“A hundred and twenty-eight pounds.”
“Guineas.”
“A hundred and thirty-five.”
“Guineas.”
“A hundred and fifty.”
“Guineas.”
The duel began to resemble the efforts of some unwieldy pachyderm to
shake off the attack of a nimble carnivore by fruitless twists and
plunges. But now other voices, nods and uplifted eyebrows joined in,
complicating a direct issue, and the forked arithmetic played in among
pounds and guineas with bewildering iteration. Then, as suddenly as it
had grown, the fusillade shrivelled away, leaving the 2 original
antagonists like two doughty champions emerging from a mêlée.
“Two hundred and thirty.”
“Guineas.”
“Two hundred and fifty.”
“Guineas.”
“Two hundred and seventy.”
There was no response. The large man in the heavy ulster and pot-hat was
to survive the attack after all, apparently: the elephant to outlast the
jaguar.
“Two hundred and seventy pounds?” The auctioneer swept a comprehensive
inquiry at every participant in the fray and raised his hammer. “It’s
against you, sir. No advance? At two hundred and seventy pounds...?”
The hammer began to fall. A score of pencils wrote “£270” against Lot
191.
“And eighty!”
The voice of the new bidder cut in crisp and business-like. Without
ostentation it conveyed the cheerful message: “Now we are just
beginning. I feel uncommonly fit.” It caught the hammer in mid-air and
arrested it. It made the large man feel tired and discouraged. He pushed
back his hat, shook his head slowly, with his eyes fixed on his
catalogue, and remained in stolid meditation. Carrados smiled inwardly
at the restraint and strategy of his friend.
“Two hundred and eighty. Thank you, sir. Two hundred and eighty
pounds...?” He knew by intuition that the price was final and the hammer
fell decisively. “Mr Marrable.... Lot 192, _History and Antiquities of
the County, etc._ Put it in the bidding, please. One pound...?”
After the sale Mr Marrable came round to Carrados’s chair in very good
spirits. Certainly he had had to give a not insignificant price for the
_Virginiola_, but the attendant circumstances had elated him. Then he
had secured the greater part of the other lots he wanted, and at quite
moderate valuations.
“I’ve paid my cheque and got my delivery note,” he explained. “I shall
send my men round for the books when I get back. What do you think of
the business?”
“Vastly entertaining,” replied Carrados. “I have enjoyed myself
thoroughly.”
“Oh, well.... But they were out for the _Virginiola_, weren’t they?”
“Yes,” admitted Carrados. “I feel that it is my turn to stand a taxi.
Can I drop you?”
Mr Marrable assented graciously and they set out again.
“Look here,” said that gentleman as they approached his door, “I think
that I can put my hand on the Rimini cameo I told you about, if you
don’t mind coming up again. Do you care to, now that you are here?”
“Certainly,” replied Carrados. “I should like to handle it.”
“May as well turn off the taxi then. There is a stand quite near.”
The cameo proved interesting and led to the display of one or two other
articles of bijouterie. The host rang for tea and easily prevailed on
Carrados--who could be entertained by anyone except the rare individual
who had no special knowledge on any subject whatever--to remain. Thus it
came about that the blind man was still there when the servant arrived
with the books.
“I say, Carrados,” called out Mr Marrable.
He had crossed the room to speak with his man, who had come up
immediately on his return. The servant continued to explain, and it was
evident that something annoying had happened. “Here’s a devilish fine
thing,” continued Mr Marrable, dividing his attention between the two.
“Felix has just been to Gurnard’s and they tell him that the
_Virginiola_ cannot be found!”
“‘Mislaid for the moment,’ the gentleman said,” amplified Felix.
“They send me back my cheque pending the book’s recovery, but did you
ever hear of such a thing? I was going down to Bristol by an early train
to-morrow. Now I don’t know what the deuce to do.”
“Why not go back and find out what has really happened?” suggested
Carrados. “They will tell you more than they would tell your man. If the
book is stolen you may as well put off your journey. If it is
mislaid--taken off by someone else in mistake, I expect they mean--it
may be on its way back by now.”
“Yes; I suppose I’d better go. You’ve had enough of it, I suppose?”
“On the contrary I was going to ask you to let me accompany you. It may
be getting interesting.”
“I hope not,” retorted Marrable. “Come if you can spare the time, but
the very tamest ending will suit me the best.”
Felix had called up another cab by the time they reached the door, and
for the second time that afternoon they spun through the West End
streets with the auction rooms for their destination.
“Your turn to pay again, I think,” proposed Carrados when they arrived.
“You take the odd numbers and I’ll take the even!”
Inside, most of the staff were obviously distracted by the strain of the
untoward event and it was very evident that barbed words had been on the
wing. In the private office to which Mr Marrable’s card gained them
immediate admittance they found all those actually concerned in the loss
engaged in saying the same things over to each other for the hundredth
time.
“The book isn’t on the shelves now and there’s the number in the
delivery note; that’s all I know about it,” a saleroom porter was
reiterating with the air of an extremely reasonable martyr.
“Yes, yes,” admitted the auctioneer who had conducted the sale, “no
one----Oh, I’m glad you are here, Mr Marrable. You’ve heard of
our--er--eh----”
“My man came back with something about the book--the _Virginiola_--being
mislaid,” replied Mr Marrable. “That is all I know so far.”
“Well, it’s very regrettable, of course, and we must ask your
indulgence; but what has happened is simple enough and I hope it isn’t
serious.”
“What concerns me,” interposed Mr Marrable, “is merely this: Am I to
have the book, and when?”
“We hope to deliver it into your hands--well, in a very short time. As I
was saying, what has happened is this: Another purchaser bought certain
lots. Among them was Lot 91. My sale clerk, in the stress of his duties,
inadvertently filled in the delivery note as Lot 191.” A gesture of
despairing protest from the unfortunate young man referred to passed
unheeded. “Consequently, as this gentleman took away his purchases at
the end of the sale, he carried off the _Virginiola_ among them. When he
comes to look into the parcel he will at once discover the substitution
and--er--of course return the volume.”
“I see,” assented Mr Marrable. “That seems straightforward enough, but
the delay is unfortunate for me. Have you sent after the purchaser, by
the way?”
“We haven’t sent after the purchaser because he happens to live in
Derbyshire,” was the reply. “Here is his card. We are writing at once,
but the probability is that he is staying in London overnight at least.”
“You might wire.”
“We will, of course, wire if you ask us to do so, Mr Marrable, but it
seems to indicate an attitude of distrust towards Mr--er--Mr Dillworthy
of Cullington Grange that I see no reason to entertain.”
“Assuming the whole incident to be accidental, I think you are doing
quite right. But in order to save time mayn’t it perhaps be worth while
anticipating that something else may have been at work?”
They all looked at Mr Carrados, who advanced this suggestion
diffidently. The young man in the background breathed an involuntary
“Ah!” of agreement and came a little more to the front.
“Do you suggest that Mr Dillworthy of Cullington Grange would actually
deny possession of the book?” inquired the auctioneer a little
cuttingly.
“Pardon me,” replied Carrados blandly, “but do you know Mr Dillworthy of
Cullington Grange?”
“No, certainly, I----”
“Nor, of course, the purchaser of Lot 91? That naturally follows. Then
for the purpose of our hypothesis I would suggest that we eliminate Mr
Dillworthy, who quite reasonably may not have been within a hundred
miles of Charing Cross to-day. What remains? His visiting-card, that
would cost about a crown at the outside to reproduce, or might much more
cheaply be picked up from a hundred halls or office tables.”
The auctioneer smiled.
“An elaborate plant, eh? Have you any practical knowledge, sir, of the
difficulty, the impossibility, that would attend the disposal of this
imperfect copy the moment our loss is notified?”
“But suppose it should become a perfect copy in the meantime? That might
throw dust in their eyes. Eh, Marrable?”
“I say!” exclaimed the virtuoso, with his ideas forcibly directed into a
new channel. “Yes, there is that, you know, Mr Trenchard.”
“Even in that very unlikely event the _Virginiola_ remains a white
elephant. It cannot be got off to-day nor yet to-morrow. Any bookseller
would require time in which to collate the volume; it dare not be
offered by auction. It is like a Gainsborough or a Leonardo illegally
come by--so much unprofitable lumber after it is stolen.”
“Then,” hazarded Carrados, “there is the alternative, which might
suggest itself to a really intelligent artist, of selling it before it
is stolen.”
The conditions were getting a little beyond Mr Trenchard’s easy access.
“Sell it before it is stolen?” he repeated. “Why?”
“Because of the extreme difficulty, as you have proved, of selling it
after.”
“But how, I mean?”
“I think,” interposed a quiet voice from the doorway, “that we had
better accept Mr Carrados’s advice, if he does us the great service of
offering it, without discussion, Leonard. I have the pleasure of
speaking to Mr Max Carrados, have I not?” continued a white-haired old
gentleman, advancing into the room. “My young friend Trenchard, in his
jealousy for the firm’s reputation, starts with the conviction that it
is impossible for us to be victimised. You and I know better, Mr
Carrados. Now will you tell me--I am Mr Ing, by the way--will you tell
me what has really happened?”
“I wish I could,” admitted Carrados frankly. “Unfortunately I know less
of the circumstances than you do, and although I was certainly present
during a part of the sale, I never even ‘saw’ the book”--he spread out
the fingers of a hand to illustrate--“and probably I was not within
several yards of it or its present holder.”
“But you have some idea of the method adopted--some theory,” persisted
Mr Ing. “You can tell us what to do.”
“Even there I can only put two and two together and suggest
investigation on common-sense lines.”
“It is necessary to go to an expert even for that sometimes,” submitted
the old gentleman with a very comical look. “Now, Mr Carrados, pray
enlighten us.”
“May I put a few questions then?”
“By all means.”
“Do you require me, sir?” inquired Mr Trenchard distantly.
“Not if you will kindly leave the sale-book and papers, I think, thank
you,” replied Carrados. “This young gentleman, though.” The sale clerk
came forward eagerly. “You have the delivery note there? No, I don’t
want it. This gentleman, whom we will refer to as Mr Dillworthy--91 is
the first thing he bought?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The price?”
“Three pounds fifteen.”
“Is that a good price or a bargain?”
The clerk looked towards Mr Ing.
“It’s Coulthorp’s _Marvellous Recoveries_, sir; the edition of 1674,” he
explained.
“A fair price,” commented the old gentleman. “Yes, quite a good auction
figure.”
“The _Virginiola_ is folio, I believe. What size is _Marvellous
Recoveries_?”
“It is folio also.”
“What was the next lot that Mr Dillworthy bought?”
“Lot 198.”
“Any others?”
“Yes, sir. Lots 211, 217 and 234.”
“And the prices of these four lots?”
“Lot 198, a guinea; 211, twelve-and-six; 217, fifteen shillings; 234,
twenty-three shillings.”
“Those must be very low prices?”
“They are books in no great demand. At every sale from mixed sources
there are a certain number of make-weight lots.”
“We find, then, that Mr Dillworthy bought 91 at a good price. After that
he did nothing until 191 had passed. Then he at once secured four lots
of cheap books. This gives a certain colour to suspicion, but it may be
pure coincidence. Now,” he continued, addressing himself to the clerk
again, “after the delivery slip had been made out, did Mr Dillworthy
borrow a pen from you?”
The youth’s ingenuous face suddenly flashed to a recollection.
“Suffering Moses!” he exclaimed irrepressibly. “Well----”
“Then he did?” demanded Mr Ing, too keenly interested to stop to reprove
the manner.
“Not exactly, sir. He didn’t borrow a pen, but I lent him one.”
“Ah!” remarked Carrados, “that sounds even better. How did it come
about?”
“His bill was six pounds twelve and six. He gave me seven pounds and I
made out the delivery form and gave it to him with the change. Then he
said: ‘Could you do with a fiver instead of five ones, by the way? I may
run short of change,’ and he held out a bank-note. ‘Certainly, if you
will kindly write your name and address on the back,’ I replied, and I
gave him a pen.”
“The one you had been using?”
“Yes, it was in my hand. He turned away and I thought that he was doing
what I asked, but before he would have had time to do that he handed me
the pen back and said: ‘Thanks; after all, I’ll leave it as it is.’”
“Who sent in the book for sale?”
“Described as ‘the property of a gentleman,’” contributed Mr Marrable.
“I wondered.”
“If you will excuse me for a moment,” said Mr Ing, “I will find out.”
He returned from another office smiling amiably but shaking his head.
“‘The property of a gentleman,’” he repeated with senile deliberateness.
“I find that the owner expressed a definite wish for the transaction to
be treated confidentially. It is no unusual thing for a client to desire
that. On certain points of etiquette, Mr Carrados, I am just as jealous
for the firm as Trenchard could be, so that until we can obtain consent
I am afraid that the gentleman must remain anonymous.”
“The question is,” volunteered Mr Marrable, “where has the volume got
to, rather than where has it come from?”
“Sometimes,” remarked the blind man, “after looking in many unlikely
places one finds the key in the lock itself. At all events we seem to
have come to the end of our usefulness here. Unless one of your people
happens to come forward with a real clue, Mr Ing, I venture to predict
that you will find more profit in investigating farther afield.”
“But what are we to do?” exclaimed the old gentleman rather blankly,
when he saw that Carrados was preparing to go. “We are absolute babes at
this sort of thing--at least I know that I am.”
“The remedy for that is quite simple. Put the case into the hands of the
police.”
“True, true; but it is not so absolutely simple to us. We have various
interests and, yes, let us say, old-fashioned prejudices to consider. I
suppose”--he became quite touchingly wistful--“I suppose that you could
not be persuaded, Mr Carrados----?”
“I’m afraid not,” replied Carrados. “I have other irons in the fire just
now. But before you do call in the police, by the way, there is Mr
Trenchard’s view to be considered.”
“You mean?”
“I mean that it would be as well to make sure that the _Virginiola_ has
been stolen.”
“By wiring to Cullington Grange?”
“Assuming that there is a Cullington Grange. Then there is a harmless
experiment in collateral proof that you might like to make in the
meantime if the reply is delayed, as it reasonably may be through a
dozen causes.”
“And what is that, Mr Carrados?”
“Send up Charing Cross Road and find out among the second-hand shops
whether the other books Mr Dillworthy took away with him were sold there
immediately after the sale. They were only bought to round off the
operation. They would be a dangerous incubus to keep, but if our man is
a cool hand he may contrive to realise a pound or so for them before
anything is known. You might even learn something else in the process.”
“Aye, aye, to be sure,” acquiesced Mr Ing. “We’ll do that at once. And
then, Mr Carrados, just a parting hint. If you were taking up the case
what would _you_ do then?”
The temptation to be oracular was irresistible. Carrados smiled
inwardly.
“I should try to find a tall, short-sighted, Welsh book-dealer who
smokes perique tobacco, suffers from a weak chest, wears thick-soled
boots and always carries an umbrella,” he replied with impressive
gravity.
Mr Ing, the saleroom porter, the young clerk and Mr Marrable all looked
at each other and then began to repeat the varied attributes of the
required individual.
“There’s that--what’s his name?--old chap with a red waistcoat who’s
always here,” hopefully suggested the porter in an aside. “He wears
specs, and I’ve never seen him without an umbrella.”
“He’s a Scotchman and stands about five feet three, fathead!” whispered
the clerk. “Isn’t Mr Powis Welsh, sir?”
“To be sure. Powis of Redmayne Street is the man,” assented Mr Ing.
“Isn’t that correct, Mr Carrados?”
“I don’t know,” replied Carrados, “but if he answers to the description
it probably is.”
“And then?”
“Then I think I should call and encourage him to talk to me--about
Shakespeare.”
“Why, dash it, Carrados,” cried Mr Marrable, “you said that you knew
nothing of book-collecting and yet you seem to be aware that Powis
specialises Shakespeariana and to know that the _Virginiola_ would
interest him. I wonder how much you have been getting at me!”
“Oh, I suppose that I’m beginning to pick up a thing or two,” admitted
the blind man diffidently.
In the course of his experience of crime, fragments of many mysteries
had been brought to Carrados’s notice--detached chapters of chequered
human lives to which the opening and the finis had never been supplied.
Some had fascinated him and yet remained impenetrable to the end, yet
the theft of the _Virginiola_, a mere coup of cool effrontery in which
he felt no great interest after he had pierced the method, was destined
to unfold itself before his mind without an effort on his part.
The sale at Gurnard’s had taken place on a Wednesday. Friday brought
Carrados a reminder of the stone that he had set rolling in the
appearance of a visiting-card bearing the name and address of Mr Powis
of Redmayne Street. Mr Powis was shown in and proved to be a tall,
mild-looking man with a chronic cough. He carried a moderate parcel in
one hand and, despite the bright, settled condition of the weather, an
umbrella in the other.
“I’m an antiquarian bookseller, Mr Carrados,” he remarked by way of
introduction. “I haven’t the honour of your custom that I know of, but I
dare say you can guess what brings me here.”
“You might tell me,” replied Carrados.
“Oh yes, Mr Carrados, I will tell you. Certainly I will tell you,”
retorted Mr Powis, in a rather louder voice than was absolutely
necessary. “Mr Ing looked in at my place of pizzness yesterday. He said
that he was ‘just passing’--‘just passing,’ you understand.” Mr Powis
emphasised the futility of the subterfuge by laughing sardonically.
“A charming old gentleman,” remarked Carrados pleasantly. “I don’t
suppose that he would deceive a rabbit.”
“I don’t suppose that he could,” asserted Mr Powis. “‘By the way,’ he
said, ‘did you see the _Virginiola_ we sold yesterday?’ ‘By the way!’
Yes, that was it.”
Carrados nodded his smiling appreciation.
“‘Oh-ho,’ I thought, ‘the _Virginiola_!’ ‘Yes, Mr Ing,’ I said, ‘it was
a nice copy parring the defect, but a week ago I could have shown you a
nicer and a perfect one to poot.’
“‘You’ve got one too, have you?’ he asked.
“‘Certainly I have,’ I replied, ‘or I should not say so. At least I had,
but it may be sold now. It has gone to a gentleman in Rutland.’
“‘Rutland; that’s a little place,’ he remarked thoughtfully. ‘Have you
any objection to mentioning your customer’s name?’
“‘Not in the least, Mr Ing,’ I told him. ‘Why should I have? It has
taken me five and twenty years to make my connection, but let all the
trade have it. Sir Roland Chargrave of Densmore Hall is the gentleman.’
“Now, look you, Mr Carrados, I could see by the way Mr Ing gasped when I
told him that things are not all right. It seems to be your doing that I
am brought into it and I want to know where I stand.”
“Have you any misgivings as to where you stand?” inquired Carrados.
“No, Mr Carrados, I have not,” exclaimed the visitor indignantly. “I
pought my _Virginiola_ three or four weeks ago and I paid a goot price
for it.”
“Then you certainly have nothing to trouble about.”
“Put I have a goot deal to trouble about,” vociferated Mr Powis. “I have
a copy of the _Virginiola_ to dispose of----”
“Oh, you still have it, then?”
“Yes, Mr Carrados, I have. Thanks to what is peing said pehind my pack,
the pook was returned to me this morning. My name has been connected
with a stolen copy and puyers are very shy, look you, when they hear
that. And word, it travels; oh yes. You may not know how, but to-day
they will be saying in Wales: ‘Have you heard what is peing said of Mr
Powis of London?’ And to-morrow in Scotland it will be: ‘That old tamn
rascal Powis has been caught at last!’”
In spite of Mr Powis’s desperate seriousness Carrados could not restrain
a laugh at the forcefulness of the recital. “Come, come, Mr Powis,” he
said soothingly, “it isn’t as bad as that, you know. In any case you
have only to display your receipt.”
“Oh, very goot, very goot indeed!” retorted the Welshman in an extremity
of satire. “Show a buyer my receipt! Excellent! That would be a capital
way to carry on the antiquarian pook pizzness! Besides,” he added,
rather lamely, “in this case it happens that I do not possess a
receipt.”
“Isn’t that--rather an oversight?” suggested Carrados.
“No doubt I could easily procure one. Let me tell you the circumstances,
Mr Carrados. I only want to convince you that I have nothing to
conceal.” With this laudable intention Mr Powis’s attitude became more
and more amiable and his manner much less Welsh. He had, in fact, used
up all the indignation that he had generated in anticipation of a wordy
conflict--a species of protective mimicry common to mild-tempered men.
“I bought this book from the Rev. Mr Winch, the vicar of Fordridge, in
Leicestershire. A few weeks ago I received a registered parcel from
Fordridge containing a fine copy of the _Virginiola_. The same post
brought me a letter from Mr Winch. I dare say I have it here.... No,
never mind; it was to the effect that the book had been in the writer’s
family for many generations. Being something of a collector, he had
never wished to sell it, but an unexpected misfortune now obliged him to
raise a sum of money. He had contracted blood-poisoning in his hand and
he had to come up to London for an operation. After that he would have
to take a long sea voyage. He went on to say that he had heard of me as
a likely buyer and would call on me in a day or two. In the meantime he
sent the book to give me full opportunity of examining it.
“Nothing could be more straightforward, Mr Carrados. Two days later Mr
Winch walked into my place. We discussed the price, and finally we
agreed upon--well, a certain figure.”
“You can rely upon my discretion, Mr Powis.”
“I paid him £260.”
“That would be a fair price in the circumstances?”
“I thought so, Mr Carrados. I don’t say that it wasn’t a bargain, but it
wasn’t an outrageous bargain.”
“You have occasionally done better?” smiled Carrados.
“Frequently. If I buy a book for threepence and sell it again for a
shilling I do better, although it doesn’t sound so well. Of course I am
a dealer and I have to live on my profits and to pay for my bad bargains
with my good bargains. Now if I had had an immediate customer in view
the book might have been worth a good deal more to me. I may say that
Wednesday’s price at Gurnard’s surprised me. Prices have certainly been
going up, but only five years ago it would have required a practically
perfect copy to make that.”
“At all events, Mr Winch accepted?”
“I think I may say that he was perfectly satisfied,” amended Mr Powis.
“You see, Mr Carrados, he wanted the money at once, and, apart from the
uncertainty and expense, he could not have waited for an auction. I was
making out a cheque when he reminded me that his right hand was useless
and asked me to initial it to ‘bearer.’ That is why I come to have no
receipt.”
“Yes,” assented Carrados. “Yes, that is it. How was the letter signed?”