The Unpublishable Memoirs Part 8

He had been known the world over as a collector of autographs and ma.n.u.scripts, but he had never been called upon as an expert.

Hooker arose. He examined the letter but for an instant.

"I have formed an opinion, Your Honor."

"So soon?"

"Yes."

"What is your decision?"

"It is a forgery!"

"Are you certain?"

"Without a shadow of a doubt!"

"Why are you so positive," queried the Judge, "when so many other authorities state that it is genuine?"

"I am positive," said Hooker, "because I wrote it myself!"

There was an uproar in the Court.

"Please explain, sir," said the judge sternly.

"DePuyster had become such a pest, such a terror to his friends by his family anecdotes and antique stories that I could stand it no longer.

I was literally bored to death. I made the charge in jest. DePuyster took it so seriously that I was compelled to supply the proof. I purchased an old sheet of writing paper with the water-mark of the Revolutionary period. I practised for hours, so I could imitate General Arnold's handwriting. When I finished the letter I almost thought it an original myself! The farce was wonderful! The hoax--a joy! I thought that I had become a Good Samaritan who had saved his friends from a very tiresome old gentleman with a hobby for family history. When my name was first called--I hesitated, but when you all selected me, I was overwhelmed with the distinguished honor. I told the truth, and spoiled a story."

"You have _created_ a story!" said the judge.

"THE HUNDRED AND FIRST STORY"

The owner did not at the time of the robbery suspect anyone. The volume had disappeared; that was all. Yesterday the famous copy of Boccaccio printed by Valdarfer in the year of grace 1471 had been one of the talked-of things in John Libro's famous library. It had reposed in its case along with its ancient companions, who in the silence of the night would relate to one another the right merry tales of Fair Jehan, of Patient Grissel, of Launcelot du Lac; and their morocco sides would shake with laughter at the quips of Giovanni Boccaccio, of Certaldo, and the rude, trenchant jests of Master Francis Rabelais.

The fine old volume, which had been the envy and despair of book-lovers, had only recently been added to the collection of Mr.

Libro. In 1812 it had the proud record of selling for over 2000 and since then it had a most splendid career, having been fondled and loved by only the elite of the bibliomaniac world. Its owners had been knights, viscounts, dukes, kings, emperors,--and bibliophiles!

On the night of December 12, 1910, the "Valdarfer Boccaccio," as it had been termed, had been shown to a number of members of the "Maioli Club," a club consisting only of those interested in rare prints, books, typography, early ma.n.u.scripts, and money. The volume, after having been sufficiently admired, handled, looked into, collated and gossiped over, was locked in its case by Mr. Libro, who felt a feeling of relief when the doors were shut and the key stored safely in his pocket. He did not like the rude way some of the younger and inexperienced members handled the precious gift of the G.o.ds; and a very thoughtful and scholarly collector had the audacity and unheard of temerity to read it!

The next morning on going into the library all Mr. Libro saw was a vacancy in his favorite bookcase. Between the Dante of 1481 and the Aldine "Poliphilus" was an oblong s.p.a.ce that had been so gloriously filled by the distinguished production of the press of Italy. The Boccaccio had vanished!

The news of its loss was flashed over the entire world. Comment on its strange disappearance was general; articles appeared in the newspapers on how to safeguard the world's great literary treasures; the _London Times_ had a leading article in which it was stated that "America did not deserve to own things of inestimable artistic and intellectual value if it did not know how to preserve them."

The first thing a gentleman does when he has been robbed is to call in a detective whose name is always a household word in novels and plays.

Mr. Libro requested John Bunting to aid him with his advice, notwithstanding the fact that he had been overwhelmed with suggestions from every newspaper reporter in the United States and Canada.

At noon Bunting called. After asking the usual questions, which although a great detective, he did not disdain to do, he requested Mr.

Libro to tell him the names of his guests of the night before.

"But, Mr. Bunting, I tell you I myself locked the case, put the key in my pocket, and retired. They could not possibly have extracted it in my presence, and I saw the last of them to the door."

"I would like their names."

"But I do not suspect any of them, Mr. Bunting."

"That is not so, Mr. Libro, if I may be permitted to say so. You do not care to admit it, but you suspect someone of that Literary Club."

"I am suspicious of my best friends, but dare not indicate any one. If you want their names, I shall tell you--James Blakely, the great authority on Elizabethan Poetry; Henry Sterling, of Sterling, Petty & Co.; Robert Rodd, who knows more about the first editions of Paradise Lost than anyone; Edward Stevens; James Janney--that's five--there were six,-- Oh, yes, Robert Hooker. He is quite a student but does not possess the bank account to buy all the books he wants. He would spend a million a year if he had it. He was the underbidder on the Boccaccio. Yes, Mr. Bunting, Hooker came near owning it once. I sent an unlimited bid for it at the Sunderland Sale. He tried to buy it from the bookseller who acted as my agent, when he found his own bid had not been high enough."

"Mr. Libro, that is interesting. It was no ordinary thief, however, who took it. The ordinary New Yorker does not know the difference between _that_ book and one by Marie Corelli!"

Bunting began the investigation at once. He followed zealously every clew. A few notorious criminals, who were seen in the immediate vicinity of the house, were interviewed without result. One of them, who had been noticed a block from the house shortly after midnight, was locked up on suspicion. He was discharged from custody the next morning as nothing could be proved against him. This individual, who was known to the police as "Booky" Phillips, had been arrested many times, but never convicted. The Chief found him quite placid under the rapid fire of his questions. He had read of the lost Boccaccio in the _Herald_, but did not understand why any "self-respecting thief would stoop to steal a worthless old book!"

As a last resort Bunting was compelled to investigate the members of the Maioli Club. Although they were book-lovers the detective found, much to his surprise, that they were respectable citizens. He called one day upon Mr. Hooker without giving notice of his visit.

"Mr. Hooker," he said, "I would like to know about the book missing from the Libro collection. Do you know where it is?"

Mr. Hooker seemed to be choking. His face grew red and he could not answer for the moment. Bunting repeated the question and Hooker grew angry.

"How dare you ask me such a thing? You are so accustomed to dealing with thieves that you try your crude methods on everyone. The book will turn up sometime; meanwhile myself and all my friends will be continually annoyed by your insults and threats. Good-day."

The detective left. He felt sure that Hooker knew more than he cared to admit. Perhaps the book was even now upon his shelves. He would have his house and office searched. This was done. The Boccaccio was nowhere to be seen.

Two years pa.s.sed. The Valdarfer Boccaccio, which had been a day's wonder, was forgotten by all except Mr. Libro and Mr. Hooker. They saw each other rarely after the loss of the unlucky volume; in fact they avoided each other. The incident was never mentioned among the members of the Maioli Club--it was a thing never to be spoken of at its meetings.

It was, however, again to be the subject of talk and gossip. On December 12, 1912, two years to a day after its strange disappearance, the volume turned up in all the glory of its illuminated page and superb morocco binding. Giovanni Boccaccio had added another story to the Hundred that composed his immortal collection.

And where had it been found? The last place in the entire world. In the New York Public Library! For almost two years it had reposed there, with no one to cherish it or dip into its witty contents. In a book-case, side by side with other great masterpieces of literature, it had remained neglected by the inhabitants of New York, who in the newspapers of that great city figure as learned and scholarly! The old story, "that the best place to _hide_ a book was in a Wall Street broker's office" was found to be pleasant but fanciful fiction! It was far safer in the public library: no one would look for it there!

On the morning of the twelfth of December a gentleman came to the Inquiry Desk. He appeared to Mr. Jones, one of the a.s.sistant librarians, to be interested in books on the subject of Religion, so he requested the visitor to go with him to the book-stacks, as there were too many of them to carry to the reading tables. And theological books were always so heavy! While looking over the collection the man called Mr. Jones' attention to the label of John Libro in one of them, and asked why the "Decameron" of Boccaccio was put among the religious books? Mr. Jones blushed! He gasped, however, when he recognized the long-lost volume. He would take it at once to the princ.i.p.al librarian.

He first asked the stranger's name,--the fortunate discoverer of the missing treasure. He gave Mr. Jones his card. Engraved thereon was "B. Phillips."

The newspapers were full of the curious recovery of the Boccaccio, were quite facetious about it and went so far as to call the great building on Fifth Avenue a Literary Mausoleum. Others suggested that the State should appropriate money for the purchase of modern s.e.x novels,--the only books that were really read! But despite the jibes and explanations the real mystery was unsolved. How was the book stolen and why?

Three days later the following letter appeared in the newspapers. It is given here because it will make a fitting ending to the Hundred and First Tale of the Decameron.

New York, December 14, 1912.

Sir:

I have read with interest the various explanations given in the papers concerning the disappearance of the book from Mr. Libro's library. I can supply the key to the whole problem.

Some two years or so ago, I was stone broke. One day I read that Mr.

Libro had purchased at a great price the book which has caused all this commotion. I thought I would lift it some night when I had nothing better to do, and sell it back to its owner or some other book crank.

I called one afternoon at the Libro house with some magazines on pretence of securing subscriptions. The ruse worked. Mr. Libro ordered the _Bookman_,--a magazine I had never heard of. He showed me one or two of his books,--these maniacs always want to show you their things. I was bored to death, as you can imagine.