Читать книгу Beginning with a Bash - Phoebe Atwood Taylor - Страница 3

CHAPTER 1

The young man darted into the open vestibule, flattened himself against the wall, and strained his ears to catch the sound that had almost become a part of him in the last breathless hour—the eternal padding thud of broad official heels.

They had pounded behind him from the fruit store on Charles Street, in and out of the narrow twisting cobweb of Beacon Hill, through silent areaways and booming lanes of traffic, over brick walls and tall spiked fences. If he had sped up, the tireless policeman quickened his pace; if he slowed, so had his pursuer.

Now the young man could hear no sound at all, but that in itself was ominous. Probably the cop was in the next vestibule, getting his own breath, biding his own time. He could well afford to.

The young man laughed mirthlessly to himself. The police could afford to play cat and mouse with him as long as they wanted. They had him. They had him cold. They knew they had him, and they knew he knew. He was bottled up now in Pemberton Square, and even if he succeeded in getting out of the place, they could pick him up inside often minutes. It was below zero in Boston; the damp east wind bit through his thin gray flannel suit and numbed his bare hands as they steadied a full bag of golf clubs. Those were the things—the cold weather and the flannels and the golf clubs—which had him licked. The police knew he was broke and friendless. They knew he had no other clothes. They knew he couldn’t throw away the clubs—the only things he owned in the world and the only things from which he might realize a few cents. Dressed as he was, he stood out from the bundled up throng of Bostonians like the proverbial sore thumb. There was really nothing to be done. It was merely a question of time before the desk sergeant scrawled his name on the record and blotted it with the everlasting green blotter.

The street lamps flashed on suddenly, and the young man became aware of a large painted sign on the opposite wall of the vestibule. The gilt letters were worn almost completely away, and he had to lean forward and peer closely to make them out:

PETERS’ SECOND-HAND BOOKSTORE.

Come in and Browse.

And underneath was a small white card which added simply, “It’s warm inside.”

The young man re-read the notices and considered them.

If he stayed quiet for many minutes more, he would undoubtedly freeze to death. As soon as he set foot out on the street, or out of the square, the police would get him. It was the inevitable, and he was resigned to it, but he saw no reason why he should not stave off the evil moment as long as he could. So, slinging the golf bag over his shoulder, he mounted the six granite steps and opened the door.

As he entered, the young man blinked, then gasped and stopped short.

Framed in the doorway at the end of the dimly lighted hall stood an elderly man with gray hair and a small pointed beard. He looked like William Shakespeare—so much so that it seemed as if an engraved frontispiece or library bust had suddenly come to life.

The resemblance was nothing short of uncanny. More than one Shakespeare lover had poked the midriff section of Leonidas Witherall with a tremulous forefinger to make sure the man was real. Even those to whom the Bard of Avon was at best a hazy memory were wont to stop short and wonder where in blazes they had seen that old duffer with the beard before. He looked familiar.

The young man’s gasp of surprise gave way to a chuckle of pleasure.

“Bill Sh—I mean, Mr. Witherall! It is you, isn’t it? How’s Meredith’s Academy? I’m Jones, Martin Jones.”

Leonidas Witherall smiled. “M’yes,” he said as he shook hands. “Martin Jones. Carraway’s House. You broke all the high jump records, and went to Yale instead of Harvard. Yes, indeed. Jones, you seem a bit distraught.”

“I’m more than that, sir,” Martin returned honestly. “I’m at my wits’ end. I’ve spent the last hour trying to shake off a cop. I couldn’t. He’s outside somewhere now, waiting to nab me.”

It was entirely characteristic of Leonidas Witherall that he appeared not at all upset over the information, nor did he request any explanations. Instead he put on the pince-nez which he had been swinging from their broad black ribbon and fixed on Martin those two intensely blue eyes before which forty years of Meredith Academy boys had wavered. They had a way, those eyes, of piercing through pretence, ruthlessly brushing aside what you said or looked, and seeing only what you felt or what you meant to say. Behind them was a twinkle which nothing on earth had ever been able to quench.

Martin met the searching look without faltering.

“You see, sir,” he said, “they thought I stole—”

“M’yes,” Leonidas interrupted, “Jones, you’re purple with cold. Come into the bookstore and get warm.”

“But, Mr. Witherall, you haven’t heard what— Don’t you know that I— That is, you should hear—”

“Come,” Leonidas said briskly.

“Yes, sir. But you really ought to—” Martin looked at Leonidas and smiled. “Thank you for trusting me, sir. Er—uh—how’s the academy?”

Leonidas shook his head. “I no longer teach there, Jones. I was retired five years ago, and when I returned last spring from a leisurely trip around the world, I—er—found my funds somewhat depleted, and my pension—er—decapitated. Er—virtually extinct. I’m no longer a professor, Jones. I janit.”

“You what—?”

“I janit,” Leonidas repeated firmly. “Here. In this building. I live in the attic. Lately I’ve been helping out at the bookstore here as well. The rest of the place is unoccupied. No, don’t say you’re sorry for me. I thoroughly enjoy my new position. Now, come into the bookstore. The door on our left. Miss Peters, you won’t mind if a friend of mine thaws out over your register, will you?”

The good-looking red-headed girl who sat before a desk in the middle of the sea of books turned around, then jumped up quickly.

“Mart Jones! My dear, I thought you were in Chicago! How’d you ever find my store?”

Martin gripped her outstretched hands. “Dot Peters! Is—is this place yours?”

Curiously he looked around.

Books—old books! There was actually only fifty odd thousand, but it seemed like as many millions, in all stages of decay, crowded into the small room.

Rows of shelves which extended from floor to ceiling ran around the four walls without a break, except for the space by the door and for the two small lanes that led to the front window display. On his right three broad double stacks spread into the dimness of the back of the store. On the floor, and piled close to the stacks, were still more heaps of books.

“Yours?” Martin repeated blankly. “Yours? All this—this mess?”

“All mine. To the last frayed volume complete with dust. And what dust! My dear, it’s been here since Paul Revere hung lanterns and rode places. Probably his horse kicked a hoof-full in as he went by. You see, Uncle Jonas died and left this place to me weeks ago, but I couldn’t get over from New York until yesterday. This has been my first real day here. I’ve spent ages signing papers and mixing around with lawyers. How’d you happen in Mart? And why the tropical touch—what are you doing in flannels, and with golf clubs, on a day like this?”

Martin sighed. “Dot, haven’t you—or you either, Mr. Witherall, heard what’s been happening to me? Don’t you know I’m an ex-criminal? In fact, the cops are after me right this minute, and—”

“The whiches are what? Martin, stop joking!”

“I’m not,” Martin told her, “I’m telling you—look, don’t you really know? Really? Well, I’ll run through the saga. Headlines November first: ‘Martin Jones Held for Grand Larceny. Branded Thief of Forty Thousand from Anthropological Society’s Funds. Young Assistant Charged by Head.’”

He tried to say it lightly, but his voice broke as he met Leonidas’s eye.

“Scene two,” he continued. “Headlines December twentieth: ‘Jones Released. Complete Mystery Surrounds Theft of Anthropological Society’s Funds.’ Well, that’s the beginning of the whole sad story. It was such a swell job, Dot, and I’d waited two years for it. I got it just after I saw you last in New York. Then someone upped and pinched all that cash and North had me arrested. He was the boss.” Martin’s fingers twitched as he lighted the cigarette Dot offered him. “What burned me up was North’s accusing me, and then firing me after I was completely cleared. I’ve spent most of my time these cold winter days thinking what fun it would be to bash that guy. He knew I’d never be able to get another job. Who wants a rising young anthropologist anyway, let alone one who’s been pinched for swiping fifty thousand bucks?”

“He booted you out? Oh, the—but can’t you find anything to do, Mart?”

“He did, and I can’t. I’m a charter member of the Give-a-Dog-a-Bad-Name Club. Landlady kicked me out after I got through that business and her son took all my things except these flannels, for back rent. These,” Martin said bitterly, “wouldn’t fit him, and they had spots. I remembered my clubs were out at Windy Hollow, and I tramped all the way out there to get ’em to hock. I didn’t have a cent. On the way back I ran into some communist parade and got run in with a bunch of them for vagrancy. Anyway, I got back from Deer Island this morning, all disinfected and everything. Wandered into Charles Street, somehow, and was just going into a fruit store to see if the guy’d trade a banana for a slightly used mashie, when some woman’s handbag got snatched. Of course every one yelled ‘Stop thief’ at me—”

“But Mart, if you didn’t snatch it—”

“It doesn’t,” Martin said wearily, “make any difference at this point. Don’t you see? If someone swiped Bunker Hill monument or the sacred cod, or the Custom House Tower, they’d yank me in for it. Haven’t I been up for grand larceny, and vagrancy, and communistic tendencies, and—”

“It’s foul,” Dot said, her eyes blazing. “Rotten. It—Mart, who took the money, anyway?”

“No one knows. Fellow sent forty bearer bonds as a gift to the museum. I was the only one there, and I signed for ’em. When I went to get ’em for North, they’d gone. Like Houdini, only not so funny. Anyway, that’s the tale. After I get thawed out, I’ll barge along and let that copper pick me up. I—”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Leonidas interrupted, calmly polishing his pince-nez. “You’ll stay right here and help me shake the furnace, and use the extra couch in my attic. At seven,” he looked at Martin’s drawn face, “at six, rather, I’ll go out and bring in some dinner for the three of us, and we’ll consider your problem at some length.”

Dot nodded her approval. “Until then, take that bag of peanuts and come back to the westerns. I’ll lead you to the section. There’s really order here, though you may not believe it. Oh, and bring those clubs with you. If any cop should wander in—well, bring ’em.”

Martin followed her to the rear left corner of the store.

“It’s swell of you, Dot, and it’s swell of Bill Shakespeare, but I think I’d better leave—”

“Nonsense. Here you are. I’ve got to clean the drama section up by the desk. I’m dusting and cataloguing. Leonidas says that Uncle knew where every book in the store was, but I prefer to rely on catalogues.”

“Should think you would. Much business?”

“I’m not rushed to any frazzle, and I don’t expect to be, but it’s all sheer profit for me. There are a cool fifty thousand books here, Mart, and as many more in the cellar and out in the back ell beyond the courtyard. Uncle did his binding out there in warm weather. When it got cold, he moved inside, into the back corner here. Can’t you smell the glue? Lucky I took up useful arts and crafts once. I can bind books, and it seems that sort of work carried Uncle along over the dull days. I’ve really got to make this place go. I’m an orphan now, you know.”

“Sorry. I’m in the same boat. I—” Martin changed the subject hurriedly. “Got any customers in the store now?”

“Two. Didn’t you see ’em? Of course it is rather hard to spot anyone in here. There’s a minister in the essays, and a Boston dowager in the genealogies. First Boston dowager I ever saw outside of a New Yorker cartoon.” She lowered her voice. “Hat teed high on her head, black velvet band around her neck. And you know without any doubt that the diamond in it is real as hell—”

Leonidas tiptoed up to them.

“I think you’d better come out front, Miss Peters. A man named Quinland has just come in. Your uncle always thought he was a professional book thief, though he never had any actual proof.”

“Okay.” Dot nodded. “Westerns run from the corner here to the cross pile, Mart, and sporting books beyond.”

She followed Leonidas out to the front aisle. By the first editions stood a pasty-faced young man who whirled nervously around at their approach.

“How d’you do?” Dot asked pleasantly. “I’m the new manager. I see you’re a regular. Regulars always make straight for the section they’re interested in.”

The young man hesitated. “Er—yes. I’m—that is—I’ve been here before. My name’s Quinland.”

“I think,” Dot said slowly, “that I’ve heard all about you, Mr. Quinland.”

Quinland flushed and turned back to his book.

Leonidas’s smile of approval warmed Dot’s heart. As she returned, duster in hand, to the drama section, the bell above the door jangled and a short red-faced man strode belligerently up to Leonidas at the desk.

“I want Volume Four of The Collected Sermons and Theological Meditations of Phineas Twitchett, D.D.,” he announced brusquely. “The subtitle is, A Refutation of the Tenets of Antidisestablishmentarianism.”

Dot snickered.

Leonidas explained that he was not a regular assistant and that he had not seen the book.

“Where’s the boss?” the man demanded.

“I can’t help you much, either,” Dot spoke up. “I’ve just taken over the place, and there’s no catalogue. But I’d be glad to—”

“Damned unbusinesslike way to run a bookstore,” the red-faced man commented rudely. “Where’s my ‘Transcript’? I had a ‘Transcript’ when I came in here. Where is it? Who stole my ‘Transcript’?”

Leonidas frowned. “My dear sir, you most certainly had no paper—”

“All right, all right. Never mind. Say no more about it. Absent-minded. Probably left it on the newsstand. Where’s your religious section? Tell me. Don’t bother to show me.”

“Go down the lane by the door, past that woman in black, and turn left. First opening. I could show—”

“Think I’m a perfect fool, woman?”

Muttering uncomplimentary things about the female sex under his breath, he blustered off towards the religious books, bumping into the Boston dowager as he passed by her. Dot returned to her dusting, privately hoping that such disagreeable customers would be few and far between. She couldn’t seem to get Martin off her mind. Poor Mart, he seemed to have a flair for getting into trouble, and he didn’t in the least deserve to. Mart was a good egg. She’d always been fond of him—

She dropped her duster as a terrific crash came from the street outside. Stepping through the little opening to the front window, she peered out.

One taxi had apparently tried to pass another on the narrow way, and had swerved into a third car parked just below the store.

The crash turned into a grinding noise, above which rose the steady grating of breaking glass. Martin came running to the front of the store. Behind him hurried the minister, near-sightedly peering over his glasses. By the time the police had arrived and ambulance sirens were sounding, even the Boston dowager had panted up and joined the line of spectators wedged into the shop window.

“Frightful,” the dowager commented as two orderlies bore off a stretcher. “Frightful thing, Boston traffic. Politics entirely, my son says. Personally I’ve never had the slightest bit of fault to find with the Republican party, but nowadays in Boston—” she clucked her tongue and sighed, apparently far more moved over the Republican party than over the still form on the stretcher.

Suddenly Leonidas swung around.

“Quinland!” he said. “Where’s Quinland? I thought just now that I saw him running out into the street—”

Quinland was nowhere to be found, and the stack of first editions showed a gap of three books.

“Mark Twain,” Leonidas announced sadly. “Three volumes right out of the centre of Mark Twain!”

“Shall I dash after him?” Martin asked. “I might—”

“Don’t bother with him,” Dot said. “He’s got too much of a start. Well, he won’t dare poke his nose inside here again, and that’s something. We’ll put it down to profit and loss. Find your way back, Mart? And,” she added in a whisper as the minister and the dowager returned to their books, “you might peer in two aisles beyond you and see if that stuffy old codger’s still in the religious section. Maybe he’s pulled a Quinland and done a little swiping on his own account. He didn’t even emerge to see the crash.”

Martin laughed.

But the expression on his face when he returned a few minutes later was nothing short of grim.

“Dot, did you know who that man was, that one you called a stuffy codger?”

“Never set eye on him till he popped in here. Distinctly unpleasant sort, I thought. Why? Has he snatched—?”

“Dot, he’s John North. Professor North. The one who fired me and said I stole those bonds, and—”

“That foul boss of yours?”

“Yes. And listen, Dot. He’s dead!”

“Dead? Martin, don’t try to be funny! After all—”

“He’s dead,” Martin repeated firmly.

There were lines about his mouth which Dot had never seen before, and his face was white and tense.

“Dead. And Dot, he didn’t just die, either. Someone’s—well, someone’s bashed him over the head and killed him.”