbol of the mysterious and subtle power ofpublicity. It was Advertising that had done this--that had enabled Mr.Chapman, a shy and droll little person, to surround this girl with allthe fructifying glories of civilization--to foster and cherish heruntil she shone upon the earth like a morning star! Advertising hadclothed her, Advertising had fed her, schooled, roofed, and shelteredher. In a sense she was the crowning advertisement of her father'scareer, and her innocent perfection taunted him just as much as thebright sky-sign he knew was flashing the words CHAPMAN PRUNES above theteeming pavements of Times Square. He groaned to think that hehimself, by his conscientious labours, had helped to put this girl insuch a position that he could hardly dare approach her.

  He would never have approached her again, on any pretext, if theintensity of his thoughts had not caused him, unconsciously, to gripthe railing of the bridge with strong and angry hands. For at thatmoment a sack was thrown over his head from behind and he was violentlyseized by the legs, with the obvious intent of hoisting him over theparapet. His unexpected grip on the railing delayed this attempt justlong enough to save him. Swept off his feet by the fury of theassault, he fell sideways against the barrier and had the good fortuneto seize his enemy by the leg. Muffled in the sacking, it was vain tocry out; but he held furiously to the limb he had grasped and he andhis attacker rolled together on the footway. Aubrey was a powerfulman, and even despite the surprise could probably have got the betterof the situation; but as he wrestled desperately and tried to ridhimself of his hood, a crashing blow fell upon his head, half stunninghim. He lay sprawled out, momentarily incapable of struggle, yetconscious enough to expect, rather curiously, the dizzying sensation ofa drop through insupportable air into the icy water of the East River.Hands seized him--and then, passively, he heard a shout, the sound offootsteps running on the planks, and other footsteps hurrying away attop speed. In a moment the sacking was torn from his head and afriendly pedestrian was kneeling beside him.

  "Say, are you all right?" said the latter anxiously. "Gee, those guysnearly got you."

  Aubrey was too faint and dizzy to speak for a moment. His head wasnumb and he felt certain that several inches of it had been caved in.Putting up his hand, feebly, he was surprised to find the contours ofhis skull much the same as usual. The stranger propped him against hisknee and wiped away a trickle of blood with his handkerchief.

  "Say, old man, I thought you was a goner," he said sympathetically. "Iseen those fellows jump you. Too bad they got away. Dirty work, I'llsay so."

  Aubrey gulped the night air, and sat up. The bridge rocked under him;against the star-speckled sky he could see the Woolworth Buildingbending and jazzing like a poplar tree in a gale. He felt very sick.

  "Ever so much obliged to you," he stammered. "I'll be all right in aminute."

  "D'you want me to go and ring up a nambulance?" said his assistant.

  "No, no," said Aubrey; "I'll be all right." He staggered to his feetand clung to the rail of the bridge, trying to collect his wits. Onephrase ran over and over in his mind with damnable iteration--"Mild,but they satisfy!"

  "Where were you going?" said the other, supporting him.

  "Madison Avenue and Thirty-Second----"

  "Maybe I can flag a jitney for you. Here," he cried, as anothercitizen approached afoot, "Give this fellow a hand. Someone beat himover the bean with a club. I'm going to get him a lift."

  The newcomer readily undertook the friendly task, and tied Aubrey'shandkerchief round his head, which was bleeding freely. After a fewmoments the first Samaritan succeeded in stopping a touring car whichwas speeding over from Brooklyn. The driver willingly agreed to takeAubrey home, and the other two helped him in. Barring a nasty gash onhis scalp he was none the worse.

  "A fellow needs a tin hat if he's going to wander round Long Island atnight," said the motorist genially. "Two fellows tried to hold me upcoming in from Rockville Centre the other evening. Maybe they were thesame two that picked on you. Did you get a look at them?"

  "No," said Aubrey. "That piece of sacking might have helped me tracethem, but I forgot it."

  "Want to run back for it?"

  "Never mind," said Aubrey. "I've got a hunch about this."

  "Think you know who it is? Maybe you're in politics, hey?"

  The car ran swiftly up the dark channel of the Bowery, into FourthAvenue, and turned off at Thirty-Second Street to deposit Aubrey infront of his boarding house. He thanked his convoy heartily, andrefused further assistance. After several false shots he got his latchkey in the lock, climbed four creaking flights, and stumbled into hisroom. Groping his way to the wash-basin, he bathed his throbbing head,tied a towel round it, and fell into bed.