Читать книгу Unsought Adventure - Howard Angus Kennedy - Страница 11

Table of Contents

If any tempting devil lurked in that black hell, now was his time!

The guardian of the book stood motionless, not even thinking, dazed with the shock of sudden relief when hope had fled.

A little black worm of thought crawled into the empty mind, swelled up, and in a moment filled it. The same he had shaken off in the train, but now full-grown.

One moment Johnson was an honest man,—the next, he was a thief.

The treasure was his for the taking. Everything in the store outside the safe had been destroyed,—the insurance people would certify to that. It would be plain as daylight that nothing had been saved,—after he had walked off with the one thing worth saving. No one could have the slightest suspicion.

Young Galt would be distressed, of course, but he could have no complaint. He had insisted on leaving the thing, at owner’s risk. Sam would be generous, and give him $1,000 of the insurance money.... But, come to think of it, he had given him $500 in advance, so another $500 would be enough,—perhaps. Would it? No,—yes,—no,—well, maybe—. And yet—. Oh, he would see; he would do the right thing, of course.

Of course? The man did not yet see that he was a thief. He was not startled by the change in himself, he was hardly conscious of it, though he knew perfectly what he was about to do. His conscience was numbed and silent. The garb of honesty, that coat of shining mail so proudly worn these many years, had shriveled at a touch of fire. A mere veil of cobweb, that fine coat, after all.

Temptation? He did not feel it. He just fell into it, and had no sense of having fallen...

A man went whistling down the street,—some old sentimental song. Yes, “For bonnie Annie Laurie I’ll lay me down and—” The whistler stopped short at sight of the wreck and the policeman, but Sam’s mind supplied the missing word—

“Die!” Young Galt would die pretty soon. No, Sam defended himself, he did not wish the poor fellow to go a day before it was inevitable. Of course, if his illness was unexpectedly prolonged—it would be no kindness to wish the poor invalid that lingering fate—the delay might have awkward results. The treasure must be hidden, no human being must know of its existence, till John Galt—went.

After that, Sam would easily dispose of it.

Easily? Well, somehow. He would plan that later. There was no time now, he must get away with the thing.

He trod more carefully than ever now. The charred remains of stair crunched alarmingly, to his guilt-sharpened ears.

Halfway up, he stopped. That box would be a suspicious article to carry through the streets any time. In the early morning, before offices opened, it would be flagrant.

Taking out the parcel, he set the box down empty,—then snatched it up again,—it must not be found in that burnt chaos, itself unscorched. There was only one place for it. Impatiently he clambered down again and pushed it back on the safe. It would be found empty, and his clerks knew it had been full. Never mind, he could say he had taken out the contents the day before.

Climbing again to the old floor level, he crept, stooping low, along the unburnt edge. Before daring to show himself against the light of the rear window, he looked back through the dim vista of the store.

ALLIES YESTER-DAY, ENEMIES TO-DAY

The policeman was looking in. How far could he see? Sam held his breath in terror.

The guardian of the peace, and the guardian of the treasure. Allies yesterday,—enemies to-day.

The policeman felt a strong desire to scratch his back. That cannot be done, in uniform, but it can be tried. He tried, and his hand, bitten the night before by a savage prisoner, gave him a sharp twinge of pain.

“Damn him!” said the policeman.

If the devil heard, he must have smiled. The advice was so superfluous.

Sam Johnson heard, and trembled. Not from any dread of final doom. He was almost sure the man had heard him. Who else could have roused his anger?

No, it was a false alarm. The policeman started walking calmly to and fro. After a few minutes, every minute an hour to the thief, his unconscious foe stood still, with a broad back turned squarely on the store.

Sam squeezed through the window, looked up and down the lane, wiped the grime from his hands on the providentially wet umbrella, and walked boldly out of the lane with the parcel under his arm.

More than one policeman met him, and gave him a look over. Any man out on the streets at daybreak got that, Sam told himself. Especially a man equipped with decent garb and neat umbrella. These things drew attention,—but disarmed suspicion.

His real passport, however, was that honest face and bearing. He had always held up his head and looked the world straight in the eye. The habit of a lifetime was not to be destroyed in a moment. A temporary suspension of honesty could not wipe out the physical marks printed deep on figure and feature by long years’ practice of that virtue.

Temporary? Of course. One act,—yes, but no more. Any suggestion that he had embarked on a career of crime would have scandalized the good man. If a sheep jumps out of the fold for a moment, does she come back a wolf? The reasoning was good enough for him,—you must remember, he had been up all night, his mind was getting drowsy, and his conscience fast asleep.

If a policeman did notice that bulge in his coat, and insist on seeing the inside of that parcel, Sam had a perfectly satisfactory explanation. He had saved a rare book from his own store. His anxiety for it would excuse even his disobeying the policeman left on guard.

But then, if the survival of that book became known, so would its ownership. He would obviously have to be carrying it back—to a young man who could do quite well without it. He shrank from telling the truth as yesterday he would have shrunk from telling a lie.

It was a great relief when he came on a taxi. He threw himself back, exhausted, for a doze.

In doing so, his hand fell on the book. That started him thinking again. The problem of its disposal came up, and would not down. It flogged his tired brain, insisting on solution.

At last he thought he had it all worked out. After the owner’s death he would go over to Europe on a buying expedition.

No, that would not do. He would be out of business by then. He would certainly not start another store, just for those few months. It could not be longer,—the possibility of the sick man’s cure, with that deadly cough, was not to be thought of.

Well, he could go over anyway, and prowl around Europe. He would naturally still be interested in old books, wouldn’t he? He would come back with this book, saying he had picked it up—no one could expect him to tell where: that amount of secrecy was a collector’s privilege.

Of course, he could sell it privately, without bringing THE TELL-TALE AUTO-GRAPH

it back at all. But over there he might have to prove his ownership. Besides, it would fetch more over here,—and here he was well known, he had a reputation!

Would that do? No, there was something else, some kink to be untangled, and he could not think what. Oh yes, and it was a nasty one.

Young Galt might talk about his loss, before passing out. The treasure had gone up in smoke. Its resurrection, being a miracle, would have been all very well, might even have doubled its price, in the fifteenth century, but not in the twentieth.

The book Johnson would “discover” must be a different copy, then.

But how about the autograph? That was the worst of it. He might cut out the fly-leaf, so neatly that the copy would still seem perfect,—old books often had no fly-leaves,—but the book would no longer be unique, it would lose half its value: $125,000 gone at one snip.

If only he had not called Galt’s attention to the autograph,—not taken such pains to tell him its immense significance! The young fool had either never noticed it before or at least never suspected its nature.

The poor thief sighed. He would have to make the acquaintance of Galt’s relations, if he had any,—his lawyer too, though now he hated to tackle a lawyer,—and lead up to the subject of his books. That could be done naturally enough. He could soon discover if they had heard of any books in the library containing valuable inscriptions. But even if they hadn’t, some one else might have. There was no saying who might not suddenly spring up with the story.

He would take the chance. If Gutenberg wrote an inscription in one copy, he could in another. Nobody could possibly prove, by some chance recollection of Galt’s talk, that this autograph was identical with the burnt one.