After the guests had gone, Herenden said to Gorman, his book-buyer and librarian, with a perplexed air, ‘Did you hear Sheldon say he had a first?’
‘I did, Mr Herenden, but it can’t be possible.’
‘No, I suppose not. Of course, people in England are glad to sell their books over here just now. But another first Venus! It can’t be.’
‘Unless somebody found a nest—’
‘Don’t be silly, Gorman. They didn’t have nests in those days.’
‘No, sir. But Mr Sheldon must have something. Could it be a faked copy?’
‘Oh, no. That book is too well known to be faked. There were thirteen or more editions, and every copy is located. We know where each one is, though, of course, the later editions are of far less value. Keep the secret, Gorman—don’t let anybody know where our book came from. Some day, perhaps I may tell.’
‘I’ve told no one, sir. Not even Rand knows where it came from.’
‘It is a wonderful find. Sheldon couldn’t have got one the same way, could he?’
‘Not likely. Such things don’t happen often.’
‘And the lad is all right? He won’t tell?’
‘Oh, no! He won’t even remember it.’
‘If ever the proper time comes, I shall tell the whole story, and give up the book. But you won’t suffer, I promise you. All I’ve given you, you may keep, and I shall give you more if all goes well. I suppose I’m an accessory before the fact. Even so, I assume all responsibility, and if we are found out, no blame shall attach to you. You have confidence in Baines?’
‘Oh, yes, sir. He has no idea it is a valuable book. He is more than satisfied with what you paid him.’
‘Am I interrupting a private confab?’ Rand’s cheery voice was followed by his appearance.
‘Not at all,’ Herenden replied, a trifle coldly. ‘Come in. What is it?’
‘Only this, Mr Herenden. May I have the afternoon off? I’ve got the desk cleared and I’d like to go to the golf tournament; a friend of mine is playing today.’
‘Certainly, Rand. You are a wizard at finishing your work, I must say. By the way, Rand, can you be here tomorrow evening? I’m going to show my new Venus to some admiring friends, and you know where everything is.’
‘So does Gorman. But just as you say, Mr Herenden.’
Rand left them, and Gorman said, ‘Do you suppose he heard what we were saying? He’s a quick fellow, and we were talking pretty plainly.’
‘Don’t worry about it. And now I’m off to the golf tournament myself. Put the time lock on the safe, if you go out.’
After Herenden had gone, Gorman went to the safe, where he could have found any book in the dark, had it been necessary. He took down the Venus and Adonis.
Back again in the library, he sat down to gloat over the acquisition—a small volume, measuring a bit over seven inches one way, and a trifle over five the other. Its cover was of old calf, worn and rubbed, a little soiled, and showing no title or legend of any kind.
Ralph Gorman was a practical man He opened the book with intense interest but with no feeling of reverence, and read the title-page. Venus and Adonis. Then some lines in Latin, which he did not understand. Then the information that the book was printed by Richard Field—in 1593.
Just those four figures gave the tiny volume its worth. A fourth edition of the Venus had once sold at auction for $75,000. Rare books had gone up in price since then. And what would a first sell for? His eyes widened. He knew of several men in these United States who would gladly pay more—a great deal more—than $100,000 for this plain little book!
He put the precious volume back in the case which Herbert Rand had made for it. Rand was clever with books. He did any necessary repairing—Herenden knew better than to have any unnecessary repairing done—and he could collate with neatness and dispatch.
Gorman pored over Herenden’s reference works on rare books. Yes, the second edition of the Venus was exactly the same as this first, save for the date, 1594, on the title page. The first edition was ‘printed with remarkable accuracy, doubtless from the author’s manuscript’. The only known copy was in the Bodleian Library at Oxford, and many facsimiles had been made from it.
Aha! thought Gorman, that’s it! Mr Sheldon has a facsimile and he thinks he can put it over on us! We’ll see about that!
On Sunday evening the party came. Most of Leigh Herenden’s friends were interested in books, for one reason or another, and many of the guests were collectors. Others were writers or playwrights or actors. They all knew enough of the situation to be eager to see the two books that were to be shown.
Garrett Sheldon came in, bringing a stranger, whom he introduced to Herenden. ‘Malcolm Osborne,’ he said, ‘and I warn you, Leigh, he knows his first editions from the ground up. He can decide which of us has the real first.’
‘Very kind of Mr Osborne,’ Leigh said, politely. ‘You have your book with you, Sheldon? Gorman will bring mine.’
As the librarian returned from the safe room with Herenden’s copy, Sheldon produced his volume.
‘After you,’ Herenden said.
Sheldon opened a dark-red morocco case and took out his book.
It was impossible to misinterpret the murmur of surprised disappointment that rippled through the room. Two or three young people even laughed, but Garrett Sheldon winked at Herenden and said, ‘I assure you that this little book makes up in worth what it lacks in size.’
As the crowd surged toward him, he handed the book to Leigh Herenden. And it certainly looked like the real first edition of Venus and Adonis. Gorman, standing by him, looked at it too, and they were both startled by the verity of it, or the perfection of imitation, whichever it might be.
‘And now,’ said Sheldon, smiling, ‘where’s yours, Leigh?’
Gorman, feeling queer, as he said afterward, passed Herenden’s book to him. Removing the case, the host offered the volume to his guest.
Sheldon took it smilingly, looked it over rather carelessly, and placed it on the table beside the one he had brought.
‘They look alike,’ he said slowly.
They did look alike—almost exactly. Two small, seemingly insignificant books, both bound in old calf, both dark brown and worn at the edges and corners. Nondescript affairs, with no physical charm or beauty.
‘May I open this?’ Herenden smiled.
‘Indeed, yes. I’ll look into yours, then we’ll turn them over to Osborne, and ask his opinion.’
Gorman stayed beside Herenden as they looked at the title-page. Both were amazed at its perfectness. Surely those figures were neither facsimiles nor fakes. Sheldon must have achieved the miracle of getting another first at the same time Herenden acquired his.
Sheldon and Osborne had their heads together over the other book.
‘This is yours, Mr Herenden?’ and Osborne tapped the old brown binding.
‘Yes, Mr Osborne.’
‘You don’t care to tell where you got it?’
‘I’d rather not. You find no flaw in it?’
‘Sorry, but I most decidedly do. It has an entire new title-page for one thing, there is a fly-leaf missing, and it has been rebound. That’s all I can see without a magnifying glass, but it is enough to prove to my mind that you were badly hoaxed. Have you had any other expert examine it?’
‘No, but I have absolute confidence in it.’
‘Absolute confidence, Mr Herenden, is a fine thing. I wish you had it in me, for what I tell you is true. While I hate to displease you, I think you should know the facts, whether you like them or not.’
‘You are quite right, Mr Osborne, and I thank you. But I am sure this is boring our other guests. Shall we go to the living room?’
After the guests had departed, Herenden turned to his librarian with a face of utter wonder.
‘What does it mean, Gorman?’ he said.
‘I’d like to think there’s been some jiggery-pokery and the books were switched—but that’s imp
ossible, Mr Herenden.’
‘Yes; mine has been in the safe room ever since I have had it. It is my book, isn’t it, Gorman?’
‘No doubt about it, sir. Here’s your bookplate, that I put in myself. And here’s that old inkspot on the back cover. It’s faint, but we decided it was ink, didn’t we?’
‘Oh, yes, I remember. We decided that anything used to remove it would make a worse stain.’
‘Yes, sir. And Mr Osborne says this whole title-page is new. It doesn’t look so to me. But you must remember, sir, that when you—er—bought the book, you were given no guarantee of its genuineness—’
‘That is quite true.’ Herenden smiled now. ‘All the same, I shall not rest until I am certain about the matter. I want to have another expert pass on it. Osborne may be all right, but there’s no one in the world with the knowledge of old books that Kent has.’
‘Kent?’
‘Yes. The English statesman. He’s in this country now on diplomatic affairs, but if anything would interest him, this matter will. I’ll set about getting him.’
Herenden did set about it, and secured Godfrey Kent’s promise to visit him and stay overnight. Herenden was so elated that he invited Sheldon to come and hear the final decision from the great man.
Sheldon came, and Herenden sent his car to meet Kent at train after train. He telephoned to New York and found that Godfrey Kent had left his hotel about five o’clock, intending to visit him. But the last train passed, and the Herenden chauffeur brought back an empty car.
‘Some official business turned up, I suppose.’ Leigh Herenden hid his disappointment as Sheldon smiled and told him good night.
The next morning a visitor arrived early. Herenden hurried into his clothes and went down to meet him.
‘I’m Pierson,’ the stranger announced, ‘of the New York Police. Do you know Godfrey Kent? He was found dead in the woods along the Palisades. Brutally murdered. He had your address in his pocket.’
‘What a terrible thing! It seems incredible.’ Herenden told how Kent had intended to visit him. ‘Gorman,’ he called, ‘Mr Kent has been murdered.’
‘On account of the book?’ Gorman said impulsively.
‘What book?’ the detective asked quickly. ‘The notes with your address seemed to refer to some play by Shakespeare.’
‘A poem.’ Herenden nodded, and told the story of his Venus with the doubtful title-page.
‘May I see it?’ Pierson compared the book with Kent’s typewritten notes which were headed Re V. and A. ‘This says the true book must have two fly-leaves in front, and two in back. I find only one in the back of your copy, Mr Herenden.’
‘I fear my book is not a real first after all.’
‘When you got that book, Mr Herenden,’ Gorman said, firmly, ‘it had two fly-leaves in the back. Somebody must have torn one out!’
‘Easy now, Mr Gorman,’ Pierson said, in his common-sense way. ‘Someone has done more than damage a fly-leaf. Now, if you will give me the name of Mr Kent’s New York hotel, it will help the Homicide Bureau. Confidentially, we think the murderer was a hired thug.’
He left Herenden shuddering.
‘I hope,’ Gorman said grimly, ‘that they get the fellow.’
When Pierson came back to the Herenden house, he was greeted like a long-lost brother.
‘Any luck?’ Herenden asked, after the detective had been made comfortable in the library.
‘The answer is yes. First of all, we have the hired gunman who murdered Mr Kent. We haven’t found out yet who is back of the crime, but we will. I have a pretty definite notion myself.’
‘What did you learn about the book?’ Herenden could hold off no longer.
‘I went to the Public Library and to several other libraries, and I can face the examiners as to Shakespeare’s earliest printed work. I hate to hold out, Mr Herenden, but I have suspicion of a crime against you. Let me get my bearings.’ Pierson rose. ‘This is your library. There is your safe room. Here is your office. Now we make our real start. Which desk is whose? I must look into them all. Much may be learned from a desk.’
Gorman became their usher, and Pierson worked methodically. He went through the desks quickly, yet seemed to see all their contents. He smiled at the stenographer’s, which held a complete beautifying outfit and an old copy of The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. Then he passed on to Rand’s desk.
‘Meticulous chap here, and a good book-keeper. Not a blot nor erasure in his work. And his handwriting tells his character. See, not a flourish or unnecessary stroke. You trust him completely?’
‘I’d trust Rand and Gorman with my life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness, and I’d come out on top.’
‘All right. Now, Mr Herenden, I want to go over to see Mr Sheldon.’
As he left, Muriel Jewell, the stenographer, came into the library.
‘Mr Herenden,’ she began, ‘I didn’t mean any harm, I only meant—’
‘Miss Jewell, if you have a confession to make, and it sounds like that, please tell us frankly what it is all about.’
‘I didn’t think it was wrong—’
Just then Sherry Biggs came in. He was a privileged visitor, and he helped himself to a chair and a cigarette.
But Muriel had lost courage for the confession she wanted to make. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘Mr Herenden, please let him stay long enough to tell me something. It’s this, Mr Biggs,’ she went on, as Herenden nodded permission. ‘You were talking about our slang phrases being in Shakespeare. Did he really write, “I’ll tell the world”?’
‘Measure for Measure, Two, four, one fifty-four.’
‘And did he really make up “Not so hot”?’
‘Sure thing: King Lear, Five, three, sixty-seven.’
‘And—’
‘That’s enough. You can find all these things in a Shakespeare Concordance. Hello, here comes the policeman. Want me to go away, Mr Herenden? Why don’t you have some arras in this room—they’re so nice to hide behind.’
‘Arras are not plural, Sherry. Arras is the name of a place in France, famous for its tapestries.’
‘Must I go, Mr Herenden?’
‘Sorry. Run along now, Sherry.’
Young Biggs went off, and Muriel was sent out of the office as they heard Pierson returning. She spoke to him in the hall.
‘Tell me that again!’ he said.
She told him, and he grinned.
‘We’ve got ’em!’ he cried. ‘Sure you can remember?’
‘Oh, sure. Five, nineteen, thirty-three, forty-seven.’
‘Marvellous, Holmes, marvellous! How do you do it?’
‘Just add fourteen each time. See?’
‘Faintly. Whoever would have believed you could do a thing like that?’
‘Do you think Mr Herenden will be mad at me?’
‘Mad! He’ll give you a medal!’
Two red spots burned in Muriel’s cheeks as Pierson insisted that she set forth with him on the great quest of the Venus. The entire library staff was drafted for a short and pleasant march over to the Sheldon house. Pierson led off, escorting Miss Jewell; they were followed by Herenden and Herbert Rand; Gorman brought up the rear.
When they reached the house, Pierson rang the bell. The door opened, and he saw to it that all the others were inside the house before he went in himself. Sheldon greeted them in some surprise.
Without preamble, Pierson said, ‘Mr Sheldon, I am here to charge you with taking a book that belongs to Mr Herenden, and claiming it as your own; also, with putting in its place a book of similar character, but of far less value.’
‘That is a strange charge to make, Mr Pierson, and I deny it!’
‘Will you produce the copy of Venus and Adonis which is now on your shelf?’
Sheldon brought the volume.
‘I will first,’ Pierson said, ‘show you that this copy is changed and amended to make it look like the other, and then I will tell you what happened to the books. This,’ he picked up the
one that Sheldon had given him, ‘is a real 1593 edition of Venus and Adonis. Except for this, there is only one copy known, and that is in the Bodleian Library at Oxford. But all present know the details of this first edition. You know that the second or 1594 edition is exactly like this except for the date on the title-page. As you see these two books now, they both appear to be dated 1593. But while this one is a true 1593, the other is a 1594, which has been supplied with a new title-page, dated 1593. This title-page, in order that it should be of the right paper, was made of one of the fly-leaves, taken from the back of the book. This in itself gives away the fake, for often the fly-leaves of old books were of a trifle thicker paper than the rest of the book, as is the case in this instance. The volume was taken apart, the new title-page put in place and the old one discarded, the book rebound—in its own binding, of course, and that part was done so neatly that it is almost unnoticeable. I accuse Mr Sheldon of doing this work, or having it done, for the purpose of exchanging his own made-over book for the honest-to-goodness 1593 of Mr Herenden’s. The switch was made on Sunday afternoon, before Mr Herenden’s party.’
‘You have heard a tissue of lies,’ Sheldon began, but it is not wise to call a detective a liar. Also, though Sheldon did not know it, two other men had entered the room, behind him. They were the Assistant District Attorney and another police official.
‘You still insist that this 1593 copy is your book, Mr Sheldon?’
‘I certainly do!’
‘There are some peculiar designating marks on the pages here and there. Suppose you tell me what and where they are?’
‘That’s a trap, and I do not intend to fall into it. I put no marks in my most valuable books.’
‘No? Well, Miss Jewell put marks in Mr Herenden’s copy, before you appropriated it for your own. They are tiny marks, which, if they are still present, prove positively that this is Mr Herenden’s book. What pages did you mark, Miss Jewell?’
‘I can tell you the pages, but the marks are so small I doubt if you can see them. I used a very sharp penknife to scratch the tails off certain commas on certain pages. This turned them into full stops, you see.’
‘Why did you do this?’
Murder in the Bookshop Page 24
