He motioned to Jimmy. "Let this gentleman have another drink,
bartender." He moved closer to me. "I will tell you what I know," he
said. "If you believe, perhaps you will be able to do something about
it. This much is certain. Very little time remains before disaster
strikes!"
* * * * *
It all began (he said) prosaically enough on the Tuesday of last week,
on the third floor of the Public Library at 42nd Street, in Room 315.
There, as you probably know, one may obtain books on most subjects by
filling out a slip, receiving an odd or even number, and retiring to
either the odd or even Reading Room, where your number will eventually
flash on a lighted board. At the time I was engrossed in a study of the
early life of Publilius Syrus and, I must admit, glanced only casually
at the card given me by the young man at the desk. I saw that it was 18
and proceeded into the Even room on the right for what I knew from past
experience would be a tedious wait.
Ah! Had I but paid more attention to the card handed me! But "_Ad
poenitendum properat, cito qui judicat_." "He makes speed to repentance
who judges hastily." The card which I thought was numbered 18, was
actually 81. I had inadvertently glanced at it upside down. Had the
Roman numeral system been used, as I have long advocated, this
unfortunate accident could not have occurred: a XVIII cannot be mistaken
for LXXXI no matter which way it is turned!
Be that as it may, number 18 flashed on the board in a surprisingly
short time and I hastened to obtain the book from the extremely harried
young lady behind the counter. I returned to my chair at one of the long
reading tables. When I opened the book, which was of a disturbing blue
color, I was highly irritated to learn that this was not a biography of
Publilius Syrus; furthermore it was not even in Latin. I removed my
glasses to make certain (someday I shall simply _have_ to get bifocals)
and saw that it was a foreign cookbook.
Annoyed, I snatched the book from the table and started to return to the
counter. As I did so, a green slip of paper fluttered from between the
pages. I glanced at it idly. There was an address on it, scrawled in
almost illegible block letters. "432 West 28th Street." Being of a tidy
nature, I slipped the bit of paper into my pocket and turned, only to
find my way blocked by a rather large man wearing a trench coat with
upturned collar. He tapped the book significantly and whispered,
"Eight-thirty tonight. You know the place."
With that he strode rapidly from the room, giving me no chance to ask
him what he was talking about. Irritated, I returned to the counter
where a smallish man, wearing a loud-checked suit was arguing with the
young lady. He was holding a number card.
"But I tell you," said the harassed young lady, "number 18 was flashed
on the board and the book was picked up."
The little man clucked impatiently and waved the card. "But I have
number 18," he said shrilly, "and I must have the book!"
Normally I am not a fast thinker. Years of teaching Roman history to
classes of dozing students, interested only in easy credits, are not
reckoned to sharpen one's wits. However, I instantly realized what must
have happened. I tapped the little man on the shoulder.
"Pardon me, sir," I whispered, "is this your book?" He whirled around
violently. He had a thin, sharp-pointed face with deep-set eyes, heavy
brow and a receding chin that terminated in a little scrub of a beard.
Rudely he snatched the book from my hand and began leafing through it
with shaking fingers.
I started to say, "If Roman numerals had been used instead of--" but saw
he was paying no attention to me, so I headed for the Main Room to get
another card. I had no sooner reached the entrance when I was confronted
by the little bearded man again. His mouth was agape with distress, his
loud-checked bowtie askew. He waved the book in my face. "Didn't you
find anything in here?" he demanded.
"Not really," I said. "I have no interest in French cooking."