Читать книгу Murder in the Bookshop - Carolyn Wells - Страница 8

MR PHILIP BALFOUR was a good man. Also, he was good-looking, good-humoured and good to his wife. That is, when he had his own way, which was practically always.

When they came to live in New York, Philip Balfour wanted to live on Park Avenue and Alli, his wife, wanted to live on Fifth Avenue. They lived on Park Avenue.

Then, Balfour wanted a duplex apartment, and Alli was all for a penthouse. So they had a duplex.

To be sure, they could have found an apartment which combined the two horns of the dilemma, but they didn’t. Philip didn’t favour a penthouse.

And in her three years of married life Alli had learned that compliance is the best policy. She was a darling, Alli was, with soft, short brown curls and soft, big brown eyes. Tallish, slender and carelessly graceful, she devoted her energies to the not-too-easy task of being Philip Balfour’s wife. With full realization of what she was doing she had thrown over, actually jilted, a young man she was engaged to in order to become Mrs Balfour.

And had seldom regretted it. Although her husband was twenty years older than herself, she was naturally adaptable, and save for one problem that was at present engrossing her attention, she was quite happy.

She adored her home and lavished time and money on its adornment and improvement.

The main room, intended as a drawing room or living room, was enormous and was Balfour’s library. He was a retired Real Estate man and an enthusiastic collector of old and rare books. He had a capable and experienced young man for his librarian, but Alli did much to assist in the care of the books.

Of late, Balfour had noticed that Keith Ramsay, his valued librarian, was not quite as effective as he had been. The young man sometimes forgot to attend to an order or seemed unsure as to his collations or translations.

And when, one evening, he sat listening to his employer talk, he showed such a brooding air and such a vacant countenance that Balfour said:

‘Whatever is the matter, Ramsay? Are you ill? Are you worried about something?’

‘Yes, I am, Mr Balfour. Shall—shall I tell you about it?’

‘If you like,’ was the indifferent reply, for the speaker somehow sensed that the matter was unconnected with his books.

‘Then, to put it plainly, I am giving you what is, I believe, called “notice”.’

‘You’re not leaving me, Ramsay?’ Balfour was roused now. ‘That will never do! Want more salary? Anything wrong in the house?’

‘That comes near it. Something wrong in the house—with me.’

‘Out with it, then, and we’ll soon settle it.’

The two men were alone in a small room adjoining the library. This was used as an office and also held a small specially built safe, which housed the most valuable volumes.

‘I wish we could, Mr Balfour, but I doubt it. To state my case in a few words, I am in love with your wife and, therefore, I have decided to leave you as that seems to me the only honourable course.’

‘You are indeed frank. You are acting nobly, I have been told angels do no more than that. And may I inquire if Mrs Balfour returns your affection?’

‘I have not asked her. I am told that to run away from danger is considered a cowardly act, but that is what I propose to do. It will be best for us all.’

‘Pardon me, if I disagree with that statement. It may, of course, be better for you—and possibly for Mrs Balfour—to see no more of one another, but don’t undertake to say what is best for me. You are very necessary to my well-being—I cannot so readily dispense with your services. I never can find an assistant who is so perfectly fitted to look after my books, my future purchases and my collection generally. I have no intention of letting you go because of a silly flirtation between you and Alli. In fact, I think you overestimate your own charms. I doubt my wife is seriously interested in you or your attentions. So just drop the idea of leaving me. I’ll speak to the lady herself concerning this, but I desire you to stay with me in any case.

‘I appreciate your taking the stand you have, it is a manly thing to do. But I can’t take the matter seriously, and I’d rather send her away than see you go. Now, put it out of your head until tomorrow, anyway. Tonight, later on, I want you to go over to Sewell’s with me on that little marauding expedition we have planned. Good Lord, Ramsay, I couldn’t possibly get along without you! Don’t be silly!’

‘I’ll go to the bookshop with you, Mr Balfour, but don’t consider the other matter settled. We’ll speak of it again.’

‘All right; I’ll choose the time for the conversation. We’ll go over to Sewell’s about ten. Be ready.’

‘What are the books we’re after?’

‘Two small Lewis Carroll books. Not stories, they are mathematical works. One is Symbolic Logic and one is A New Theory of Parallels, Part I. Not very valuable, yet hard to find and necessary to keep my collection up to the mark. Also, he may have the Button Gwinnett. If so, we’ll annex it.’

Philip Balfour went into his library and was at once absorbed in his books. He was a true bibliophile. Every time he looked over his treasures it seemed to him he saw new beauties and new glories in his possessions. Pride entered into his satisfaction, but just for his own gratification he loved his books and cherished their beauty and rarity.

Keith Ramsay was entirely in sympathy with him and they had worked together happily, until the loveliness of Alli had blurred the title page or the errata of the volumes he was examining or collating.

It had been a tremendous effort for him to tell his employer, and the way Philip Balfour took the confession so amazed him that he was bewildered at the situation.

But he had no intention of changing his plans and was still fully determined to leave the next day. He went upstairs to do a little more packing and in a dimly lighted corridor met Alli.

Unable to resist, he took her in his arms and she laid her head against his shoulder as they stood in utter silence.

Then, ‘You spoke to him?’ she whispered.

‘Yes; but he flouted my confession and wants me, for his own selfish ends, to stay on as his librarian. I can’t—darling, you know I can’t do that!’

‘You must, Keith, you must. Think of me.’

‘It’s you I’m thinking of. No, sweet, it must be a complete break. I can’t risk the danger for you that it would mean if I stayed here. Especially now that he knows!’

They drew apart suddenly as a maid came round the corner from a cross corridor.

‘You two are going over to Sewell’s tonight?’ Alli said to Keith in a casual tone.

‘Yes, very soon now—and I may not see you again.’

The maid had disappeared, and if she had not it is doubtful if Alli could have controlled herself. She reached up and kissed Ramsay on the forehead and breathed a low-voiced ‘Good-bye.’

But it was not the end, a desperate embrace followed, and when at last Keith let her go, it was to turn and face Philip Balfour as he reached the top stair.

‘Let’s go,’ Balfour said, as if he had seen nothing unusual and Ramsay went for his hat and coat.

Keith Ramsay had not at all intended to do what he had done, but there are times when human volition takes a back seat and the physical senses carry on. The occurrence made him more than ever certain that the sooner he got away from the beloved presence the better.

A few moments more and the two men were walking down Park Avenue for a few blocks and then crossing over to Lexington, on which Sewell’s Secondhand Bookshop had its abode.

Its façade was not impressive, save to the lover of old bookshops. It was not of the modern building type, where one walks in on a level with the sidewalk; it was not a passé brownstone front, where one climbs twelve or fourteen steps to get in.

But it was the sort where you go down a few stone steps and find yourself in a room that has seemingly settled itself down below the street level.

A room after the own heart of E. L. Pearson, who speaks of it as a place where one feels a shyness in the presence of books.

It has not that odour of sanctity which to amateur bibliophiles means the smell of old leather.

The room discovered after descending Sewell’s three stone steps was large and hospitable. The walls were book-covered up to the high ceiling, and on tables and benches and chairs were more books. And not only books, there were fascinating bits of curious crafts. Old glass, Early American as well as foreign stuff. Pretty tricks, like ships in bottles and silver teaspoons in a cherry pit.

But mostly books. Books you’d forgotten and books you wished you had forgotten. Rare books and always genuine. Queer books, holy books and poems by the Sweet Singer of Michigan.

But all these things were in the great front room. There was a smaller room back of it, where the more nearly priceless volumes were kept in safes, and where conferences were held that often proved John Sewell’s right to the title awarded him as most knowledgeable of all the dealers in the city.

And it was to this back room that Philip Balfour and his librarian made their way.

They did not go round on Lexington Avenue at all. From the cross street—they were walking on the south side—they turned into an alley about midway of the block.

The dark wooden gate swung easily open and the two men stepped through, a few more paces bringing them to the rear of the shop.

It seemed inadvisable to use a flashlight, but they knew their way and Ramsay felt round for the window-sill.

‘Are you going to open door or window?’ Balfour whispered, and Ramsay returned:

‘Window, I think. The door creaks like an old inn signboard.’

‘Have you a thin-bladed knife?’

‘Rather,’ and Keith opened the article in question. Then he slipped it between the sashes and the window went up easily.

He stepped inside, unlocked the door and opened it carefully, to minimize the creak, and Balfour entered.

Ramsay closed the door and said, ‘What about lights?’

‘Of course we must have light,’ Balfour told him. ‘I think they’ll not be noticed; it isn’t very late and undoubtedly Sewell is often here of an evening. Turn on two, anyway.’

Ramsay snapped on two small side lights and they looked about the room. A little more formal than the front room, there were lockers and cupboards instead of book-shelves and a large table with several chairs around it.

The room had a scholarly air—every item was of definite interest and of distinct historic or literary value. On the walls were old prints and portraits; a panoply of savage weapons; some rare bits of textile fabrics.

Ramsay loved the room. It was one of his greatest pleasures to lounge there while John Sewell and Philip Balfour discussed bookish themes.

Sometimes there were caucuses, where six or eight connoisseurs and collectors gathered to exchange views, or more likely to get the benefit of Sewell’s views.

Many experiments had proved the futility of trying to catch him with a name he had never heard. However obscure or of however recent prominence, Sewell invariably proved to be thoroughly acquainted with the man and his works, his history and his place in the literary world.

On a side table lay some delightful old silver toys. Groups of tiny people playing games or working at ancient machinery. Sets of furniture, of silver or gold filigree, and silver boxes of bewildering and intricate charm.

There was a silver skewer, a foot long, plain, with a ring fixed in the end for utility, that might once have been used in the kitchen of some lordly manor or regal palace. Fascinating bits, everywhere.

Ramsay knew all of these by heart. Balfour knew well any of them in which he took a personal interest, and meant some day to purchase.

A silence fell, as the two men hunted sedulously for the volumes they hoped to find. Both found it hard to resist the continual temptations to pause for a dip in this or that tempting volume or brochure, but both put aside the thought and worked diligently.

At last Ramsay found a book that made him open his eyes wide. It was not a very large volume, and it was labelled Taxation in Great Britain and America. He glanced across the room at Balfour, and saw only his back, the book-lover being absorbed in a volume he was scanning.

Ramsay slipped the book he had discovered into the sidepocket of his topcoat, which he had not removed, as the place was chilly. After which, he went on with his search, noting that Balfour was still engrossed in reading.

Suddenly, the lights went out and the room was in black darkness. Ramsay turned and stumbled in the direction of Balfour.

It was some time later that Keith Ramsay sat down at Sewell’s desk and took up the telephone.

He tried, and successfully, to control his voice as he said:

‘Give me Police Headquarters.’

The response came duly, and it was swiftly arranged that Inspector Manton, with a detective from the Homicide Bureau and others would arrive as soon as possible.

Then Ramsay called Sewell at his home.

‘No,’ Mrs Sewell told him, ‘John isn’t home. Anything wrong?’

This question Ramsay ignored and said:

‘Do you know where Mr Sewell is? Can I get him? It’s rather important. Or do you know where Gill is?’

‘No, I don’t know anything about Preston. But you may find Mr Sewell at the Balfour home. I think he intended to go there this evening. Who is this? Where are you speaking from?’

‘Thank you,’ said Ramsay, briefly.

He cradled the instrument and sat back in the swivel chair, looking deeply thoughtful and carefully avoiding any glance in the direction of Philip Balfour, who lay dead on the other side of the room.

After a moment he took the telephone again, and called the Balfour home.

‘Potter,’ he said, as the butler responded, ‘don’t mention my name, understand?’

‘Yes, Mr—Yes, sir.’

‘That’s right. Is Mr Sewell there?’

‘Yes, sir, he is talking with Mrs Balfour.’

‘Ask him to take a telephone message on this extension. If he wants to know who’s calling, say you don’t know.’

‘Yes, sir.’

And in a few moments Ramsay heard John Sewell’s voice inquiring as to his identity.

‘Keep quiet, Mr Sewell, don’t mention any name. But come down here to your shop right away. I can’t tell you on the telephone, but there’s serious trouble. Get here as soon as you can, but don’t breathe a word to Mrs Balfour. Tell her you’re called to the home of an important customer or something of that sort.’

‘All right, I get you. Be there in two jumps.’

Sewell returned to the library where he had been sitting and told Mrs Balfour that he must hasten away on important business. He bade her good night in his courteous way and shook hands with Carl Swinton, another caller.

‘Glad I’m not leaving you quite alone, Mrs Balfour. When your husband returns, please tell him I will see him tomorrow about the Button book. He will be pleased, I know.’

Sewell went away and strode down Park Avenue, then crossed over to Lexington.

With his key, he entered his own front door, and finding the front room dark, went quickly through it to the lighted rear room.

As he did so, the police arrived at the back door, which Ramsay opened to them.

Sewell stared at the incoming visitors, stared harder as he saw Balfour’s body on the floor, and stared hardest of all at Keith Ramsay, who seemed to be going about like a man in a dream.

‘Well, now, what’s this all about?’ asked the Inspector.

‘That’s what I’d like to know,’ Sewell declared; ‘can you explain, Ramsay? Who killed Mr Balfour? Is he dead?’

‘You called Headquarters, sir?’ and Inspector Manton looked at Ramsay.

‘I did.’

‘Will you please tell your story? Please explain the conditions we find here?’

‘I’m not sure that I can, but I’ll tell all I know.’

‘Go to it, my boy,’ Sewell urged. ‘How did you get in the shop? Has Gill been here? Who jammed that skewer in Balfour’s breast?’

‘Just a moment, Mr Sewell. Let me conduct the inquiry.’ Inspector Manton had a nice way with him, but his speech was a trifle dictatorial. ‘Tell me names, please. Who is the dead man, and who are you?’

Keith began, slowly. ‘The man who is dead,’ he said, ‘is Mr Philip Balfour, who lived on Park Avenue, several blocks farther uptown. He was a wealthy man, retired, and devoted to the hobby of collecting old and rare books. I am—was—his librarian, and I had charge of the details of the library’s business affairs and kept it in order generally.’

‘And I can vouch for both of them,’ declared John Sewell, eager to vindicate his friends from any thought of wrong-doing. Mr Balfour was one of the finest gentlemen I have ever known and Mr Ramsay is an ideal librarian.

‘Facts we’re after,’ put in Captain Burnet of the Homicide Squad. ‘What are you two men doing here, and who killed Mr Balfour?’

‘Were you here when these men arrived, Mr Sewell?’ asked Manton, who thought he had heard Sewell come in just as he came in himself.

‘Well, no,’ Sewell returned, looking a little perplexed. ‘I just came in myself, as you did. Tell your story, Keith.’

‘I will,’ and Ramsay’s face grew stern and set, ‘but I am afraid you’ll find it hard to believe.’

‘Out with it,’ Sewell urged. ‘I know neither of you two did any wrong, whatever happened.’

The Inspector nodded at Ramsay and he began.

‘It was the wish of Mr Balfour to come here tonight to see about some books. He bade me telephone Mr Sewell that we were coming, but I couldn’t get him on the telephone, so Mr Balfour said he was probably here at the shop and we would come along, anyhow.’

‘H’mm,’ observed Sewell, not with any seeming doubt, but expressing a mite of surprise.

‘So we came over soon after dinner and, as Mr Balfour wanted to find a couple of books, we both looked for them.’

‘What were the names of these books?’ asked Burnet.

‘They were two of Lewis Carroll’s less well-known volumes. One was Symbolic Logic and the other A Theory of Parallels. You know them, Mr Sewell?’

‘Yes, yes; oh, yes,’ he replied, but Captain Burnet shrewdly declared to himself that though the sagacious book-dealer doubtless knew the books, he did not know why Mr Balfour was over in his shop hunting for them.

But he said nothing and Ramsay went on.

‘You may find this hard to believe,’ he hesitated a little, ‘but I swear I am speaking only the exact truth. I was looking along those shelves opposite the outside door and Mr Balfour was on the other side of the room, near the door. I heard no unusual sound, saw nothing unusual, when suddenly the lights went out and the room was in total darkness.

‘Then I heard a thud as if Mr Balfour might have fallen to the floor, and I tried to grope my way over toward him, when I was chloroformed. Don’t tell me I don’t know what I’m talking about, for I do. Someone grasped me, held a saturated cloth against my nostrils and held me so firmly that I couldn’t move, until I became unconscious. The swivel chair, the desk chair, was nearest, and I assume my assailant seated me in that after I was entirely oblivious.’

‘Who was your assailant?’ asked John Sewell, gravely.

‘I’ve no idea. I can only assume the intruder was a swift worker, that he put me out of commission, then took that long silver skewer from the table there, drove it into Mr Balfour’s heart and departed.’

‘You think Mr Balfour put up no fight?’

‘I can’t say. But it’s quite possible that the killer chloroformed his victim and then stabbed him when he was helpless.’

‘Go on.’

‘I’ve little more to tell. After a time, I’ve no means of knowing how long, I began to come out of the stupor and even then it took some time to regain my full senses. When I was able to do so I went over and looked at Mr Balfour and saw him as you see him now. I looked hastily round, saw no intruder present, saw no definite or striking evidence that anyone had been here, yet there was the dead body of my employer and friend. I did the only possible thing, I called the police. Then I tried to get Mr Sewell. He was not at home, but Mrs Sewell told me he was probably even then at Mr Balfour’s house, and I called up and he was there. I asked him to come here without telling Mrs Balfour anything about it, and I assume he did so.’

‘I did,’ said Sewell, ‘and of course I believe your story, Keith. In fact, it’s the only thing that could have happened. How else could Philip Balfour have been killed?’

‘For my part,’ said the detective, ‘I don’t believe one single word of Mr Ramsay’s recital. We will investigate it, of course, but it doesn’t ring true to me.’