The Unpublishable Memoirs Part 12

"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 Was.h.i.+ngton 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 circ.u.mstances 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 t.i.tle-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 a.s.sistant. 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!