The Unpublishable Memoirs Part 11

He had gone to the auction with the virtuous intention of buying it; when the shabby little pamphlet with its brown paper wrappings--printed in Philadelphia in 1843--was offered, the bidding was remarkably spirited. It was finally sold to a distinguished collector for thirty-eight hundred dollars. He had been the underbidder, but what chance had a poor devil of a bibliophile against the wealthy captains of industry? At sales of this character the race is not to the swift, but to the--rich!

Robert Hooker had once owned a copy of this precious volume. This made his disappointment the keener. It was a more interesting example than the one that had just been offered under the hammer of the auctioneer, for it had been a presentation copy with a simple though beautiful inscription written in the delicate handwriting of the poet upon the t.i.tle-page:

"_To Virginia from E. A. P._"

This was the very copy the greatest of story-tellers had lovingly given to his wife. Years ago it had mysteriously disappeared from Hooker's office, where he had kept it in a fire-proof, feeling it was more secure there than on the shelves of his library. He sought for it everywhere, offering large rewards for its return, but the evasive little volume never was heard of again.

Hooker was musing over his "defeat" of yesterday in the salesroom when his thoughts reverted to the fate of his own copy. Where was it? What was its history? Its possessor could not seek a purchaser, because the inscription on the t.i.tle-page would instantly identify it. Had it been destroyed? Was it--

"A gentleman to see you, sir, about an old book!"

He instantly awoke from his reverie. It was his secretary who had spoken.

"Tell him I have no money for such things!" said Hooker.

John Lawrence, his secretary, did not turn away, but waited with the flicker of a smile upon his face. He knew the foibles of his employer.

He had been with him for many years. And a really good clerk always knows his master's weaknesses.

"Hold on a minute, John. Perhaps I can give him a few minutes. Tell him to come in."

"h.e.l.lo, Colonel! What can I do for you this morning?" said Hooker cheerily, to a middle-aged man, erect of figure, who had just entered.

He was one of those men who make their living picking up old books, old guns, old papers, old coins, old pictures, old everything. He also, at times, had a faculty of picking up old liquors, which was not good for him. He was known as the "Colonel" because of his military bearing and his interest in the Civil War. He had really been a soldier serving in the glorious and extensive regiment known as the home guard.

"Good morning, Mr. Hooker. I've a matter I'd like to speak to you about--but in the strictest confidence. I'm on the track of a really fine book."

At this Hooker smiled. Although in his long and busy life and in his strange wanderings the Colonel had secured a few good things his "finds" generally turned out to be of no value. Hooker had frequently advanced him money to purchase what the Colonel termed "nuggets," but when they were brought to him changed, in the twinkling of an eye, into fool's gold.

"Well, what is it?" said Hooker, rather impatiently, fearing another tug at his purse-strings.

"You've read this morning's papers? The 'Murders in the Rue Morgue'

brought at the sale yesterday thirty-eight hundred dol--"

"Enough of that!" retorted Hooker, who was becoming angry. "I never want to hear of that d.a.m.ned book again!"

"But I know where there's another copy," presented the Colonel, weakly.

"So do I. In the British Museum!"

"No, Mr. Hooker. Right here in New York."

"Where?"

"But you're not interested, you just said--"

"Of course I am, you old fool, go on!"

"Well, the book's in an old house down near Was.h.i.+ngton Square. It'll be difficult to get. Its owner's in jail."

"In _jail_!"

"Yes. He's serving a stretch--twenty years."

"What for?"

"Murder!"

"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 fas.h.i.+oned 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 pa.s.s 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 s.h.i.+ning 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 bra.s.s 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 t.i.tle 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."