Murder in the Bookshop

by Carolyn Wells

Slowly, Stone took the letter out. He laid the envelope carefully aside, though he had small hope of indicative fingerprints. Anyone as careful as this writer would not be likely to leave them, and if he had, subsequent handlings would confuse them beyond use.

  The double sheet matched the envelope and the date was correctly written, though without address.

  It began: ‘Mrs Philip Balfour: Dear Madam:’ in approved fashion, and the penmanship showed no look of disguise, no faltering and no undue haste.

  If from the criminal, Stone granted his admiration to one who used his own handwriting so freely, or so cleverly disguised his hand as to show no apparent hesitation or awkwardness.

  This is what he read and he marvelled afresh at the savoir-faire shown.

  ‘We have in our possession the book on the subject of certain taxation laws, rather dull reading, but made valuable by three signatures and some annotations by a previous owner. We are holding the volume at a ransom price of one hundred thousand dollars. We want to effect the exchange of the book and the money quickly and slickly. No shilly-shally work and no backing and filling. We annexed the volume for the sole purpose of getting ransom money, and we propose to get it with neatness and despatch. We are willing to state our terms and if you accept them at once the deal can be put through. If not, we shall immediately take the book apart and sell the three autographs separately. This can easily be done, and we can perhaps get as much that way as the book is worth intact. Yet you may prefer it as it is. In that case you must put a notice in one of the prominent morning papers. Any one, we shall read them all. Just say: “Your proposition will be considered,” and sign it “B.G.”, which will mean the name of the great signer. Unless this offer is accepted within three days, it is withdrawn, and the incident is closed. As proof that we have the book, you will find enclosed a copy of one of the annotations—your book dealer will recognize it. We do not want cipher letters, mysterious messages, go-betweens or any of the usual foolishness shown in such deals as we propose. We write frankly, and if you can trace our identity by this letter you are welcome to do so. We regret the forced omission of our signature and adopt that of—Button Gwinnett.’

  The letter filled nearly the four pages. Stone read it through and then read it through again.

  It seemed to him that from a letter as long as that one he should be able to deduce everything there was to know about the writer, including what he usually ate for breakfast.

  He decided the stationery might have been bought at any department store or small stationer’s and was useless as evidence.

  The writer, he thought, had obviously used an ordinary pen and not a fountain pen, as he could note almost every time the ink in the pen dwindled and necessitated another dip. This convinced him that the man who wrote the letter was accustomed to a fountain pen, and likely a typewriter, but used the farthest remove possible from those implements.

  The accuracy of the margins and spacing showed him afresh a methodical, fastidious nature, but after all these things meant little.

  An educated man with tidy and careful habits, who had a good vocabulary and knew how to spell it, was not sufficient data on which to build up a criminal.

  In view of the details the letter gave him, though, he tried to fit it to someone he knew.

  It would do for Ramsay. Doubtless the man never used a pen, but if he did, he would, Stone thought, produce just that sort of precise writing.

  The same thing could be said of Gill and of Guy Balfour, both of whom were tidy writers and scrupulously exact.

  He had unostentatiously taken occasion to look at their writing, with a view toward any graphological hints.

  But he must get more from this letter than any of those nebulous ideas.

  Such a lot of text must give him indications of practical and definite traits that would help him find the writer.

  Yet nothing appeared of any interest. Nor could he decide positively on the writer’s breakfast food. If the grocers kept any cereal that quieted the nerves, that was probably the one chosen. For never had he read such an illuminating letter in such calm, casual words.

  He gave up the thought of a woman writer—it was too masculine of touch for that. He didn’t believe more than one person was concerned in the composition. He thought the plural form was used to mislead, or else it was used in an editorial sense.

  He ran over the names of all the people who knew anything about that book. He had questioned all the principals, and this letter seemed to him to put it out of the question that the servants might have been guilty.

  But the criminal was taking shape in his mind.

  A collector, indubitably. But a collector base enough to steal a book and cut it up for scraps to sell, rather than stick to legitimate barter of properly accredited treasures.

  He wondered if he must turn to the well-known collectors. There were doubtless many who had all the Presidents’ autographs and all the signers except the coveted Button Gwinnett.

  Those three autographs, cut from the book, could be sold, if judiciously marketed, for a very large aggregate.

  He must take some immediate steps in the matter. In a few moments he had reached his decision, made himself ready and started off for Sewell’s bookshop.

  CHAPTER IX

  THE OTHER

  STONE knew that his friend Sewell was usually in his shop Sunday mornings, instead of going dutifully to church with his wife.

  So when the investigator tried the back door and found it unfastened, he stepped inside to find Sewell almost buried in what looked like an avalanche of news sheets.

  ‘Hello,’ his host said, and swished a pile of papers from a chair for his guest. ‘Sit down and tell me everything you know.’

  ‘And I can tell you quite some,’ Stone returned. ‘We are in receipt of a missive from the petty thief who picked up a stray volume from your rubbish heap.’

  ‘And to think,’ Sewell groaned, ‘when I hid that book in that pile of old pamphlets and magazines, I thought I was choosing the safest hiding place ever! Sort of Purloined Letter stunt, you know.’

  ‘Yes, and it’s my opinion that those smart tricks don’t always get over.’

  ‘Apparently not. Well, if the thief also wrote your letter, it must be a pretty good screed.’

  ‘It’s all of that,’ and without further word, Stone handed over the letter.

  Sewell read it through in silence.

  ‘It is a good letter,’ he said, speaking slowly. ‘A very good letter. The writer is about as smart as they come. And it lets Gill out. Gill is a smart chap and a good letter writer, but this screed is a peg above Gill’s correct but less cultured style. If a gentleman can be a thief, I’d say this is written by a gentleman. I can’t help admiring his style, but I’d like to put him where he belongs. Where’s the slip he enclosed? Yes, it’s copied verbatim, and correctly, of course. Now, where do we go from here?’

  ‘We ought to get a lot from that epistle,’ Stone told him. ‘And I think we shall. You say it lets Gill out and I’m glad of that; and I think it lets Ramsay out, too. Although Ramsay is clever enough to do that letter as it is done, I feel he couldn’t write to Mrs Balfour like that.’

  ‘No, he couldn’t; Ramsay is a bit of a puzzle to me; he seems capable of daring, and I can imagine him doing a wrong, but he is not hard-boiled.’

  ‘Nor is the writer of the letter. He says nothing rough or rude, but he shows that he means to have quick action. I’m glad of that, there’s more chance of catching him off guard. As I see him, he’s entirely capable of coming to the shop here, masked and perhaps otherwise disguised, and carrying out exactly the programme that Ramsay described. But the thing is to get at his identity. It does little good to say he’s clever and gentlemanly and adroit and all that, but if we don’t know his name, where are we? And the calm way he dares us find it out from that letter is too confident to suit me. But I propose to meet him on his own ground. I propose to find out his identity, his name and address from that le
tter. If I can’t do it, I’ll take a hard fall in my own estimation.’

  ‘What are you going to advise Mrs Balfour to do about it?’

  ‘Nothing, until I learn what she wants to do. She sent me the note as soon as she received it, but I’m not expecting to see her today and I want time to think it over, anyway. Do you think the thief wrote it, or had somebody write it for him?’

  ‘I think he got it done by someone else.’

  ‘All right, if he’s only the thief. But if he’s the murderer, then it isn’t likely he had a confederate or a confidant of any kind.’

  ‘Well, he has the book all right. Let’s try to get that before he ruins it. The death of Mr Balfour is a much more terrible crime than the theft of the book, but the police are after the murderer and they won’t pay much attention to the book until the murder case is solved.’

  ‘That’s so. We must look after the book ourselves if we can. Now, John, when did you put that book in that pile of worthless junk?’

  ‘Thursday afternoon. I just got it and I would have taken it to Philip Balfour Thursday evening, but they were having a musicale or something. So I concluded to wait till Friday night and then, if Balfour didn’t ring up and ask me about it, I was going to take it to him. But things turned up and I was busy, and so it turned out—the way it did turn out. When Balfour and his secretary came over here, they didn’t know whether I had the book yet or not. You see, the owner didn’t want to sell it, but the enormous price Balfour offered was too strong a temptation.’

  ‘Did he, perhaps, get it back?’

  ‘Lord, no. An agent was acting for him. That part of the business is right as a trivet.’

  ‘Then when was the thing taken?’

  ‘Why, I figure it out like this. I hid the book in the pile of papers Thursday evening and also fixed up the packet to look like the book and put that in a dummy book on the shelf. Ramsay found that, thought it was the real one, and pocketed it, meaning to get Mr Balfour home before he showed it to him. Ramsay had a right to take it, it was, of course, Balfour’s property, but he had become so excitable of late, that Ramsay feared he’d have a conniption fit of some kind and he’d better be at home. But Ramsay had scarcely found the fake parcel and stuffed it in his pocket when the lights went out.’

  ‘And from there we proceed by ourselves,’ Stone said. He often included Sewell in his statements, both because he was glad of his help and he knew it pleased him. John Sewell was himself of a reasoning nature, and Stone was glad when they worked together. ‘Now, we have to admit, if we grant the masked intruder, that he was someone who knew where the book was hidden. How come that, Mr John Sewell?’

  ‘Well, he needn’t have known exactly where it was. He may have come here, not knowing but I was here myself.’

  ‘And then, perhaps, he would have killed you?’

  ‘Why, yes, he might. You see, we’ve got to admit his determination to get that book even at the cost of taking a life, and he did take a life. I can think of several who are crazy about that silver skewer but that doesn’t seem to point to the killer.’

  ‘No, it doesn’t. Can you think of some of your customers who would be crazy to get a Button Gwinnett signature?’

  ‘I can’t think of any who wouldn’t be crazy to. But they wouldn’t pay anything like what Balfour was ready to pay, nor would they be likely to kill him to get it.’

  ‘I don’t think anybody killed him to get it. He did get it, or at least we think so. We don’t know the murderer was the thief. But I think it more likely he killed Balfour because Balfour recognized him. Then, knowing—for he must have known—he went and got the book, turned on the lights and went away, fully satisfied with his evening’s performance.’

  ‘Guy Balfour?’

  ‘I begin to think maybe. At first I didn’t suspect him at all, but since I’ve talked with him, and find him such a sybarite, such a lover of creature comforts, I can see how he might be so eager to inherit his father’s home and a share of his father’s money that he hastened the time. He’s not altogether an admirable character and I’d suspect him long before I’d suspect Ramsay, other things being equal.’

  ‘I think Alli suspects him a little.’

  ‘She’s trying not to,’ Stone said. ‘But after the funeral is over and she can quiet down a bit, I shall ask her to watch Guy a little and perhaps learn something. We’re so desperately in the dark. We have positively no evidence against anybody in the world, except the surmises against Keith Ramsay. I’m not going to the funeral, but I shall do a little prying in the rooms of Mrs Balfour and Mr Ramsay and the suite of the late Philip Balfour, now occupied by his son.’

  ‘Suite fit for a prince,’ remarked Sewell. ‘When Balfour bought that apartment, it was in process of construction, and he had it built just as he wanted it. His own rooms are palatial. And Guy is like him that way. The lad fell into his father’s place as if he had always lived in splendour. He showed me all through his rooms yesterday. I like the chap, but there’s something about him I don’t quite understand. He’s well-mannered and all that, but I wouldn’t trust him as far’s the corner.’

  ‘Now, do you feel that way?’ and Stone looked at his companion. ‘Well, so do I. It seems as if he was positively transparent, and yet I feel he’s concealing something.’

  ‘That’s come on since he hooked up with those Bohemians he admires so much. If he’s connected with this trouble in any way it’s owing to their influence or insistence.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t see how that can be. Well, if Mrs Balfour decides to hook up with these canny book-kidnappers, we may learn—’

  ‘More than we want to,’ Sewell interrupted.

  ‘Yes,’ Stone agreed, ‘far more than we want to. I should hate to advise her to give them their head, but it can do no harm to receive his next advices and see where they lead.’

  ‘Kidnappers of human beings are cold-blooded creatures,’ Sewell observed, ‘and while I suppose kidnappers of inanimate things are not so fierce, yet I wouldn’t want to see a woman try to get the better of them.’

  ‘Nor I,’ Stone said, emphatically; ‘I hope Mrs Balfour won’t see anyone alone regarding the ransom.’

  ‘I doubt Ramsay would let her do that. I hope for her sake he won’t be arrested, but I think it quite possible he may be. And owing to the utter absence of another suspect, he may be railroaded through. It seems to me the man who wrote that letter you have should be looked up. Even if it means danger to Mrs Balfour, she could be guarded, and her experiences might solve the problem.’

  ‘I wish I could think so, but it seems problematical. Would you advise Mrs Balfour to go to meet these people alone? Anything might happen to her. But we can’t cross that bridge till we come to it. They may be willing to make terms with her without meeting her.’

  ‘Remember all that about no go-betweens, no mysterious errands—or whatever it was?’

  ‘But it all pointed to simple plans and not complicated proceedings.’

  ‘Then, a lot depends on how she feels about it.’

  ‘True enough,’ Stone agreed, ‘and even more depends on what Keith Ramsay thinks about it.’

  ‘If it’s Guy Balfour’s doings it ought to be easily discovered—or not?’

  ‘I don’t know. That note could have been written by Guy. If he committed the murder, he wouldn’t stop at theft. But he’d have to be a monster to drive that great skewer into his own father’s breast!’

  ‘And he’s not a monster. But he is a creature of impulse. I’ve seen quite a lot of him, for he’s always trying to sell me some book his father gave him. He thinks I’ll pay him more than other dealers.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Well, yes. I suppose I do. I sort of like the lad, only I wish he were a bit more trustworthy. Why are you going?’

  ‘I have to go now. I’ve errands to do and a few statements to check up. I shall have to show this letter to the police tomorrow and I want to do all I can about it before I give it up. I s
han’t try very hard to trace the paper, but I mean to look around a bit.’

  Going home, Stone spent a long time considering the mysterious letter. He enjoyed this sort of thing as a puzzle worker enjoys a particularly fine puzzle. And too, he was on his mettle to discover the identity of the writer from the letter itself, as the sender seemed to think that not likely.

  He had sized up the stationery while at Sewell’s and had also given attention to the penmanship. He studied that again and noted the easy swing, the carelessly tossed off words, and felt still convinced that it was the natural handwriting of someone, and not a careful disguise of his own hand nor a close copy of another’s. Stone had often detected forgery after experts had declared a signature genuine and he had no hesitation in pronouncing this the work of a man untrammelled by any restriction as to shaping his letters or arranging his words. Indeed, he noted small peculiarities which he felt sure would be of help in corroboration, should he find a suspect.

  For instance, he saw that invariably the dot was far ahead of the ‘i’ it belonged to, and the cross mark above and far ahead of its ‘t’. In graphology these things mean haste and also ambition and vivid imagination, and as he progressed, Fleming Stone found many points that would quickly prove for or against any other letter questioned.

  The words too were taken into account. Always well chosen, and of dignified effect without being stilted, they were almost friendly in their calm straightforwardness.

  And the declaration that unless something was done about it inside of three days the occasion was past.

  The letter had been mailed on Saturday with a special delivery stamp that brought it to Alli Sunday morning. Stone didn’t know whether three days meant until Wednesday or only until Tuesday, but he assumed the former, as the writer evinced a certain consideration.

  It was mid-afternoon before he gave over his study of the problem and concluded to go to the Balfour home after all.

  He walked all the way up, thinking of the letter as he went. Thinking, too, that in this case there seemed more scope for cogitation than in any crime he had solved in a long time.