up the chimney of "No. 8" was the sensation of the hour. A horrible
crime had been committed, and in an unknown and terrible way. It was
Edgar Allan Poe in a new guise and his wonderful stories immediately
became popular and new editions of the "Tales" were called for by a new
set of readers. Some critics of crime suggested that the "Murders in
the Rue Morgue" had been repeated at No. Eight East Eighth Street. The
hiding-place of the body was identical with that in the famous story
and it was said that the police were on the look-out for apes,
gorillas, and other animals, which alone were capable of committing
such hideous crimes.
The whole life of poor little Marie was laid bare. Her picture was in
every newspaper and her history was given from the day of her birth
with remarkable ingenuity. The reporters, with uncontrolled
imaginations, turned out from the scanty material at their hands an
excellent biographical sketch, that seemed and rang true, which is
sufficient for the reading public.
Marie Perrin had disappeared without paying her rent from No. Eight
over a year ago. When the agent came to collect the arrears, he found
the tenant had departed with all her chattels. This was a libel, for
she was in the room but not visible. The detectives, when they
investigated into the tragedy and after asking ten thousand questions
in a thousand and one places, found out that Marie had a sweetheart and
that his name was Richard Tomlinson. He refused to admit his guilt,
but after being prodded with the iron-fork of the law, technically
known as the "third degree" he broke down and confessed. In a fit of
anger he struck her over the head with the brass fire-tongs. He had no
intention of killing her, or even harming her, but he had become
insanely jealous of another who was paying her attentions. In fact he
said he must have been mad at the time, as he did not remember having
struck her until she lay before him, quiet and cold upon the floor.
After a trial lasting over two weeks, and full of sensational
incidents, Tomlinson was sentenced to spend twenty years of his life in
prison.
"That's an interesting tale," said Robert Hooker, when the Colonel had
stopped speaking, "but what has all this to do with the first edition
of Poe's story?"
"Well, you see, Tomlinson was a friend of mine. He told me that, after
he had accidentally killed the girl, he was terribly frightened. He
did not know what to do with the body. He had a mind to go to the
police and confess all, but did not have the courage to do so. He
remained in a trance, he thought, for hours, thinking of his fearful
crime and the dreadful consequences. While he was in this deep,
agonizing study and not knowing what he was doing, he picked up a small
book on her reading table. It was 'The Murders in the Rue Morgue.' It
was the title that attracted him, and some compelling force, what it
was he knew not, caused him to read it. He told me that never in his
whole life had anything so interested him as that story on that
frightful occasion; although pursued by terrible fears he read every
word, every syllable of it. The rest you know."
"But, Colonel," said Hooker, with one thought uppermost in his mind,
"it might be any edition, not necessarily the first. There have been
hundreds of editions published. How do you know what edition it was?"
"It was the first, Mr. Hooker. Tomlinson told me the girl had borrowed
it to read and that it belonged to some one who had a mania for old
books and who had kept it always under lock and key."
"Do you know where it is?"
"Yes."
"Can you get it?"
"Perhaps."
"I shall make it worth your while. How much do you want?"
"All I can get. I'll have to steal it!"
"What!"
"Yes, I'll have to steal it. It cannot be had in any other way. Why
do you start?"
"I didn't think you'd have to do that!"
"Yes. You see Tomlinson, when he moved from those furnished rooms,
took everything he could carry to his brother's lodgings near
Washington Square. The book is in a sealed trunk on the third floor.
Tomlinson made his brother promise that this trunk was not to be
disturbed under any circumstances until he came out of jail a free man.
I've tried in every way--by bribery and everything--but his brother
will not touch it. He seems afraid of that old trunk. I'll get it,
however, at all costs. Are you with me?"
Hooker was, above everything, a true bibliophile. He instantly
answered:
"Yes, Colonel! Go the limit. I'll back you."
The Colonel without another word picked up his hat and left the office.
For three tedious weeks Hooker heard no more of the book or of his
curious friend, the Colonel. The whole thing seemed like a tale woven
by Poe himself.
Would the book, if it ever was secured, turn out to be a second edition
and worthless? Booklovers, after the strange manner of their kind,
only cherish the first, the earliest issue, in the same state as it
came from the master's hand, unrevised and with all the errors
uncorrected. They do not care for new and more elegant editions.
Hooker grew restless as the weeks rolled by, and still no Colonel.
One morning, as he was looking over his mail, a gentleman was
announced. Then, tottering into the office, with his arm in a sling
and a patch over his left eye, came the gallant Colonel.
"Why, Colonel, what's the matter?"
"Nothing at all, sir."
"But your arm and your--"
"That's my affair, Mr. Hooker. I've come to secure the reward of my
labors. I've got the book," he said in triumph,--"I told you I'd get
it."
"Where is it?"
"Here in my pocket. Look at it. It's a superb copy!"
The Colonel laid before the astonished eyes of Richard Hooker the
priceless first edition of Poe's marvelous story. It was in the
original brown printed wrappers, just as it was published. With
trembling hands he grasped the book; he turned the first page and
gasped. A startled cry broke from his lips. The Colonel at once
noticed his pallor. He did not dream that an old book would affect
even the most ardent bibliophile in this manner. In all his experience
of forty years he had never seen anyone so overcome at the sight of a
dingy pamphlet.
There, upon the title-page, Hooker read the tender inscription written
many generations ago, with which the most imaginative of American poets
had presented his greatest story to his loving wife. It was his own
copy, returned like bread upon the waters. Hooker was speechless. He
went over to his check book and handed the Colonel the equivalent of
three thousand dollars. The Colonel retired, murmuring his thanks.
The book lay upon Hooker's desk. Here was a new problem, worthy of M.
Dupin himself. Question after question came into his excited mind to
depart unanswered. Who had stolen it? and how? Why had it been taken?
How had Tomlinson secured it? and what, above all, had it to do with
Marie Perrin?
Hooker remained there, gazing at the pamphlet for hours. It fascinated
him horribly. The luncheon hour went by and still he sat staring
intently at its faded covers. Would he ever solve the riddle?
His mind was still at work on the problem when he was interrupted by
his secretary.
"It's closing time, sir. Is there anything you want before I go?"
"Nothing, John, thank you."
The secretary turned to depart. He drew back suddenly!
"The book! Mr. Hooker, the book! Where did you get _that_!"
Robert Hooker looked at his confidential assistant. His face was the
color of the whitest parchment. His breath came in gasps and cold
drops of perspiration were visible upon his forehead.
"I bought it to-day," said Hooker, quietly. "It once belonged to
me--and Marie Perrin."
"She was my--"
John Lawrence did not finish the sentence; his face was twitching and
he was evidently suffering from the keenest nervous excitement.
"Tell me about it, John," said Hooker kindly. "You seem to know
something of it."
"I do, Mr. Hooker. You'll forgive me, won't you? I didn't mean to do
anything wrong."
"Why, what do you mean?"
"Well, years ago, on your return from Europe, you questioned me about
that book. I was the only one who had access to the safe and knew the
combination. I told you I knew nothing about it--that perhaps it had
been mislaid before your departure for London. I lied, for I had taken
it. I'd no intention of stealing it; I did not even know it was
particularly valuable. I read the story one day when I was alone, with
no work to do. It was the best tale I'd ever read. I was absorbed by
it. I could not get the horrible plot out of my head."
"Yes, John, go on. Where does Marie come in?"
"I was engaged to her. I had known her for years. She came from
Montpelier, Vermont, where we both were born. One day I told her of
the story. She wanted to read it. Not thinking it any harm, I loaned
it to her. She stopped for it one evening on her way home. I never
saw her after that. I tried every way to find her, without avail. She
had disappeared from her rooms on Eighth Street and I never heard of
her again until the frightful news came out. Detectives came to see
me. My name was in the papers once or twice at the time, and the
questions they asked me were terrible. I proved an alibi; they had
fixed the crime on Tomlinson, who, unknown to me, was uppermost in her
affections. It was a bitter awakening. I've never been the same
since. I think of her every night of my life--I've now told you all
and I shall resign and leave you at once. You can have no more need of
me."
"Stay, John. I forgive you. You've suffered enough. Go home--and
come down to-morrow, as usual."
The book still lay upon the desk. This time he would take it home to
keep it in his library among his most valuable possessions. For surely
it was the most interesting copy of the "Murders in the Rue Morgue" in
existence! Hooker turned the leaves to see whether, after its
wanderings, all the pages were intact--"collating" it, as bibliophiles
love to term this delightful occupation. Yes, it was perfect--just as
when it had so mysteriously disappeared years ago. But, hold,--what
were the brown, reddish finger-marks on the back cover? Hooker did not
have to be told that it was the life-blood of poor Marie Perrin.
THE GREAT DISCOVERY
He was considered by all his friends thrice a fool. First, he was
engaged to be married; second, he was a speculator in stocks; and
third, he was a book-lover. Some condoned the first offence, others
pardoned the second, which was considered a weakness, and all
universally condemned the last!
John Libro had money on July 28th, 1914. On July 29 he did not possess
a cent. The War caused it all. When New Haven dropped to fifty and
Reading to seventy, John Libro's fortune shrank with them and he was
left high and dry with nothing but the advice of his friends, a little
jewelry, some clothing, and a few old books!
Libro went home, made an inventory, and counted the change in his
pocket He was thirty-five years old, big, healthy, good-natured, and
irrepressible. Here he was face to face with starvation. He grimly
smiled, for it was at any rate a new experience. He sat down by the
little bookcase, forgot his cares and his creditors, and took out his
beloved friends. He tenderly fondled the first edition of Elia, dipped
into Beaumont and Fletcher, and took solace from the "Pleasures of
Memory." When he looked at his watch, it was eight o'clock. Two hours
had glided away in the company of his morocco-clad companions.
It was then that he thought of Ethel. He would go to her at once and
unfold his story. He told her in a few words that he was ruined and
could not marry her. This made her more than ever determined to marry
him. She loved him and could not allow such a small thing as money to
interfere with their plans. The more he insisted, the more determined
she became. At last they reached a compromise--he would put the matter
squarely up to her father. Mr. Edwards was called from his study.
"Mr. Edwards," he began, "I suppose you read of what happened to-day in
the stock-market--"
"Yes, yes, of course," Mr. Edwards replied quickly, "what of it?"
"Well, I was long on New Haven and Reading--"
"Speculating again, have you?"
"Yes, and I'm broke, and Ethel would not allow me to break off the
engagement until I spoke to you."
"She is a foolish girl. You are released, and I think it a good thing
for my daughter."
"Perhaps some day when I go to work--" poor Libro pleaded.
"Work! Work!" retorted Mr. Edwards, "who ever heard of a stock broker
who _worked_!"
Without another word they parted--and Libro returned to the
drawing-room to pay, with many kisses, his farewell to Ethel.
When at last he was on the street he thought that poverty was the most
terrible thing in the world--it destroyed in a moment love and
happiness. And yet he was no longer thrice a fool--for he was not
engaged, he was no longer a speculator, and, of course, he must cease
to be a collector. While he was meditating about this curious effect
of poverty, which had changed over night a fool into a philosopher, a
beggar approached him. He felt in his pockets and handed him a
quarter. Libro then went on his way, for the humor of the incident
appealed to him.
The next day he tried to secure a position. He asked all his friends,
who could do nothing "on account of the war."
He then tried the department stores, the banks, the hotels, the
theatres--everywhere. No one would give a position to a stock-broker.
Mr. Edwards was right!
But he must live--the situation had become not so fantastic. He would
sell everything--his father's watch, his jewelry, his clothing,
everything but his books. Those he would not part with.
On the corner of Thirty-fifth and Broadway was a pawnshop--he had
passed it hundreds of times, but had never thought of entering. Half
of it was a store where the pledges were sold; each piece of jewelry
had a huge white card on which ran some such legend--"Former price
$1,000--now $400." The other half of the shop was where the real
"business" was conducted, and it was here that its patrons lost their
patrimony. Libro was ashamed to enter; he hesitated two or three times
and then returned to his rooms. He picked up old "Omar" in its paper
covers, and with the imprint of Bernard Quaritch, 1859, for it was a
first edition and much beloved. He then read of wines and the joys of
heaven--he could not afford to buy those full orient vintages, but,
nevertheless, in the quietude of his rooms, he drank deep.
Two days later, with the courage of hunger, Libro visited the locality
of this American Mont de Piete. But he was again afraid to enter. He
seemed to see all his friends near him, watching him. He thought they
smiled when they acknowledged his trembling salute. Broadway seemed to
contain myriads of his acquaintances. He then thought with dread of
the interior of the place, with its poor, degraded, perhaps
half-clothed men and women, forced to pledge their last precious
possession. He walked away, but returned, laughing at his cowardice.
This was also to be a new experience. He resolved to walk quickly up
to the door and enter before anyone would notice him.
He received a shock when he passed the portals. If he observed
acquaintances on the outside, here on the inside, he met _friends_!
All Wall Street seemed to be gathered. It was more like a meeting of
the Down Town Club. "Hello, Jack! Why, if that's not Libro!" and "The
Baby Member!" greeted him from all sides. Before the well-worn counter
was the flower of New York's financial set, pawning their diamonds and
their good-repute. The wire houses and the bucket shops and the
legitimate offices were all closed, and, by a marvelous change, as in
the twinkling of an eye, the principals, and not their customers, were
putting up "more margin!"
John Libro entered properly into the spirit of the occasion. He
laughed with the others when one received $50 on a diamond ring that
cost two hundred. He roared in harmony with the crowd when one well
known Broadway habitue objected to the twelve dollars proffered on a
gold watch. It was all too funny for anything! It was now his turn.
He felt sick as he took from his tie an emerald pin, the gift of his
mother.
"How much do you want on this?" asked the proprietor. It was a cold
voice which went through him like steel. He took an instant dislike to
this man who was the proprietor himself, Geoffrey Steinman, a king
among his brethren of this old and honorable profession.
"Seventy-five dollars," said Libro.
"This is no time for jokes," Steinman retorted. "I shall advance you
fifteen dollars, and not a cent more."
"But it cost a hundred at Tiffany's!"
"Fifteen dollars--my time is valuable."
It was the same old story. John Libro received the money and departed.
He was bitter at the world and particularly at the cold, keen gentleman
who presided over the destinies of the shop with the glittering
windows. He grew bitter when his watch (his father's gift), his fob,
his gold card-case, his medals and finally his overcoat went into the
tiger's maw. And every time he remonstrated with him, cursed him, or
implored him, Steinman remained the same--heartless, brusque, cutting,
satirical and, what was worse than all, polite. "Damn his politeness,"
gasped Libro--"I can do nothing at all with him when he is polite!"
This hate ripened and broke out anew when each article was pawned. "If
I could only get even"--he exclaimed hopelessly. He had not a chance
in the world, he thought. For a thousand times he said goodby to a
dear memento of his parents or a remembrance of his youth. At last he
had pledged everything.
Libro had not heard from Ethel for months, although it seemed like ages
to him! On the cold afternoon that he had pawned his overcoat he went
to his rooms and thought if it would not be better to end it all,
quietly and decently. He thought for a long time. He went to the
little bookcase and picked up an old edition of Boethius on the
"Consolations of Philosophy," and only the title consoled him. He,
however, found many long-tried friends, and their broad margins and
blue and crimson morocco covers made him forget that man was made to
mourn. His first editions of the poets made him oblivious to his
condition and he lived once again on high Parnassus.
Libro was looking over the Poems of John Keats, published in 1817, when
a catalogue slip fell out. On the slip it stated that a copy had once
sold for five hundred dollars! This, then, was meat and drink for him!
He would sell it! He could live for months on poor Keats. But his
soul revolted. He was not a cannibal. He could not live off the flesh
of his own.
But at last he was compelled to return to Steinman. He wrapped up the
precious volume tenderly, affectionately. He took it bravely, for was
he not offering at the sacrifice the dearest of his possessions? He
gently, timidly, unwrapt before the pawnbroker the little volume,
awaiting expectantly the admiration that always followed its
appearance. But, alas, he was not among book-lovers.
"No books!" exclaimed Steinman. "I've got stuck on them once or twice
before. Not one cent!"
"You,--you--" but Libro could not find words to explain his hatred. He
would have killed him had he a weapon near.
"Don't you know that book has sold for five hundred dollars at
auction," exclaimed Libro.
"Then sell it at auction," replied Steinman, politely. As the poor and
crushed bibliophile turned to go, the proprietor interrupted him.
"Wait. If you are so interested in that old plunder, perhaps you would
like to see this."
Steinman held in his hands a dingy old volume. Libro could not resist.
An unknown force compelled him to look at it. With hatred consuming
him, he nevertheless, like a true bibliophile, received from his enemy
the book. He opened it.
"Why, they are Shakespeare quartos!" he almost shouted, and then
stopped suddenly.
The proprietor was looking at him narrowly. Libro's heart had almost
stopped beating. There was the long lost quarto of "Titus Andronicus,"
1594, and a perfect first edition of "Hamlet"! There were others in
the volume, a veritable treasure trove. It was, in truth, a great
discovery!
"What's it worth?" said Steinman.
"Something to a collector," replied Libro, honestly: "nothing to you."
"Well, if you know anyone who wants the old thing he can have it for
ten dollars. I once advanced that amount on it. Since then I say, No
Books!"
John Libro by a superhuman effort controlled himself.
"Steinman, I need money for food. You already have everything valuable
I possess,--but this."
He took from his finger a ring. It had been his mother's wedding ring.
It was the last that remained to him of his parents' legacy.
"How much will you give me on this?" he said, trembling. His very life
depended upon Steinman's answer. He held his breath.
"A little less than gold-value," said Steinman. He threw it carelessly
on the scales.
"Ten dollars and thirty-seven cents."
Without further ado Steinman counted out the money and Libro departed.
He, however, went out one door and came in by another. It was the
first time that he had entered the half of the establishment where the
unredeemed merchandise is sold. On this side he was a patron and not
to be patronized.
"How much for that old book?" said Libro boldly.
"Ten dollars," answered Steinman in a surprised tone. This was a new
dodge, a customer pledging one article to obtain money to purchase
another!
It was Libro's turn now; but he was not used to the game. "I shall
give you five dollars. Not a cent more."
"No. Ten dollars or nothing."
"All right. I'll take it; wrap it up."
He counted out the money and left. Steinman felt uneasy. He thought
he saw the flicker of an unholy smile on Libro's face, as he passed
through the swinging doors.
It is almost unnecessary to state that Libro sold the book--the only
book he ever parted with--for a fabulous sum--more than its weight in
gold,--and for many thousands of dollars. A noted collector purchased
it immediately, and it is now the chief attraction of his wonderful
library.
With the money jingling in his pocket he returned to the scene of his
former misery. He was to redeem his pledges with the broker's own
money.
"Steinman," he said, "collect all my things. I shall pay what I owe
and take them with me."
"I congratulate you, Mr. Libro, on your return to fortune," replied
Steinman affably.
"I want to thank you, Steinman."
"Thank me! Why?"
"Because of the old book," said Libro, politely. "I sold it to-day for
thirty thousand dollars!"
In a joyous mood John Libro called upon Ethel Edwards. The story of
"the Shakespeare Find" was in the evening's papers. No one was more
glad to see him than Ethel's father, who welcomed him like an old
friend. That night he mused as he walked home: "I am no longer a
stock-broker, I am engaged to Ethel, and I can still collect books. I
_am_ a fool; and I glory in it!"
THE FIFTEEN JOYS OF MARRIAGE
He was showing the distinguished guest through his magnificent library.
He exhibited with pride his treasures, telling an interesting tale
about this volume, and his merry adventures about that. In
glass-covered exhibition cases were displayed some of his greater
rarities and the colors of their morocco coverings gleamed and glowed
in the light. At one end of the spacious room was a case with bronze
mountings, and within reposed a volume bound in old olive levant,
powdered with the bees and other devices so often used by Nicolas Eve,
binder to his Majesty Francis the First. The visitor asked about the
volume that was so superbly housed, and begged Mr. Henry Stirling to
give its history.
"Pray examine it," he replied, taking the volume with the greatest care
from the case. On its back, in letters of gold, mellowed by age, was
its title: "Les Quinze Joyes de Mariage." "Ah, that is indeed rare!"
exclaimed the visitor, "and its binding is marvelous. But hold, it is
rubbed in one corner. Some vandal did that! It is a shame such a
treasure should have been used so damnably!"
"It is for that reason, sir," Stirling replied, "that it is my most
beloved volume. I value it above all the books in my library. This is
its history:--
"Some fifteen years ago I met at a house party a lady to whom I was
instantly attracted. She was handsome, with high coloring, and the
most glorious hair. We met often thereafter, and a year later she
became my wife. We lived for some time most happily together.
Occasionally we had petty disputes that always ended in a victory for
both of us!