FRANK MORROW JOINS IN THE HUNT
That she had reached the limit of her resources, her power to reason and
to endure, Lucile knew right well. To go on as she had been day after
day, each day adding some new responsibility to her already overburdened
shoulders, was to invite disaster. It was not fair to others. The set of
Shakespeare, the volume of Portland charts, the hand-bound volume from
the bindery and this book just taken from the summer home of the
millionaire, were all for the moment in the hands of the old man and the
child. How long would they remain there? No one could tell save the old
man and perhaps the child.
That she had had no part whatever in the taking of any of them, unless
her accompanying of the child on this trip might be called taking a part,
she knew quite well. Yet one is responsible for what one knows.
"I should have told what I knew about the set of Shakespeare in the
beginning," she chided herself. "Then there would have been no other
problems. All the other books would be at this moment in their proper
places and the old man and child would be--"
She could not say the words, "in jail." It was too terrible to
contemplate! That man and that child in jail! And, yet, she suddenly
remembered the child's declaration that she would not return the book to
the summer cottage. She had said the book belonged to the old man.
Perhaps, after all, it did. She had seen the millionaire's son in the
mystery room talking to the old man. Perhaps, after all, he had borrowed
the book and the child had been sent for it. There was some consolation
in that thought.
"But that does not solve any of the other problems," she told herself,
"and, besides, if she has a right to the book, why all this creeping up
to the cottage by night by way of the water. And why did he assume that
she was borrowing it?"
And so, after all her speculation, she found herself just where she had
left off; the tangle was no less a tangle than before.
"Question is," she whispered to herself, "am I going to go to the police
or to the university authorities with the story and have these mysterious
people arrested, or am I not?"
They reached the station just as the last train was pulling in. Florence
and the child had climbed aboard and Lucile had her hand on the rail when
she saw a skulking figure emerge from the shadows of the station. The
person, whoever he might be, darted down the track to climb upon the back
platform just as the train pulled out.
"That," Lucile told herself, "is the person who crossed the bridge ahead
of us. He is spying on us. I wonder who he is and what he knows." A cold
chill swept over her as if a winter blast had passed down the car.
When Florence had been told of what Lucile had seen, she suggested that
they go back and see who the man was.
"What's the use?" said Lucile. "We can't prove that he's following us. It
would only get us into another mess and goodness knows we're in enough
now."
So, with the mystery child curled up fast asleep in a seat before them,
hugging the newly acquired book as though it were a doll, they rattled
back toward the city.
In spite of the many problems perplexing her, Lucile soon fell asleep.
Florence remained to keep vigil over her companion, the child and the
supposedly valuable book.
They saw nothing more of the mysterious person who had apparently been
following them. Arrived at the city, they were confronted with the
problem of the immediate possession of the latest of the strangely
acquired volumes. Should the child be allowed to carry it to the
mysterious cottage or should they insist on taking it to their room for
safe keeping? They talked the matter over in whispers just before
arriving at their station.
"If you attempt to make her give it up," Florence whispered, "she'll make
a scene. She's just that sort of a little minx."
"I suppose so," said Lucile wearily.
"Might as well let her keep it. It's as safe as any of the books are at
that cottage, and, really, it's not as much our business as you keep
thinking it is. We didn't take the book. True, we went along with her,
but she would have gone anyway. We're not the guardians of all the musty
old books in Christendom. Let's forget at least this one and let that
rich young man get it back as best he can. He took the chance in allowing
her to take it away."
Lucile did not entirely agree to all this but was too tired to resist her
companion's logic, so the book went away under the child's arm.
After a very few hours of restless sleep, Lucile awoke with one resolve
firmly implanted in her mind: She would take Frank Morrow's book back to
him and place it in his hand, then she would tell him the part of the
story that he did not already know. After that she would attempt to
follow his advice in the matter.
With the thin volume of "The Compleat Angler" in the pocket of her coat,
she made her way at an early hour to his shop. He had barely opened up
for the day. No customers were yet about. Having done his nine holes of
golf before coming down and having done them exceedingly well, he was
feeling in a particularly good humor.
"Well, my young friend," he smiled, "what is it I may do for you this
morning? Why! Why!" he exclaimed, turning her suddenly about to the
light, "you've been losing sleep about something. Tut! Tut! That will
never do."
She smiled in spite of herself. Here was a young-old man who was truly a
dear. "Why I came," she smiled again, as she drew the valuable book from
her pocket, "to return your book and to tell you just how I came to have
it."
"That sounds interesting." Frank Morrow, rubbing his hands together as
one does who is anticipating a good yarn, then led her to a chair.
Fifteen minutes later, as the story was finished, he leaned back in his
chair and gave forth a merry chuckle as he gurgled, "Fine! Oh, fine!
That's the best little mystery story I've heard in a long time. It's
costing me two hundred dollars, but I don't begrudge it, not a penny of
it. The yarn's really worth it. Besides, I shall make a cool hundred on
the book still, which isn't so bad."
"Two hundred dollars!" exclaimed Lucile in great perplexity.
"Yes, the reward for the return of the book. Now that the mystery is
closed and the book returned, I shall pay it to you, of course."
"Oh, the reward," she said slowly. "Yes, of course. But, really, the
mystery is not ended--it has only just begun."
"As you like it," the shopkeeper smiled back. "As matters go, I should
call the matter closed. I have a book stolen. You recover it and are able
to tell me that the persons who stole it are an old man, too feeble to
work, and an innocent child. You are able to put your finger on them and
to say, 'These are the persons.' I can have them arrested if I choose. I
too am an old man; not so old as your Frenchman, yet old enough to know
something of what he must feel, with the pinch of age and poverty
dragging at the tail of his coat. I happen to love all little children
and to feel their suffering quite as much as they do when they must
suffer. I do not choose to have those two people arrested. That ends the
affair, does it not? You have your reward; I my book; they go free, not
because justice says they should but because a soft heart of an old man
says they must." He smiled and brushed his eyes with the back of his
hands.
Having nothing to say, Lucile sat there in silence.
Presently Frank Morrow began, "You think this is unusual because you do
not know how common it is. You have never run a bookstore. You would
perhaps be a little surprised to have me tell you that almost every day
of the year some book, more or less valuable, is stolen, either from a
library or from a bookshop. It is done, I suppose, because it seems so
very easy. Here is a little volume worth, we will say, ten dollars. It
will slip easily into your pocket. When the shopkeeper is not looking, it
does slip in. Then again, when he is not paying any particular attention
to you, you slip out upon the street. You drink in a few breaths of fresh
air, cast a glance to right and left of you, then walk away. You think
the matter is closed. In reality it has just begun.
"In the first place, you probably did not take the book so you might have
it for your library. Collectors of rare books are seldom thieves. They
are often cranks, but honest cranks. More books are stolen by students
than by any other class of people. They have a better knowledge of the
value of books than the average run of folks, and they more often need
the money to be obtained from the sale of such books.
"Nothing seems easier than to take a book from one store, to carry it to
another store six or eight miles away and sell it, then to wash your
hands of the whole matter. Nothing in reality is harder. All the
bookstore keepers of every large city are bound together in a loosely
organized society for mutual protection. The workings of their
'underground railways' are swifter and more certain than the United
States Secret Service. The instant I discover that one of my books has
been carried off, I sit down and put the name of it on a multigraph. This
prints the name on enough post cards to go to all the secondhand
bookshops in the city. When the shopkeepers get these cards, they read
the name and know the book has been stolen. If they have already bought
it, they start a search for the person who sold it to them. They
generally locate him. If the book has not yet been disposed of, every
shopkeeper is constantly on the lookout for it until it turns up. So," he
smiled, "you see how easy it is to steal books.
"And yet they will steal them," he went on. "Why," he smiled
reminiscently, "not so long ago I had the same book stolen twice within
the week."
"Did you find out who it was?"
"In both cases, at once."
"Different people."
"Entirely different; never met, as far as I know. The first one was an
out and out rascal; he wanted the money for needless luxuries. We treated
him rough. Very rough! The other was a sick student who, we found, had
used the money to pay carfare to his home. I did not even trouble to find
out where his home was; just paid the ten dollars to the man who had
purchased the book from him and charged it off on my books. That," he
stroked his chin thoughtfully, "that doesn't seem like common sense--or
justice, either, yet it is the way men do; anyway it's the way I do."
Again there was silence.
"But," Lucile hesitated, "this case is different. The mystery still
exists. Why does Monsieur Le Bon want the books? He has not sold a single
volume. Something must be done about the books from the university, the
Scientific Library and the Bindery."
"That's true," said Frank Morrow thoughtfully. "There are angles to the
case that are interesting, very interesting. Mind if I smoke?"
Lucile shook her head.
"Thanks." He filled and lighted his pipe. "Mind going over the whole
story again?"
"No, not a bit."
She began at the beginning and told her story. This time he interrupted
her often and it seemed that, as he asked question after question, his
interest grew as the story progressed.
"Now I'll tell you what to do," he held up a finger for emphasis as she
concluded. He leaned far forward and there was a light of adventure in
his eye. "I'll tell you what you do. Here's a hundred dollars." He drew a
roll of bills from his pocket. "You take this money and buy yourself a
ticket to New York. You can spare the week-end at least. When you get to
New York, go to Burtnoe's Book Store and ask for Roderick Vining. He sold
me that copy of 'The Compleat Angler.' I sent out a bid for such a book
when I had a customer for it and he was one of two who responded. His
book was the best of the two, so I took it. He is in charge of fine
binding in the biggest book store in his city. They deal in new books,
not secondhand ones, but he dabbles in rare volumes on the side. Tell him
that I want to know where he got the book; take the book along, to show
you are the real goods. When he tells you where, then find that person if
you can and ask him the same question. Keep going until you discover
something. You may have to hunt up a half dozen former owners but sooner
or later you will come to an end, to the place where that book crossed
the sea. And unless I miss my guess, that's mighty important.
"I am sorry to have to send you--wish I could go myself," he said after a
moment's silence. "It will be an interesting hunt and may even be a
trifle dangerous, though I think not."
"But this money, this hundred dollars?" Lucile hesitated, fingering the
bills.
"Oh, that?" he smiled. "That's the last of my profit on the little book.
We'll call that devoted to the cause of science or lost books or whatever
you like.
"But," he called after her, as she left the shop, "be sure to keep your
fingers tight closed around the little book."
This, Lucile was destined to discover, was not so easily done.