Aubrey Goes to the Movies, and Wishes he Knew More German
A few doors from the bookshop was a small lunchroom named after the
great city of Milwaukee, one of those pleasant refectories where the
diner buys his food at the counter and eats it sitting in a flat-armed
chair. Aubrey got a bowl of soup, a cup of coffee, beef stew, and bran
muffins, and took them to an empty seat by the window. He ate with one
eye on the street. From his place in the corner he could command the
strip of pavement in front of Mifflin's shop. Halfway through the stew
he saw Roger come out onto the pavement and begin to remove the books
from the boxes.
After finishing his supper he lit one of his "mild but they satisfy"
cigarettes and sat in the comfortable warmth of a near-by radiator. A
large black cat lay sprawled on the next chair. Up at the service
counter there was a pleasant clank of stout crockery as occasional
customers came in and ordered their victuals. Aubrey began to feel a
relaxation swim through his veins. Gissing Street was very bright and
orderly in its Saturday evening bustle. Certainly it was grotesque to
imagine melodrama hanging about a second-hand bookshop in Brooklyn.
The revolver felt absurdly lumpy and uncomfortable in his hip pocket.
What a different aspect a little hot supper gives to affairs! The most
resolute idealist or assassin had better write his poems or plan his
atrocities before the evening meal. After the narcosis of that repast
the spirit falls into a softer mood, eager only to be amused. Even
Milton would hardly have had the inhuman fortitude to sit down to the
manuscript of Paradise Lost right after supper. Aubrey began to wonder
if his unpleasant suspicions had not been overdrawn. He thought how
delightful it would be to stop in at the bookshop and ask Titania to go
to the movies with him.
Curious magic of thought! The idea was still sparkling in his mind
when he saw Titania and Mrs. Mifflin emerge from the bookshop and pass
briskly in front of the lunchroom. They were talking and laughing
merrily. Titania's face, shining with young vitality, seemed to him
more "attention-compelling" than any ten-point Caslon type-arrangement
he had ever seen. He admired the layout of her face from the
standpoint of his cherished technique. "Just enough 'white space,'" he
thought, "to set off her eyes as the 'centre of interest.' Her features
aren't this modern bold-face stuff, set solid," he said to himself,
thinking typographically. "They're rather French old-style italic,
slightly leaded. Set on 22-point body, I guess. Old man Chapman's a
pretty good typefounder, you have to hand it to him."
He smiled at this conceit, seized hat and coat, and dashed out of the
lunchroom.
Mrs. Mifflin and Titania had halted a few yards up the street, and were
looking at some pert little bonnets in a window. Aubrey hurried across
the street, ran up to the next corner, recrossed, and walked down the
eastern pavement. In this way he would meet them as though he were
coming from the subway. He felt rather more excited than King Albert
re-entering Brussels. He saw them coming, chattering together in the
delightful fashion of women out on a spree. Helen seemed much younger
in the company of her companion. "A lining of pussy-willow taffeta and
an embroidered slip-on," she was saying.
Aubrey steered onto them with an admirable gesture of surprise.
"Well, I never!" said Mrs. Mifflin. "Here's Mr. Gilbert. Were you
coming to see Roger?" she added, rather enjoying the young man's
predicament.
Titania shook hands cordially. Aubrey, searching the old-style italics
with the desperate intensity of a proof-reader, saw no evidence of
chagrin at seeing him again so soon.
"Why," he said rather lamely, "I was coming to see you all. I--I
wondered how you were getting along."
Mrs. Mifflin had pity on him. "We've left Mr. Mifflin to look after
the shop," she said. "He's busy with some of his old crony customers.
Why don't you come with us to the movies?"
"Yes, do," said Titania. "It's Mr. and Mrs. Sidney Drew, you know how
adorable they are!"
No one needs to be told how quickly Aubrey assented. Pleasure
coincided with duty in that the outer wing of the party placed him next
to Titania.
"Well, how do you like bookselling?" he asked.
"Oh, it's the greatest fun!" she cried. "But it'll take me ever and
ever so long to learn about all the books. People ask such questions!
A woman came in this afternoon looking for a copy of Blase Tales. How
was I to know she wanted The Blazed Trail?"
"You'll get used to that," said Mrs. Mifflin. "Just a minute, people,
I want to stop in at the drug store."
They went into Weintraub's pharmacy. Entranced as he was by the
proximity of Miss Chapman, Aubrey noticed that the druggist eyed him
rather queerly. And being of a noticing habit, he also observed that
when Weintraub had occasion to write out a label for a box of powdered
alum Mrs. Mifflin was buying, he did so with a pale violet ink.
At the glass sentry-box in front of the theatre Aubrey insisted on
buying the tickets.
"We came out right after supper," said Titania as they entered, "so as
to get in before the crowd."
It is not so easy, however, to get ahead of Brooklyn movie fans. They
had to stand for several minutes in a packed lobby while a stern young
man held the waiting crowd in check with a velvet rope. Aubrey
sustained delightful spasms of the protective instinct in trying to
shelter Titania from buffets and pushings. Unknown to her, his arm
extended behind her like an iron rod to absorb the onward impulses of
the eager throng. A rustling groan ran through these enthusiasts as
they saw the preliminary footage of the great Tarzan flash onto the
screen, and realized they were missing something. At last, however,
the trio got through the barrier and found three seats well in front,
at one side. From this angle the flying pictures were strangely
distorted, but Aubrey did not mind.
"Isn't it lucky I got here when I did," whispered Titania. "Mr.
Mifflin has just had a telephone call from Philadelphia asking him to
go over on Monday to make an estimate on a library that's going to be
sold so I'll be able to look after the shop for him while he's gone."
"Is that so?" said Aubrey. "Well, now, I've got to be in Brooklyn on
Monday, on business. Maybe Mrs. Mifflin would let me come in and buy
some books from you."
"Customers always welcome," said Mrs. Mifflin.
"I've taken a fancy to that Cromwell book," said Aubrey. "What do you
suppose Mr. Mifflin would sell it for?"
"I think that book must be valuable," said Titania. "Somebody came in
this afternoon and wanted to buy it, but Mr. Mifflin wouldn't part with
it. He says it's one of his favourites. Gracious, what a weird film
this is!"
The fantastic absurdities of Tarzan proceeded on the screen, tearing
celluloid passions to tatters, but Aubrey found the strong man of the
jungle coming almost too close to his own imperious instincts. Was not
he, too--he thought naively--a poor Tarzan of the advertising jungle,
lost among the elephants and alligators of commerce, and sighing for
this dainty and unattainable vision of girlhood that had burst upon his
burning gaze! He stole a perilous side-glance at her profile, and saw
the racing flicker of the screen reflected in tiny spangles of light
that danced in her eyes. He was even so unknowing as to imagine that
she was not aware of his contemplation. And then the lights went up.
"What nonsense, wasn't it?" said Titania. "I'm so glad it's over! I
was quite afraid one of those elephants would walk off the screen and
tread on us."
"I never can understand," said Helen, "why they don't film some of the
really good books--think of Frank Stockton's stuff, how delightful that
would be. Can't you imagine Mr. and Mrs. Drew playing in Rudder
Grange!"
"Thank goodness!" said Titania. "Since I entered the book business,
that's the first time anybody's mentioned a book that I've read.
Yes--do you remember when Pomona and Jonas visit an insane asylum on
their honeymoon? Do you know, you and Mr. Mifflin remind me a little
of Mr. and Mrs. Drew."
Helen and Aubrey chuckled at this innocent correlation of ideas. Then
the organ began to play "O How I Hate To Get Up in the Morning" and the
ever-delightful Mr. and Mrs. Drew appeared on the screen in one of
their domestic comedies. Lovers of the movies may well date a new
screen era from the day those whimsical pantomimers set their wholesome
and humane talent at the service of the arc light and the lens. Aubrey
felt a serene and intimate pleasure in watching them from a seat beside
Titania. He knew that the breakfast table scene shadowed before them
was only a makeshift section of lath propped up in some barnlike motion
picture studio; yet his rocketing fancy imagined it as some arcadian
suburb where he and Titania, by a jugglery of benign fate, were
bungalowed together. Young men have a pioneering imagination: it is
doubtful whether any young Orlando ever found himself side by side with
Rosalind without dreaming himself wedded to her. If men die a thousand
deaths before this mortal coil is shuffled, even so surely do youths
contract a thousand marriages before they go to the City Hall for a
license.
Aubrey remembered the opera glasses, which were still in his pocket,
and brought them out. The trio amused themselves by watching Sidney
Drew's face through the magnifying lenses. They were disappointed in
the result, however, as the pictures, when so enlarged, revealed all
the cobweb of fine cracks on the film. Mr. Drew's nose, the most
amusing feature known to the movies, lost its quaintness when so
augmented.
"Why," cried Titania, "it makes his lovely nose look like the map of
Florida."
"How on earth did you happen to have these in your pocket?" asked Mrs.
Mifflin, returning the glasses.
Aubrey was hard pressed for a prompt and reasonable fib, but
advertising men are resourceful.
"Oh," he said, "I sometimes carry them with me at night to study the
advertising sky-signs. I'm a little short sighted. You see, it's part
of my business to study the technique of the electric signs."
After some current event pictures the programme prepared to repeat
itself, and they went out. "Will you come in and have some cocoa with
us?" said Helen as they reached the door of the bookshop. Aubrey was
eager enough to accept, but feared to overplay his hand. "I'm sorry,"
he said, "but I think I'd better not. I've got some work to do
to-night. Perhaps I can drop in on Monday when Mr. Mifflin's away, and
put coal on the furnace for you, or something of that sort?"
Mrs. Mifflin laughed. "Surely!" she said. "You're welcome any time."
The door closed behind them, and Aubrey fell into a profound
melancholy. Deprived of the heavenly rhetoric of her eye, Gissing
Street seemed flat and dull.
It was still early--not quite ten o'clock--and it occurred to Aubrey
that if he was going to patrol the neighbourhood he had better fix its
details in his head. Hazlitt, the next street below the bookshop,
proved to be a quiet little byway, cheerfully lit with modest
dwellings. A few paces down Hazlitt Street a narrow cobbled alley ran
through to Wordsworth Avenue, passing between the back yards of Gissing
Street and Whittier Street. The alley was totally dark, but by
counting off the correct number of houses Aubrey identified the rear
entrance of the bookshop. He tried the yard gate cautiously, and found
it unlocked. Glancing in he could see a light in the kitchen window
and assumed that the cocoa was being brewed. Then a window glowed
upstairs, and he was thrilled to see Titania shining in the lamplight.
She moved to the window and pulled down the blind. For a moment he saw
her head and shoulders silhouetted against the curtain; then the light
went out.
Aubrey stood briefly in sentimental thought. If he only had a couple
of blankets, he mused, he could camp out here in Roger's back yard all
night. Surely no harm could come to the girl while he kept watch
beneath her casement! The idea was just fantastic enough to appeal to
him. Then, as he stood in the open gateway, he heard distant footfalls
coming down the alley, and a grumble of voices. Perhaps two policemen
on their rounds, he thought: it would be awkward to be surprised
skulking about back doors at this time of night. He slipped inside the
gate and closed it gently behind him, taking the precaution to slip the
bolt.
The footsteps came nearer, stumbling down the uneven cobbles in the
darkness. He stood still against the back fence. To his amazement the
men halted outside Mifflin's gate, and he heard the latch quietly
lifted.
"It's no use," said a voice--"the gate is locked. We must find some
other way, my friend."
Aubrey tingled to hear the rolling, throaty "r" in the last word.
There was no mistaking--this was the voice of his "friend and
well-wisher" over the telephone.
The other said something in German in a hoarse whisper. Having studied
that language in college, Aubrey caught only two words--Thur and
Schlussel, which he knew meant door and key.
"Very well," said the first voice. "That will be all right, but we
must act to-night. The damned thing must be finished to-morrow. Your
idiotic stupidity--"
Again followed some gargling in German, in a rapid undertone too fluent
for Aubrey's grasp. The latch of the alley gate clicked once more, and
his hand was on his revolver; but in a moment the two had passed on
down the alley.
The young advertising agent stood against the fence in silent horror,
his heart bumping heavily. His hands were clammy, his feet seemed to
have grown larger and taken root. What damnable complot was this? A
sultry wave of anger passed over him. This bland, slick, talkative
bookseller, was he arranging some blackmailing scheme to kidnap the
girl and wring blood-money out of her father? And in league with
Germans, too, the scoundrel! What an asinine thing for old Chapman to
send an unprotected girl over here into the wilds of Brooklyn . . . and
in the meantime, what was he to do? Patrol the back yard all night?
No, the friend and well-wisher had said "We must find some other way."
Besides, Aubrey remembered something having been said about the old
terrier sleeping in the kitchen. He felt sure Bock would not let any
German in at night without raising the roof. Probably the best way
would be to watch the front of the shop. In miserable perplexity he
waited several minutes until the two Germans would be well out of
earshot. Then he unbolted the gate and stole up the alley on tiptoe,
in the opposite direction. It led into Wordsworth Avenue just behind
Weintraub's drug store, over the rear of which hung the great girders
and trestles of the "L" station, a kind of Swiss chalet straddling the
street on stilts. He thought it prudent to make a detour, so he turned
east on Wordsworth Avenue until he reached Whittier Street, then
sauntered easily down Whittier for a block, spying sharply for
evidences of pursuit. Brooklyn was putting out its lights for the
night, and all was quiet. He turned into Hazlitt Street and so back
onto Gissing, noticing now that the Haunted Bookshop lights were off.
It was nearly eleven o'clock: the last audience was filing out of the
movie theatre, where two workmen were already perched on ladders taking
down the Tarzan electric light sign, to substitute the illuminated
lettering for the next feature.
After some debate he decided that the best thing to do was to return to
his room at Mrs. Schiller's, from which he could keep a sharp watch on
the front door of the bookshop. By good fortune there was a lamp post
almost directly in front of Mifflin's house, which cast plenty of light
on the little sunken area before the door. With his opera glasses he
could see from his bedroom whatever went on. As he crossed the street
he cast his eyes upward at the facade of Mrs. Schiller's house. Two
windows in the fourth storey were lit, and the gas burned minutely in
the downstairs hall, elsewhere all was dark. And then, as he glanced
at the window of his own chamber, where the curtain was still tucked
back behind the pane, he noticed a curious thing. A small point of
rosy light glowed, faded, and glowed again by the window. Someone was
smoking a cigar in his room.
Aubrey continued walking in even stride, as though he had seen nothing.
Returning down the street, on the opposite side, he verified his first
glance. The light was still there, and he judged himself not far out
in assuming the smoker to be the friend and well-wisher or one of his
gang. He had suspected the other man in the alley of being Weintraub,
but he could not be sure. A cautious glance through the window of the
drug store revealed Weintraub at his prescription counter. Aubrey
determined to get even with the guttural gentleman who was waiting for
him, certainly with no affectionate intent. He thanked the good
fortune that had led him to stick the book cover in his overcoat pocket
when leaving Mrs. Schiller's. Evidently, for reasons unknown, someone
was very anxious to get hold of it.
An idea occurred to him as he passed the little florist's shop, which
was just closing. He entered and bought a dozen white carnations, and
then, as if by an afterthought, asked "Have you any wire?"
The florist produced a spool of the slender, tough wire that is
sometimes used to nip the buds of expensive roses, to prevent them from
blossoming too quickly.
"Let me have about eight feet," said Aubrey. "I need some to-night and
I guess the hardware stores are all closed."
With this he returned to Mrs. Schiller's, picking his way carefully and
close to the houses so as to be out of sight from the upstairs windows.
He climbed the steps and unlatched the door with bated breath. It was
half-past eleven, and he wondered how long he would have to wait for
the well-wisher to descend.
He could not help chuckling as he made his preparations, remembering an
occasion at college somewhat similar in setting though far less serious
in purpose. First he took off his shoes, laying them carefully to one
side where he could find them again in a hurry. Then, choosing a
banister about six feet from the bottom of the stairs he attached one
end of the wire tightly to its base and spread the slack in a large
loop over two of the stair treads. The remaining end of the wire he
passed out through the banisters, twisting it into a small loop so that
he could pull it easily. Then he turned out the hall gas and sat down
in the dark to wait events.
He sat for a long time, in some nervousness lest the pug dog might come
prowling and find him. He was startled by a lady in a dressing
gown--perhaps Mrs. J. F. Smith--who emerged from a ground-floor room
passed very close to him in the dark, and muttered upstairs. He
twitched his noose out of the way just in time. Presently, however,
his patience was rewarded. He heard a door squeak above, and then the
groaning of the staircase as someone descended slowly. He relaid his
trap and waited, smiling to himself. A clock somewhere in the house
was chiming twelve as the man came groping down the last flight,
feeling his way in the dark. Aubrey heard him swearing under his
breath.
At the precise moment, when both his victim's feet were within the
loop, Aubrey gave the wire a gigantic tug. The man fell like a safe,
crashing against the banisters and landing in a sprawl on the floor.
It was a terrific fall, and shook the house. He lay there groaning and
cursing.
Barely retaining his laughter, Aubrey struck a match and held it over
the sprawling figure. The man lay with his face twisted against one
out-spread arm, but the beard was unmistakable. It was the assistant
chef again, and he seemed partly unconscious. "Burnt hair is a grand
restorative," said Aubrey to himself, and applied the match to the bush
of beard. He singed off a couple of inches of it with intense delight,
and laid his carnations on the head of the stricken one. Then, hearing
stirrings in the basement, he gathered up his wire and shoes and fled
upstairs. He gained his room roaring with inward mirth, but entered
cautiously, fearing some trap. Save for a strong tincture of cigar
smoke, everything seemed correct. Listening at his door he heard Mrs.
Schiller exclaiming shrilly in the hall, assisted by yappings from the
pug. Doors upstairs were opened, and questions were called out. He
heard guttural groans from the bearded one, mingled with oaths and some
angry remark about having fallen downstairs. The pug, frenzied with
excitement, yelled insanely. A female voice--possibly Mrs. J. F.
Smith--cried out "What's that smell of burning?" Someone else said,
"They're burning feathers under his nose to bring him to."
"Yes, Hun's feathers," chuckled Aubrey to himself. He locked his door,
and sat down by the window with his opera glasses.