Part 5

"Now, Colonel, I hope you didn't come here to amuse me with fairy tales. I'm very busy this morning."

"No. That's straight. He's up for twenty years. He murdered his sweetheart. The court brought in a verdict of manslaughter, so he got a light sentence."

"Well, what's that got to do with the book?"

"Have patience, Mr. Hooker. You know of the Tomlinson case?"

"Never heard of it."

"Impossible, sir! The newspapers were filled with it at the time. Seven years ago every one was talking about it and surely you remember--"

"No, Colonel, seven years ago I was in Europe. Tell me about it."

The Colonel went into details--

In June of 1907 a family by the name of Clarke moved into two rooms in a large, old fashioned residence on Eighth Street, near Fifth Avenue. They were there for less than a month when they gave the landlord notice. They could not remain in the house on account of ghosts! Now _everyone_ believes in ghosts but landlords. It injures their business.

The Clarkes contended that every night in the front room the most mysterious noises were heard; they called in the janitor, but he knew nothing. The strange sounds continued; they were uncanny, inexplicable. The Clarkes moved out and they were succeeded by other nervous and hysterical persons. The landlord in desperation reduced the rent, but still the tenants would not remain.

At last even he, who was sceptical and would not believe in hobgoblins, or ghosts, or spirits, or any of those fantastic creatures that exist outside the material mind, resolved to investigate for himself. He literally camped in the rooms for months and heard not a sound! Every night he determined would be his last and that he would not waste any more of his valuable time over the mystical phantoms of his foolish tenants.

One evening, which he resolved was to be the final one, while he was playing solitaire to pass the tedium of the vigil, he heard a noise in the wall. He turned pale with fear. A cold chill ran up and down his back. A moment later the sound of a falling coin reached his ears and there rolled toward him from the old Georgian fire-place a shining object.

It was a few minutes before he had the courage to pick it up. It was a small gold ring. He examined it carefully and engraved therein were the initials "M. P. from J. L." He put the ring in his pocket, removed the fire dogs, the tongs, the coal-scuttle and the whole paraphernalia of fire-places and looked up the flue. He could see nothing. Although it was a clear night he could not see the stars. Something was in the way....

The finding next day of the poor, bruised body of little Marie Perrin up the chimney of "No. 8" was the sensation of the hour. A horrible crime had been committed, and in an unknown and terrible way. It was Edgar Allan Poe in a new guise and his wonderful stories immediately became popular and new editions of the "Tales" were called for by a new set of readers. Some critics of crime suggested that the "Murders in the Rue Morgue" had been repeated at No. Eight East Eighth Street. The hiding-place of the body was identical with that in the famous story and it was said that the police were on the look-out for apes, gorillas, and other animals, which alone were capable of committing such hideous crimes.

The whole life of poor little Marie was laid bare. Her picture was in every newspaper and her history was given from the day of her birth with remarkable ingenuity. The reporters, with uncontrolled imaginations, turned out from the scanty material at their hands an excellent biographical sketch, that seemed and rang true, which is sufficient for the reading public.

Marie Perrin had disappeared without paying her rent from No. Eight over a year ago. When the agent came to collect the arrears, he found the tenant had departed with all her chattels. This was a libel, for she was in the room but not visible. The detectives, when they investigated into the tragedy and after asking ten thousand questions in a thousand and one places, found out that Marie had a sweetheart and that his name was Richard Tomlinson. He refused to admit his guilt, but after being prodded with the iron-fork of the law, technically known as the "third degree" he broke down and confessed. In a fit of anger he struck her over the head with the brass fire-tongs. He had no intention of killing her, or even harming her, but he had become insanely jealous of another who was paying her attentions. In fact he said he must have been mad at the time, as he did not remember having struck her until she lay before him, quiet and cold upon the floor. After a trial lasting over two weeks, and full of sensational incidents, Tomlinson was sentenced to spend twenty years of his life in prison.

"That's an interesting tale," said Robert Hooker, when the Colonel had stopped speaking, "but what has all this to do with the first edition of Poe's story?"

"Well, you see, Tomlinson was a friend of mine. He told me that, after he had accidentally killed the girl, he was terribly frightened. He did not know what to do with the body. He had a mind to go to the police and confess all, but did not have the courage to do so. He remained in a trance, he thought, for hours, thinking of his fearful crime and the dreadful consequences. While he was in this deep, agonizing study and not knowing what he was doing, he picked up a small book on her reading table. It was 'The Murders in the Rue Morgue.' It was the title that attracted him, and some compelling force, what it was he knew not, caused him to read it. He told me that never in his whole life had anything so interested him as that story on that frightful occasion; although pursued by terrible fears he read every word, every syllable of it. The rest you know."

"But, Colonel," said Hooker, with one thought uppermost in his mind, "it might be any edition, not necessarily the first. There have been hundreds of editions published. How do you know what edition it was?"

"It was the first, Mr. Hooker. Tomlinson told me the girl had borrowed it to read and that it belonged to some one who had a mania for old books and who had kept it always under lock and key."

"Do you know where it is?"

"Yes."

"Can you get it?"

"Perhaps."

"I shall make it worth your while. How much do you want?"

"All I can get. I'll have to steal it!"

"What!"

"Yes, I'll have to steal it. It cannot be had in any other way. Why do you start?"

"I didn't think you'd have to do that!"

"Yes. You see Tomlinson, when he moved from those furnished rooms, took everything he could carry to his brother's lodgings near Washington Square. The book is in a sealed trunk on the third floor. Tomlinson made his brother promise that this trunk was not to be disturbed under any circumstances until he came out of jail a free man. I've tried in every way--by bribery and everything--but his brother will not touch it. He seems afraid of that old trunk. I'll get it, however, at all costs. Are you with me?"

Hooker was, above everything, a true bibliophile. He instantly answered:

"Yes, Colonel! Go the limit. I'll back you."

The Colonel without another word picked up his hat and left the office.

For three tedious weeks Hooker heard no more of the book or of his curious friend, the Colonel. The whole thing seemed like a tale woven by Poe himself.

Would the book, if it ever was secured, turn out to be a second edition and worthless? Booklovers, after the strange manner of their kind, only cherish the first, the earliest issue, in the same state as it came from the master's hand, unrevised and with all the errors uncorrected. They do not care for new and more elegant editions. Hooker grew restless as the weeks rolled by, and still no Colonel.

One morning, as he was looking over his mail, a gentleman was announced. Then, tottering into the office, with his arm in a sling and a patch over his left eye, came the gallant Colonel.

"Why, Colonel, what's the matter?"

"Nothing at all, sir."

"But your arm and your--"

"That's my affair, Mr. Hooker. I've come to secure the reward of my labors. I've got the book," he said in triumph,--"I told you I'd get it."

"Where is it?"

"Here in my pocket. Look at it. It's a superb copy!"

The Colonel laid before the astonished eyes of Richard Hooker the priceless first edition of Poe's marvelous story. It was in the original brown printed wrappers, just as it was published. With trembling hands he grasped the book; he turned the first page and gasped. A startled cry broke from his lips. The Colonel at once noticed his pallor. He did not dream that an old book would affect even the most ardent bibliophile in this manner. In all his experience of forty years he had never seen anyone so overcome at the sight of a dingy pamphlet.

There, upon the title-page, Hooker read the tender inscription written many generations ago, with which the most imaginative of American poets had presented his greatest story to his loving wife. It was his own copy, returned like bread upon the waters. Hooker was speechless. He went over to his check book and handed the Colonel the equivalent of three thousand dollars. The Colonel retired, murmuring his thanks.

The book lay upon Hooker's desk. Here was a new problem, worthy of M. Dupin himself. Question after question came into his excited mind to depart unanswered. Who had stolen it? and how? Why had it been taken? How had Tomlinson secured it? and what, above all, had it to do with Marie Perrin?

Hooker remained there, gazing at the pamphlet for hours. It fascinated him horribly. The luncheon hour went by and still he sat staring intently at its faded covers. Would he ever solve the riddle?

His mind was still at work on the problem when he was interrupted by his secretary.

"It's closing time, sir. Is there anything you want before I go?"

"Nothing, John, thank you."

The secretary turned to depart. He drew back suddenly!

"The book! Mr. Hooker, the book! Where did you get _that_!"

Robert Hooker looked at his confidential assistant. His face was the color of the whitest parchment. His breath came in gasps and cold drops of perspiration were visible upon his forehead.

"I bought it to-day," said Hooker, quietly. "It once belonged to me--and Marie Perrin."

"She was my--"

John Lawrence did not finish the sentence; his face was twitching and he was evidently suffering from the keenest nervous excitement.

"Tell me about it, John," said Hooker kindly. "You seem to know something of it."

"I do, Mr. Hooker. You'll forgive me, won't you? I didn't mean to do anything wrong."

"Why, what do you mean?"

"Well, years ago, on your return from Europe, you questioned me about that book. I was the only one who had access to the safe and knew the combination. I told you I knew nothing about it--that perhaps it had been mislaid before your departure for London. I lied, for I had taken it. I'd no intention of stealing it; I did not even know it was particularly valuable. I read the story one day when I was alone, with no work to do. It was the best tale I'd ever read. I was absorbed by it. I could not get the horrible plot out of my head."

"Yes, John, go on. Where does Marie come in?"

"I was engaged to her. I had known her for years. She came from Montpelier, Vermont, where we both were born. One day I told her of the story. She wanted to read it. Not thinking it any harm, I loaned it to her. She stopped for it one evening on her way home. I never saw her after that. I tried every way to find her, without avail. She had disappeared from her rooms on Eighth Street and I never heard of her again until the frightful news came out. Detectives came to see me. My name was in the papers once or twice at the time, and the questions they asked me were terrible. I proved an alibi; they had fixed the crime on Tomlinson, who, unknown to me, was uppermost in her affections. It was a bitter awakening. I've never been the same since. I think of her every night of my life--I've now told you all and I shall resign and leave you at once. You can have no more need of me."

"Stay, John. I forgive you. You've suffered enough. Go home--and come down to-morrow, as usual."

The book still lay upon the desk. This time he would take it home to keep it in his library among his most valuable possessions. For surely it was the most interesting copy of the "Murders in the Rue Morgue" in existence! Hooker turned the leaves to see whether, after its wanderings, all the pages were intact--"collating" it, as bibliophiles love to term this delightful occupation. Yes, it was perfect--just as when it had so mysteriously disappeared years ago. But, hold,--what were the brown, reddish finger-marks on the back cover? Hooker did not have to be told that it was the life-blood of poor Marie Perrin.

THE GREAT DISCOVERY

He was considered by all his friends thrice a fool. First, he was engaged to be married; second, he was a speculator in stocks; and third, he was a book-lover. Some condoned the first offence, others pardoned the second, which was considered a weakness, and all universally condemned the last!

John Libro had money on July 28th, 1914. On July 29 he did not possess a cent. The War caused it all. When New Haven dropped to fifty and Reading to seventy, John Libro's fortune shrank with them and he was left high and dry with nothing but the advice of his friends, a little jewelry, some clothing, and a few old books!

Libro went home, made an inventory, and counted the change in his pocket He was thirty-five years old, big, healthy, good-natured, and irrepressible. Here he was face to face with starvation. He grimly smiled, for it was at any rate a new experience. He sat down by the little bookcase, forgot his cares and his creditors, and took out his beloved friends. He tenderly fondled the first edition of Elia, dipped into Beaumont and Fletcher, and took solace from the "Pleasures of Memory." When he looked at his watch, it was eight o'clock. Two hours had glided away in the company of his morocco-clad companions.

It was then that he thought of Ethel. He would go to her at once and unfold his story. He told her in a few words that he was ruined and could not marry her. This made her more than ever determined to marry him. She loved him and could not allow such a small thing as money to interfere with their plans. The more he insisted, the more determined she became. At last they reached a compromise--he would put the matter squarely up to her father. Mr. Edwards was called from his study.

"Mr. Edwards," he began, "I suppose you read of what happened to-day in the stock-market--"

"Yes, yes, of course," Mr. Edwards replied quickly, "what of it?"

"Well, I was long on New Haven and Reading--"

"Speculating again, have you?"

"Yes, and I'm broke, and Ethel would not allow me to break off the engagement until I spoke to you."

"She is a foolish girl. You are released, and I think it a good thing for my daughter."

"Perhaps some day when I go to work--" poor Libro pleaded.

"Work! Work!" retorted Mr. Edwards, "who ever heard of a stock broker who _worked_!"

Without another word they parted--and Libro returned to the drawing-room to pay, with many kisses, his farewell to Ethel.

When at last he was on the street he thought that poverty was the most terrible thing in the world--it destroyed in a moment love and happiness. And yet he was no longer thrice a fool--for he was not engaged, he was no longer a speculator, and, of course, he must cease to be a collector. While he was meditating about this curious effect of poverty, which had changed over night a fool into a philosopher, a beggar approached him. He felt in his pockets and handed him a quarter. Libro then went on his way, for the humor of the incident appealed to him.

The next day he tried to secure a position. He asked all his friends, who could do nothing "on account of the war."

He then tried the department stores, the banks, the hotels, the theatres--everywhere. No one would give a position to a stock-broker. Mr. Edwards was right!

But he must live--the situation had become not so fantastic. He would sell everything--his father's watch, his jewelry, his clothing, everything but his books. Those he would not part with.

On the corner of Thirty-fifth and Broadway was a pawnshop--he had passed it hundreds of times, but had never thought of entering. Half of it was a store where the pledges were sold; each piece of jewelry had a huge white card on which ran some such legend--"Former price $1,000--now $400." The other half of the shop was where the real "business" was conducted, and it was here that its patrons lost their patrimony. Libro was ashamed to enter; he hesitated two or three times and then returned to his rooms. He picked up old "Omar" in its paper covers, and with the imprint of Bernard Quaritch, 1859, for it was a first edition and much beloved. He then read of wines and the joys of heaven--he could not afford to buy those full orient vintages, but, nevertheless, in the quietude of his rooms, he drank deep.

Two days later, with the courage of hunger, Libro visited the locality of this American Mont de Piété. But he was again afraid to enter. He seemed to see all his friends near him, watching him. He thought they smiled when they acknowledged his trembling salute. Broadway seemed to contain myriads of his acquaintances. He then thought with dread of the interior of the place, with its poor, degraded, perhaps half-clothed men and women, forced to pledge their last precious possession. He walked away, but returned, laughing at his cowardice. This was also to be a new experience. He resolved to walk quickly up to the door and enter before anyone would notice him.

He received a shock when he passed the portals. If he observed acquaintances on the outside, here on the inside, he met _friends_! All Wall Street seemed to be gathered. It was more like a meeting of the Down Town Club. "Hello, Jack! Why, if that's not Libro!" and "The Baby Member!" greeted him from all sides. Before the well-worn counter was the flower of New York's financial set, pawning their diamonds and their good-repute. The wire houses and the bucket shops and the legitimate offices were all closed, and, by a marvelous change, as in the twinkling of an eye, the principals, and not their customers, were putting up "more margin!"

John Libro entered properly into the spirit of the occasion. He laughed with the others when one received $50 on a diamond ring that cost two hundred. He roared in harmony with the crowd when one well known Broadway habitué objected to the twelve dollars proffered on a gold watch. It was all too funny for anything! It was now his turn. He felt sick as he took from his tie an emerald pin, the gift of his mother.

"How much do you want on this?" asked the proprietor. It was a cold voice which went through him like steel. He took an instant dislike to this man who was the proprietor himself, Geoffrey Steinman, a king among his brethren of this old and honorable profession.

"Seventy-five dollars," said Libro.

"This is no time for jokes," Steinman retorted. "I shall advance you fifteen dollars, and not a cent more."

"But it cost a hundred at Tiffany's!"

"Fifteen dollars--my time is valuable."

It was the same old story. John Libro received the money and departed. He was bitter at the world and particularly at the cold, keen gentleman who presided over the destinies of the shop with the glittering windows. He grew bitter when his watch (his father's gift), his fob, his gold card-case, his medals and finally his overcoat went into the tiger's maw. And every time he remonstrated with him, cursed him, or implored him, Steinman remained the same--heartless, brusque, cutting, satirical and, what was worse than all, polite. "Damn his politeness," gasped Libro--"I can do nothing at all with him when he is polite!"

This hate ripened and broke out anew when each article was pawned. "If I could only get even"--he exclaimed hopelessly. He had not a chance in the world, he thought. For a thousand times he said goodby to a dear memento of his parents or a remembrance of his youth. At last he had pledged everything.

Libro had not heard from Ethel for months, although it seemed like ages to him! On the cold afternoon that he had pawned his overcoat he went to his rooms and thought if it would not be better to end it all, quietly and decently. He thought for a long time. He went to the little bookcase and picked up an old edition of Boethius on the "Consolations of Philosophy," and only the title consoled him. He, however, found many long-tried friends, and their broad margins and blue and crimson morocco covers made him forget that man was made to mourn. His first editions of the poets made him oblivious to his condition and he lived once again on high Parnassus.

Libro was looking over the Poems of John Keats, published in 1817, when a catalogue slip fell out. On the slip it stated that a copy had once sold for five hundred dollars! This, then, was meat and drink for him! He would sell it! He could live for months on poor Keats. But his soul revolted. He was not a cannibal. He could not live off the flesh of his own.

But at last he was compelled to return to Steinman. He wrapped up the precious volume tenderly, affectionately. He took it bravely, for was he not offering at the sacrifice the dearest of his possessions? He gently, timidly, unwrapt before the pawnbroker the little volume, awaiting expectantly the admiration that always followed its appearance. But, alas, he was not among book-lovers.

"No books!" exclaimed Steinman. "I've got stuck on them once or twice before. Not one cent!"

"You,--you--" but Libro could not find words to explain his hatred. He would have killed him had he a weapon near.

"Don't you know that book has sold for five hundred dollars at auction," exclaimed Libro.

"Then sell it at auction," replied Steinman, politely. As the poor and crushed bibliophile turned to go, the proprietor interrupted him.

"Wait. If you are so interested in that old plunder, perhaps you would like to see this."

Steinman held in his hands a dingy old volume. Libro could not resist. An unknown force compelled him to look at it. With hatred consuming him, he nevertheless, like a true bibliophile, received from his enemy the book. He opened it.

"Why, they are Shakespeare quartos!" he almost shouted, and then stopped suddenly.

The proprietor was looking at him narrowly. Libro's heart had almost stopped beating. There was the long lost quarto of "Titus Andronicus," 1594, and a perfect first edition of "Hamlet"! There were others in the volume, a veritable treasure trove. It was, in truth, a great discovery!

"What's it worth?" said Steinman.

"Something to a collector," replied Libro, honestly: "nothing to you."

"Well, if you know anyone who wants the old thing he can have it for ten dollars. I once advanced that amount on it. Since then I say, No Books!"

John Libro by a superhuman effort controlled himself.

"Steinman, I need money for food. You already have everything valuable I possess,--but this."

He took from his finger a ring. It had been his mother's wedding ring. It was the last that remained to him of his parents' legacy.

"How much will you give me on this?" he said, trembling. His very life depended upon Steinman's answer. He held his breath.

"A little less than gold-value," said Steinman. He threw it carelessly on the scales.

"Ten dollars and thirty-seven cents."