Chapter XIII
The Battle of Ludlow Street
Rarely was a more genuine tribute paid to entrancing girlhood than whenAubrey compelled himself, by sheer force of will and the ticking of hissubconscious time-sense, to wake at six o'clock the next morning. Forthis young man took sleep seriously and with a primitive zest. It wasto him almost a religious function. As a minor poet has said, he "madesleep a career."
But he did not know what train Roger might be taking, and he wasdetermined not to miss him. By a quarter after six he was seated inthe Milwaukee Lunch (which is never closed--Open from Now Till theJudgment Day. Tables for Ladies, as its sign says) with a cup ofcoffee and corned beef hash. In the mood of tender melancholy commonto unaccustomed early rising he dwelt fondly on the thought of Titania,so near and yet so far away. He had leisure to give free rein to thesemusings, for it was ten past seven before Roger appeared, hurryingtoward the subway. Aubrey followed at a discreet distance, taking carenot to be observed.
The bookseller and his pursuer both boarded the eight o'clock train atthe Pennsylvania Station, but in very different moods. To Roger, thisexpedition was a frolic, pure and simple. He had been tied down to thebookshop so long that a day's excursion seemed too good to be true. Hebought two cigars--an unusual luxury--and let the morning paper lieunheeded in his lap as the train drummed over the Hackensack marshes.He felt a good deal of pride in having been summoned to appraise theOldham library. Mr. Oldham was a very distinguished collector, awealthy Philadelphia merchant whose choice Johnson, Lamb, Keats, andBlake items were the envy of connoisseurs all over the world. Rogerknew very well that there were many better-known dealers who would havejumped at the chance to examine the collection and pocket theappraiser's fee. The word that Roger had had by long distancetelephone was that Mr. Oldham had decided to sell his collection, andbefore putting it to auction desired the advices of an expert as to theprices his items should command in the present state of the market.And as Roger was not particularly conversant with current events in theworld of rare books and manuscripts, he spent most of the trip inturning over some annotated catalogues of recent sales which Mr.Chapman had lent him. "This invitation," he said to himself, "confirmswhat I have always said, that the artist, in any line of work, willeventually be recognized above the mere tradesman. Somehow or otherMr. Oldham has heard that I am not only a seller of old books but alover of them. He prefers to have me go over his treasures with him,rather than one of those who peddle these things like so much tallow."
Aubrey's humour was far removed from that of the happy bookseller. Inthe first place, Roger was sitting in the smoker, and as Aubrey fearedto enter the same car for fear of being observed, he had to do withouthis pipe. He took the foremost seat in the second coach, and peeringoccasionally through the glass doors he could see the bald poll of hisquarry wreathed with exhalements of cheap havana. Secondly, he hadhoped to see Weintraub on the same train, but though he had tarried atthe train-gate until the last moment, the German had not appeared. Hehad concluded from Weintraub's words the night before that druggist andbookseller were bound on a joint errand. Apparently he was mistaken.He bit his nails, glowered at the flying landscape, and revolved manygrievous fancies in his prickling bosom. Among other discontents wasthe knowledge that he did not have enough money with him to pay hisfare back to New York, and he would either have to borrow from someonein Philadelphia or wire to his office for funds. He had notanticipated, when setting out upon this series of adventures, that itwould prove so costly.
The train drew into Broad Street station at ten o'clock, and Aubreyfollowed the bookseller through the bustling terminus and round theCity Hall plaza. Mifflin seemed to know his way, but Philadelphia wascomparatively strange to the Grey-Matter solicitor. He was quitesurprised at the impressive vista of South Broad Street, and chagrinedto find people jostling him on the crowded pavement as though they didnot know he had just come from New York.
Roger turned in at a huge office building on Broad Street and took anexpress elevator. Aubrey did not dare follow him into the car, so hewaited in the lobby. He learned from the starter that there was asecond tier of elevators on the other side of the building, so hetipped a boy a quarter to watch them for him, describing Mifflin soaccurately that he could not be missed. By this time Aubrey was in athoroughly ill temper, and enjoyed quarrelling with the starter on thesubject of indicators for showing the position of the elevators.Observing that in this building the indicators were glass tubes inwhich the movement of the car was traced by a rising or falling columnof coloured fluid, Aubrey remarked testily that that old-fashionedstunt had long been abandoned in New York. The starter retorted thatNew York was only two hours away if he liked it better. This argumenthelped to fleet the time rapidly.
Meanwhile Roger, with the pleasurable sensation of one who expects tobe received as a distinguished visitor from out of town, had enteredthe luxurious suite of Mr. Oldham. A young lady, rather tootransparently shirtwaisted but fair to look upon, asked what she coulddo for him.
"I want to see Mr. Oldham."
"What name shall I say?"
"Mr. Mifflin--Mr. Mifflin of Brooklyn."
"Have you an appointment?"
"Yes."
Roger sat down with agreeable anticipation. He noticed the shiningmahogany of the office furniture, the sparkling green jar of drinkingwater, the hushed and efficient activity of the young ladies."Philadelphia girls are amazingly comely," he said to himself, "butnone of these can hold a candle to Miss Titania."
The young lady returned from the private office looking a littleperplexed.
"Did you have an appointment with Mr. Oldham?" she said. "He doesn'tseem to recall it."
"Why, certainly," said Roger. "It was arranged by telephone onSaturday afternoon. Mr. Oldham's secretary called me up."
"Have I got your name right?" she asked, showing a slip on which shehad written Mr. Miflin.
"Two f's," said Roger. "Mr. Roger Mifflin, the bookseller."
The girl retired, and came back a moment later.
"Mr. Oldham's very busy," she said, "but he can see you for a moment."
Roger was ushered into the private office, a large, airy room linedwith bookshelves. Mr. Oldham, a tall, thin man with short gray hairand lively black eyes, rose courteously from his desk.
"How do you do, sir," he said. "I'm sorry, I had forgotten ourappointment."
"He must be very absent minded," thought Roger. "Arranges to sell acollection worth half a million, and forgets all about it."
"I came over in response to your message," he said. "About sellingyour collection."
Mr. Oldham looked at him, rather intently, Roger thought.
"Do you want to buy it?" he said.
"To buy it?" said Roger, a little peevishly. "Why, no. I came over toappraise it for you. Your secretary telephoned me on Saturday."
"My dear sir," replied the other, "there must be some mistake. I haveno intention of selling my collection. I never sent you a message."
Roger was aghast.
"Why," he exclaimed, "your secretary called me up on Saturday and saidyou particularly wanted me to come over this morning, to examine yourbooks with you. I've made the trip from Brooklyn for that purpose."
Mr. Oldham touched a buzzer, and a middle-aged woman came into theoffice. "Miss Patterson," he said, "did you telephone to Mr. Mifflinof Brooklyn on Saturday, asking him----"
"It was a man that telephoned," said Roger.
"I'm exceedingly sorry, Mr. Mifflin," said Mr. Oldham. "More sorrythan I can tell you--I'm afraid someone has played a trick on you. AsI told you, and Miss Patterson will bear me out, I have no idea ofselling my books, and have never authorized any one even to suggestsuch a thing."
Roger was filled with confusion and anger. A hoax on the part of someof the Corn Cob Club, he thought to himself. He flushed painfully torecall the simplicity of his glee.
"Please don't be embarrassed," said
Mr. Oldham, seeing the little man'svexation. "Don't let's consider the trip wasted. Won't you come outand dine with me in the country this evening, and see my things?"
But Roger was too proud to accept this balm, courteous as it was.
"I'm sorry," he said, "but I'm afraid I can't do it. I'm rather busyat home, and only came over because I believed this to be urgent."
"Some other time, perhaps," said Mr. Oldham. "Look here, you're abookseller? I don't believe I know your shop. Give me your card. Thenext time I'm in New York I'd like to stop in."
Roger got away as quickly as the other's politeness would let him. Hechafed savagely at the awkwardness of his position. Not until hereached the street again did he breathe freely.
"Some of Jerry Gladfist's tomfoolery, I'll bet a hat," he muttered."By the bones of Fanny Kelly, I'll make him smart for it."
Even Aubrey, picking up the trail again, could see that Roger was angry.
"Something's got his goat," he reflected. "I wonder what he's peevedabout?"
They crossed Broad Street and Roger started off down Chestnut. Aubreysaw the bookseller halt in a doorway to light his pipe, and stoppedsome yards behind him to look up at the statue of William Penn on theCity Hall. It was a blustery day, and at that moment a gust of windwhipped off his hat and sent it spinning down Broad Street. He ranhalf a block before he recaptured it. When he got back to Chestnut,Roger had disappeared. He hurried down Chestnut Street, bumpingpedestrians in his eagerness, but at Thirteenth he halted in dismay.Nowhere could he see a sign of the little bookseller. He appealed tothe policeman at that corner, but learned nothing. Vainly he scouredthe block and up and down Juniper Street. It was eleven o'clock, andthe streets were thronged.
He cursed the book business in both hemispheres, cursed himself, andcursed Philadelphia. Then he went into a tobacconist's and bought apacket of cigarettes.
For an hour he patrolled up and down Chestnut Street, on both sides ofthe way, thinking he might possibly encounter Roger. At the end ofthis time he found himself in front of a newspaper office, andremembered that an old friend of his was an editorial writer on thestaff. He entered, and went up in the elevator.
He found his friend in a small grimy den, surrounded by a sea ofpapers, smoking a pipe with his feet on the table. They greeted eachother joyfully.
"Well, look who's here!" cried the facetious journalist. "Tamburlainethe Great, and none other! What brings you to this distant outpost?"
Aubrey grinned at the use of his old college nickname.
"I've come to lunch with you, and borrow enough money to get home with."
"On Monday?" cried the other. "Tuesday being the day of stipend inthese quarters? Nay, say not so!"
They lunched together at a quiet Italian restaurant, and Aubreynarrated tersely the adventures of the past few days. The newspaperman smoked pensively when the story was concluded.
"I'd like to see the girl," he said. "Tambo, your tale hath the ringof sincerity. It is full of sound and fury, but it signifiethsomething. You say your man is a second-hand bookseller?"
"Yes."
"Then I know where you'll find him."
"Nonsense!"
"It's worth trying. Go up to Leary's, 9 South Ninth. It's right onthis street. I'll show you."
"Let's go," said Aubrey promptly.
"Not only that," said the other, "but I'll lend you my last V. Not foryour sake, but on behalf of the girl. Just mention my name to her,will you?
"Right up the block," he pointed as they reached Chestnut Street. "No,I won't come with you, Wilson's speaking to Congress to-day, andthere's big stuff coming over the wire. So long, old man. Invite meto the wedding!"
Aubrey had no idea what Leary's was, and rather expected it to be atavern of some sort. When he reached the place, however, he saw whyhis friend had suggested it as a likely lurking ground for Roger. Itwould be as impossible for any bibliophile to pass this famoussecond-hand bookstore as for a woman to go by a wedding party withouttrying to see the bride. Although it was a bleak day, and a snell windblew down the street, the pavement counters were lined with peopleturning over disordered piles of volumes. Within, he could see a vistaof white shelves, and the many-coloured tapestry of bindings stretchingfar away to the rear of the building.
He entered eagerly, and looked about. The shop was comfortably busy,with a number of people browsing. They seemed normal enough frombehind, but in their eyes he detected the wild, peering glitter of thebibliomaniac. Here and there stood members of the staff. Upon theirfeatures Aubrey discerned the placid and philosophic tranquillity whichhe associated with second-hand booksellers--all save Mifflin.
He paced through the narrow aisles, scanning the blissful throng ofseekers. He went down to the educational department in the basement,up to the medical books in the gallery, even back to the sections ofDrama and Pennsylvania History in the raised quarterdeck at the rear.There was no trace of Roger.
At a desk under the stairway he saw a lean, studious, andkindly-looking bibliosoph, who was poring over an immense catalogue.An idea struck him.
"Have you a copy of Carlyle's Letters and Speeches of Oliver Cromwell?"he asked.
The other looked up.
"I'm afraid we haven't," he said. "Another gentleman was in hereasking for it just a few minutes ago."
"Good God!" cried Aubrey. "Did he get it?"
This emphasis brought no surprise to the bookseller, who was accustomedto the oddities of edition hunters.
"No," he said. "We didn't have a copy. We haven't seen one for a longtime."
"Was he a little bald man with a red beard and bright blue eyes?" askedAubrey hoarsely.
"Yes--Mr. Mifflin of Brooklyn. Do you know him?"
"I should say I do!" cried Aubrey. "Where has he gone? I've beenhunting him all over town, the scoundrel!"
The bookseller, douce man, had seen too many eccentric customers to beshocked by the vehemence of his questioner.
"He was here a moment ago," he said gently, and gazed with a mildinterest upon the excited young advertising man. "I daresay you'llfind him just outside, in Ludlow Street."
"Where's that?"
The tall man--and I don't see why I should scruple to name him, for itwas Philip Warner--explained that Ludlow Street was the narrow alleythat runs along one side of Leary's and elbows at right angles behindthe shop. Down the flank of the store, along this narrow littlestreet, run shelves of books under a penthouse. It is here thatLeary's displays its stock of ragamuffin ten-centers--queer dingyvolumes that call to the hearts of gentle questers. Along thesehistoric shelves many troubled spirits have come as near happiness asthey are like to get . . . for after all, happiness (as themathematicians might say) lies on a curve, and we approach it only byasymptote. . . . The frequenters of this alley call themselveswhimsically The Ludlow Street Business Men's Association, and CharlesLamb or Eugene Field would have been proud to preside at their annualdinners, at which the members recount their happiest book-finds of theyear.
Aubrey rushed out of the shop and looked down the alley. Half a dozenLudlow Street Business Men were groping among the shelves. Then, downat the far end, his small face poked into an open volume, he saw Roger.He approached with a rapid stride.
"Well," he said angrily, "here you are!"
Roger looked up from his book good-humouredly. Apparently, in the zealof his favourite pastime, he had forgotten where he was.
"Hullo!" he said. "What are you doing in Brooklyn? Look here, here'sa copy of Tooke's Pantheon----"
"What's the idea?" cried Aubrey harshly. "Are you trying to kid me?What are you and Weintraub framing up here in Philadelphia?"
Roger's mind came back to Ludlow Street. He looked with some surpriseat the flushed face of the young man, and put the book back in itsplace on the shelf, making a mental note of its location. Hisdisappointment of the morning came back to him with some irritation.
"What are you talking about?" he sa
id. "What the deuce business is itof yours?"
"I'll make it my business," said Aubrey, and shook his fist in thebookseller's face. "I've been trailing you, you scoundrel, and I wantto know what kind of a game you're playing."
A spot of red spread on Roger's cheekbones. In spite of his apparentdemureness he had a pugnacious spirit and a quick fist.
"By the bones of Charles Lamb!" he said. "Young man, your manners needmending. If you're looking for display advertising, I'll give you oneon each eye."
Aubrey had expected to find a cringing culprit, and this back talkinfuriated him beyond control.
"You damned little bolshevik," he said, "if you were my size I'd giveyou a hiding. You tell me what you and your pro-German pals are up toor I'll put the police on you!"
Roger stiffened. His beard bristled, and his blue eyes glittered.
"You impudent dog," he said quietly, "you come round the corner wherethese people can't see us and I'll give you some private tutoring."
He led the way round the corner of the alley. In this narrow channel,between blank walls, they confronted each other.
"In the name of Gutenberg," said Roger, calling upon his patron saint,"explain yourself or I'll hit you."
"Who's he?" sneered Aubrey. "Another one of your Huns?"
That instant he received a smart blow on the chin, which would havebeen much harder but that Roger misgauged his footing on the unevencobbles, and hardly reached the face of his opponent, who topped him bymany inches.
Aubrey forgot his resolution not to hit a smaller man, and also callingupon his patron saints--the Associated Advertising Clubs of theWorld--he delivered a smashing slog which hit the bookseller in thechest and jolted him half across the alley.
Both men were furiously angry--Aubrey with the accumulated bitternessof several days' anxiety and suspicion, and Roger with thequick-flaming indignation of a hot-tempered man unwarrantably outraged.Aubrey had the better of the encounter in height, weight, and more thantwenty years juniority, but fortune played for the bookseller.Aubrey's terrific punch sent the latter staggering across the alleyonto the opposite curb. Aubrey followed him up with a rush, intendingto crush the other with one fearful smite. But Roger, keeping cool,now had the advantage of position. Standing on the curb, he had alittle the better in height. As Aubrey leaped at him, his face grimwith hatred, Roger met him with a savage buffet on the jaw. Aubrey'sfoot struck against the curb, and he fell backward onto the stones.His head crashed violently on the cobbles, and the old cut on his scalpbroke out afresh. Dazed and shaken, there was, for the moment, no morefight in him.
"You insolent pup," panted Roger, "do you want any more?" Then he sawthat Aubrey was really hurt. With horror he observed a trickle ofblood run down the side of the young man's face.
"Good Lord," he said. "Maybe I've killed him!"
In a panic he ran round the corner to get Leary's outside man, whostands in a little sentry box at the front angle of the store and sellsthe outdoor books.
"Quick," he said. "There's a fellow back here badly hurt."
They ran back around the corner, and found Aubrey walking rathershakily toward them. Immense relief swam through Roger's brain.
"Look here," he said, "I'm awfully sorry--are you hurt?"
Aubrey glared whitely at him, but was too stunned to speak. Hegrunted, and the others took him one on each side and supported him.Leary's man ran inside the store and opened the little door of thefreight elevator at the back of the shop. In this way, avoiding noticesave by a few book-prowlers, Aubrey was carted into the shop as thoughhe had been a parcel of second-hand books.
Mr. Warner greeted them at the back of the shop, a little surprised,but gentle as ever.
"What's wrong?" he said.
"Oh, we've been fighting over a copy of Tooke's Pantheon," said Roger.
They led Aubrey into the little private office at the rear. Here theymade him sit down in a chair and bathed his bleeding head with coldwater. Philip Warner, always resourceful, produced some surgicalplaster. Roger wanted to telephone for a doctor.
"Not on your life," said Aubrey, pulling himself together. "See here,Mr. Mifflin, don't flatter yourself you gave me this cut on the skull.I got that the other evening on Brooklyn Bridge, going home from yourdamned bookshop. Now if you and I can be alone for a few minutes,we've got to have a talk."
The Haunted Bookshop Page 14
