LUCILE SOLVES NO MYSTERY
Buried deep beneath the blankets of lower 9, car 20, bound for New York,
Lucile for a time that night allowed her thoughts to swing along with the
roll of the Century Limited. She found herself puzzled at the unexpected
turn of events. She had never visited New York and she welcomed the
opportunity. There was more to be learned by such a visit, brief though
it was bound to be, than in a whole month of poring over books. But why
was she going? What did Frank Morrow hope to prove by any discoveries she
might make regarding the former ownership of the book she carried in her
pocket?
She had never doubted but that the aged Frenchman when badly in need of
funds had sold the book to some American. That he should have repented of
the transaction and had wished the book back in his library, seemed
natural enough. Lacking funds to purchase it back, he had found another
way. That the ends justified the means Lucile very much doubted, yet
there was something to be said for this old man because of his extreme
age. It might be that he had reached the period of his second childhood
and all things appeared to belong to him.
"But here," she told herself, rising to a sitting posture and trying to
stare out into the fleeing darkness, "here we suddenly discover that the
book came from New York. What is one to make of that? Very simple, in a
way, I suppose. This aged Frenchman enters America by way of New York. He
needs funds to pay his passage and the freight on his books to Chicago,
so he sells one or two books to procure the money. Yet I doubt if that
would be Frank Morrow's solution of the problem. Surely he would not
sacrifice a hundred dollars to send me to New York merely to find out who
the man was to whom the old Frenchman had sold the book. He must think
there is more to it than that--and perhaps there is. Ho, well," she
sighed, as she settled back on her pillow, "let that come when it comes.
I am going to see New York--N-e-w Y-o-r-k--" she spelled it out; "and that
is a grand and glorious privilege."
The next moment the swing of the Century Limited as it click-clicked over
the rails and the onward rush of scenery meant nothing to her. She was
fast asleep.
Morning found her much refreshed. After a half hour in the washroom and
another in the diner, over coffee and toast, she felt equal to the facing
of any events which might chance to cross her path that day. There are
days in all our lives that are but blanks. They pass and we forget them
forever. There are other days that are so pressed full and running over
with vivid experience that every hour, as we look back upon it, seems a
"crowded hour." Such days we never forget, and this was destined to be
such a day in the life of Lucile.
Precisely at nine o'clock she was at the door of Burtnoe's Book Store. To
save time she had taken a taxi. The clerk who unfastened the door looked
at her curiously. When she asked for Roderick Vining, she was directed by
a nod to the back corner of the room.
She made her way into a square alcove where an electric light shining
brightly from the ceiling brought out a gleam of real gold from the backs
of thousands of books done in fine bindings.
Bending over a desk telephone was the form of a tall, slender-shouldered
man.
"Are--are you Roderick Vining?" she faltered, at the same time drawing
"The Compleat Angler" half out of her pocket.
His only answer was to hold up one long, tapering finger as a signal for
silence. Someone was speaking at the other end of the wire.
With burning cheeks and a whispered apology, the girl sank back into the
shadows. Her courage faltered. This was her introduction to New York; she
had made a faux pas as her first move; and this man, Roderick Vining, was
no ordinary person, she could see that. There was time to study him now.
His face was long, his features thin, but his forehead was high. He
impressed her, seated though he was, as one who was habitually in a
hurry. Pressing matters were, without doubt, constantly upon his mind.
Now he was speaking. She could not avoid hearing what he was saying
without leaving the alcove, and he had not requested her to do that.
"Why, yes, Mrs. Nelson," he was saying, "we can get the set for you. Of
course you understand that is a very special, de luxe edition; only three
hundred sets struck off, then the plates destroyed. The cost would be
considerable."
Again he pressed the receiver to his ear.
"Why, I should say, three thousand dollars; not less, certainly. All
right, madam, I will order the set at once. Your address? Yes, certainly,
I have it. Thank you. Good-bye."
He placed the receiver on its hook with as little noise as if it had been
padded, then turned to Lucile. "Pardon me; you wanted to see me? Sorry to
keep you waiting."
"Frank Morrow sent me here to ask you where you purchased this book." She
held the thin volume out for his inspection.
He did not appear to look at it at all. Instead, he looked her squarely
in the eye. "Frank Morrow sent you all the way from Chicago that you
might ask me that question? How extraordinary! Why did he not wire me? He
knows I would tell him." A slight frown appeared on his forehead.
"I--I am--" she was about to tell him that she was to ask the next person
where he got it, but thinking better of it said instead, "That is only
part of my mission to New York. Won't you please look at the book and
answer my question?"
Still he did not look at the book but to her utter astonishment said,
while a smile illumined his face, "I bought that copy of 'The Compleat
Angler' right here in this alcove."
"From whom?" she half whispered.
"From old Dan Whitner, who keeps a bookshop back on Walton place."
"Thank you," she murmured, much relieved. Here was no mystery; one
bookshop selling a book to another. There was more to it. She must follow
on.
"I suppose," he smiled, as if reading her thoughts, "that you'd like me
to tell you where Dan got it, but that I cannot answer. You must ask him
yourself. His address is 45 Walton place. It is ten minutes' walk from
here; three blocks to your right as you leave our door, then two to your
left, a block and a half to your left again and you are there. The sign's
easy to read--just 'Dan Whitner, Books.' Dan's a prince of a chap. He'll
do anything for a girl like you; would for anyone, for that matter. Ever
been to New York before?" he asked suddenly.
"No."
"Come alone?"
"Yes."
He whistled softly to himself, "You western girls will be the death of
us."
"When there's some place that needs to be gone to we go to it," she
smiled half defiantly. "There's nothing so terrible about that, is
there?"
"No, I suppose not," he admitted. "Well, you go see Dan. He'll tell you
anything he knows." With that he turned to his work.
Lucile, however, was not ready to go. She had one more question to ask,
even though it might be another faux pas.
"Would you--would you mind telling me how you knew what book I had when
you did not see it?" she said.
"I did see it," he smiled, as if amused. "I didn't see it when you
expected me to see it, that was all. I saw it long before--saw it when I
was at the phone. It's a habit we book folks have of doing one thing with
our ears and another with our eyes. We have to or we'd never get through
in a day if we didn't. Your little book protruded from your pocket. I
knew you were going to say something about it; perhaps offer to sell it,
so I looked at it. Simple, wasn't it? No great mystery about it. Hope
your other mysteries will prove as simple. Got any friends in New York?"
"No."
He shook his head in a puzzled manner, but allowed her to leave the room
without further comment.