The Haunted Bookshop · Chapter 7 (2/2)

Aubrey sat down in a rocking chair by the window, tucked the muslin curtain to one side, and looked out upon the bright channel of Gissing Street. He was full of the exhilaration that springs from any change of abode, but his romantic satisfaction in being so close to the adorable Titania was somewhat marred by a sense of absurdity, which is feared by young men more than wounds and death. He could see the lighted windows of the Haunted Bookshop quite plainly, but he could not think of any adequate excuse for going over there. And already he realized that to be near Miss Chapman was not at all the consolation he had expected it would be. He had a powerful desire to see her. He turned off the gas, lit his pipe, opened the window, and focused the opera glasses on the door of the bookshop. It brought the place tantalizingly near. He could see the table at the front of the shop, Roger’s bulletin board under the electric light, and one or two nondescript customers gleaning along the shelves. Then something bounded violently under the third button of his shirt. There she was! In the bright, prismatic little circle of the lenses he could see Titania. Heavenly creature, in her white V-necked blouse and brown skirt, there she was looking at a book. He saw her put out one arm and caught the twinkle of her wristwatch. In the startling familiarity of the magnifying glass he could see her bright, unconscious face, the merry profile of her cheek and chin⁠ ⁠… “The idea of that girl working in a secondhand bookstore!” he exclaimed. “It’s positive sacrilege! Old man Chapman must be crazy.”

He took out his pyjamas and threw them on the bed; put his toothbrush and razor on the washbasin, laid hairbrushes and O. Henry on the bureau. Feeling rather seriocomic he loaded his small revolver and hipped it. It was six o’clock, and he wound his watch. He was a little uncertain what to do: whether to keep a vigil at the window with the opera glasses, or go down in the street where he could watch the bookshop more nearly. In the excitement of the adventure he had forgotten all about the cut on his scalp, and felt quite chipper. In leaving Madison Avenue he had attempted to excuse the preposterousness of his excursion by thinking that a quiet weekend in Brooklyn would give him an opportunity to jot down some tentative ideas for Daintybits advertising copy which he planned to submit to his chief on Monday. But now that he was here he felt the impossibility of attacking any such humdrum task. How could he sit down in cold blood to devise any “attention-compelling” layouts for Daintybits Tapioca and Chapman’s Cherished Saratoga Chips, when the daintiest bit of all was only a few yards away? For the first time was made plain to him the amazing power of young women to interfere with the legitimate commerce of the world. He did get so far as to take out his pad of writing paper and jot down

These delicate wafers, crisped by a secret process, cherish in their unique tang and flavour all the life-giving nutriment that has made the potato the King of Vegetables⁠—

But the face of Miss Titania kept coming between his hand and brain. Of what avail to flood the world with Chapman Chips if the girl herself should come to any harm? “Was this the face that launched a thousand chips?” he murmured, and for an instant wished he had brought The Oxford Book of English Verse instead of O. Henry.

A tap sounded at his door, and Mrs. Schiller appeared. “Telephone for you, Mr. Gilbert,” she said.

“For me?” said Aubrey in amazement. How could it be for him, he thought, for no one knew he was there.

“The party on the wire asked to speak to the gentleman who arrived about half an hour ago, and I guess you must be the one he means.”

“Did he say who he is?” asked Aubrey.

“No, sir.”

For a moment Aubrey thought of refusing to answer the call. Then it occurred to him that this would arouse Mrs. Schiller’s suspicions. He ran down to the telephone, which stood under the stairs in the front hall.

“Hello,” he said.

“Is this the new guest?” said a voice⁠—a deep, gargling kind of voice.

“Yes,” said Aubrey.

“Is this the gentleman that arrived half an hour ago with a handbag?”

“Yes; who are you?”

“I’m a friend,” said the voice; “I wish you well.”

“How do you do, friend and well-wisher,” said Aubrey genially.

“I schust want to warn you that Gissing Street is not healthy for you,” said the voice.

“Is that so?” said Aubrey sharply. “Who are you?”

“I am a friend,” buzzed the receiver. There was a harsh, bass note in the voice that made the diaphragm at Aubrey’s ear vibrate tinnily. Aubrey grew angry.

“Well, Herr Freund,” he said, “if you’re the well-wisher I met on the bridge last night, watch your step. I’ve got your number.”

There was a pause. Then the other repeated, ponderously, “I am a friend. Gissing Street is not healthy for you.” There was a click, and he had rung off.

Aubrey was a good deal perplexed. He returned to his room, and sat in the dark by the window, smoking a pipe and thinking, with his eyes on the bookshop.

There was no longer any doubt in his mind that something sinister was afoot. He reviewed in memory the events of the past few days.

It was on Monday that a bookloving friend had first told him of the existence of the shop on Gissing Street. On Tuesday evening he had gone round to visit the place, and had stayed to supper with Mr. Mifflin. On Wednesday and Thursday he had been busy at the office, and the idea of an intensive Daintybit campaign in Brooklyn had occurred to him. On Friday he had dined with Mr. Chapman, and had run into a curious string of coincidences. He tabulated them:⁠—

1. The Lost ad in the Times on Friday morning.
2. The chef in the elevator carrying the book that was supposed to be lost⁠—he being the same man Aubrey had seen in the bookshop on Tuesday evening.
3. Seeing the chef again on Gissing Street.
4. The return of the book to the bookshop.
5. Mifflin had said that the book had been stolen from him. Then why should it be either advertised or returned?
6. The rebinding of the book.
7. Finding the original cover of the book in Weintraub’s drug store.
8. The affair on the Bridge.
9. The telephone message from “a friend”⁠—a friend with an obviously Teutonic voice.

He remembered the face of anger and fear displayed by the Octagon chef when he had spoken to him in the elevator. Until this oddly menacing telephone message, he could have explained the attack on the Bridge as merely a haphazard footpad enterprise; but now he was forced to conclude that it was in some way connected with his visits to the bookshop. He felt, too, that in some unknown way Weintraub’s drug store had something to do with it. Would he have been attacked if he had not taken the book cover from the drug store? He got the cover out of his bag and looked at it again. It was of plain blue cloth, with the title stamped in gold on the back, and at the bottom the lettering London: Chapman and Hall. From the width of the backstrap it was evident that the book had been a fat one. Inside the front cover the figure 60 was written in red pencil⁠—this he took to be Roger Mifflin’s price mark. Inside the back cover he found the following notations⁠—

vol. 3⁠—166, 174, 210, 329, 349
329 ff. cf. W. W.

These references were written in black ink, in a small, neat hand. Below them, in quite a different script and in pale violet ink, was written

153 (3) 1, 2

“I suppose these are page numbers,” Aubrey thought. “I think I’d better have a look at that book.”

He put the cover in his pocket and went out for a bite of supper. “It’s a puzzle with three sides to it,” he thought, as he descended the crepitant stairs, “The Bookshop, the Octagon, and Weintraub’s; but that book seems to be the clue to the whole business.”