Inured as Val was to death in all its varied forms, yet there was something about this bald announcement that seemed to catch him in the throat; it was as if an icy hand had suddenly clutched him, a hand reaching out of nowhere, a hand that could drag him from the here into the hereafter.
He had seen men die by his side; for weeks he had looked upon the face of death in the front line trenches. But death was in its proper environment there. One could die in the trenches—that’s what one was there for. It was a fitting culmination to a man’s work in the trenches.
But there was something appallingly different about a man’s being picked out of the heart of a peaceful occupation in his own store, surrounded by his own books, his own environment. And yesterday, he remembered, he had joked about death with the old man. It was not so much that the man died—we all must die—he reflected,—as it was the fact that he had died so without warning, so disconcertingly soon. To joke about death one day and to be dead the next—there was an uncanny coincidence about it that Val did not fancy, somehow.
The voice of the sergeant broke in on his meditations.
“I understand you were one of the last to see him last night, before he closed for the night,” remarked Sergeant Connolly.
“I guess I was,” Val nodded. “Tell me, how⸺” he looked his question.
The plain clothes man told him briefly all that was known about the matter, which was not much. When Sam Peters, Masterson’s clerk and assistant opened the store this morning he found that the door was not locked, as usual. Upon entering, he found the body of poor old Masterson sprawled across his desk, his head crushed in, as by some heavy, blunt instrument. That was all, except that in his hand was clutched, so tightly that it was still there and could not readily be removed, a strap such as children use to keep their school books together. Did Mr. Morley happen to remember such a strap.
Mr. Morley did. He remembered instantly. There was the girl, of course, and the books she had brought. Two bundles—each one tied with such a strap.
He looked at his questioner speculatively.
“Yes,” he said slowly. “There was a lady here last night—brought in some books bound in such a strap—two bundles, to be exact. I bought one of the bundles ‘as is’ from Masterson, and he kept the other.”
“Exactly,” nodded the sergeant. He knew all this, of course, from Peters. “And the books you bought—was there some clue as to the identity of the owner?” Val shook his head promptly. “No, there was not,” he stated emphatically.
“You won’t mind if we look them over?” suggested the sergeant.
“If you can locate them, why⸺”
“How do you mean?” asked the plainclothes man, politely.
“They were stolen from me last night,” admitted Val. “But the bundle that was left here⸺”
“That was taken, too,” said the sergeant.
Val’s eyes clouded for an instant. But then, of course, they would be, he decided. Undoubtedly the thief, whoever he was, knew that Masterson had retained half of the books. Probably he had refused to give them up without a struggle. He hardly supposed that they really intended to kill the old man when plainly the only purpose or motive in the whole affair seemed to be, for some inexplicable reason, to get back the books.
“Nothing else in the place was touched,” announced the detective, noting, in some measure, what was going on in Val’s mind.
“Now, if we could get hold of the woman in the case⸺” he began.
“What do you mean, ‘the woman in the case’?” inquired Val, although he knew well enough what was meant. He was sparring for time. It took no very acute mind to see the trend in which the investigation was to go—at any rate, at present. The woman was all they had to tie up to, as things stood now. If they could get hold of her, though she was innocent—as Val hastened to admit to himself—they could perhaps get some information as to what was going on, as to what motivated the events of the last two days, and—perhaps—the slayer himself. But Val had seen from the first instant of his entry here that the woman’s name must be kept out of it. Innocent or not, it would be a distinctly unpleasant and unwholesome position for a girl with copper burnished hair and eyes like twin mountain pools in the moonlight, or was it twin moons in a midnight pool, or—well, whatever it was, he would have to go easy on it and stall.
To those who did not understand the character of Valentine Morley it might appear curious that a momentary glimpse of a passable appearing girl in the half light of a bookshop should so upset his notions of right and wrong; that the remembrance of a girl he had seen for hardly more than an instant should have so taken possession of him. And yet, as Val remarked to himself, that chap Browning said something of the kind when he said that Love, which can come by a turn of the head, or a glance out of the eye, or a wisp of hair momentarily curling on the nape of a neck, can go by just these things—instantaneously, as it came. And Val could admit to himself freely and without reservation that this woman, in the brief moment of his visioning of her, had taken greater hold on him than any woman he had ever met.
That being the case, he intended to be very careful of what he said. Sam Peters, he knew, had hardly glanced at her when she was here last night. He had been busy dragging in the counter book stalls. His eyesight, too, was not what it was in his youth. He would hardly be able to give a satisfactory description of the girl—probably he had already given what description he could. Probably⸺
“Now, if you could give us an accurate description of the woman, Mr. Morley, we might⸺” suggested the sergeant tentatively. He paused and gazed at Val significantly.
“Eh, of course, of course,” replied that worthy, brought up short out of his reverie. “Anything I can do, why, just rely on me.”
“To be sure,” smiled the detective sergeant. “It’s the duty of all good citizens⸺”
“To come to the aid of the party, Mr. Connolly,” replied Val. “Well, what is it I can do?”
“Why, a description of the woman—her appearance, clothes, and all that.”
“Yes, of course,” came back Val. “She was, I think, about medium height—you understand, of course, I paid very little attention to her, so my description will, at best, be very vague.”
“Surely,” acquiesced Connolly. “But there will be some particular details you can remember, if you try really hard. The color of her clothes perhaps, her hair and eyes, what kind of clothes she wore.”
“Naturally,” said Val. “She wore—er—a—er—a dress, I think, of some sort of feminine material reaching to somewhere between her—er—ankles and her—er—ahem!—her⸺”
“Yes, I know,” interrupted the sergeant a bit impatiently, “they all wear ’em between the ankle and the ahem these days, most of them more so—but what kind of a dress was it, and what color?”
“Why, it was an—a—er—ordinary dress, don’t you know—not the kind of dress at all that one describes, sergeant—if you know what I mean? The color? Dashed if I can just remember—think it was a sort of purple, or was it blue?” He paused in the struggle to remember. “Come to think of it, it might—er—have been—er—reddish yellow, or maybe there was a touch of green—well, there was some color in it, sergeant. You can rely on that—but she’ll probably have changed her outfit, anyway, won’t she? Her hat—why, she sort of wore it on her head, if I remember correctly, a little to one side—er—or maybe not so much, if you know what I mean, Mr. Connolly? I—er—mean it was just a common sort of hat of some color or other—didn’t pay much attention to it.”
“Er, thank you, Mr. Morley,” put in Connolly drily. “That’s very helpful, so far. Now, about her personal appearance, why⸺”
“Why, of course, of course,” Val hastened to interpose. “Her personal appearance, to be sure.” What volumes Val could have written concerning the lady’s personal appearance! What odes to the particular shade of that copper burnished hair! What sonnets to the dainty sweep of those eyelashes! What short stories having to do with the contour of her nose! He gave the sergeant her personal description with barely checked enthusiasm.
“About—er—medium height, sergeant, I think, or perhaps a little shorter—ahem, or was it a little taller?” He paused while he discussed this with himself. “Er—well, it’s of no consequence. That wouldn’t distinguish her—most women are about medium height or a little taller or a little shorter, anyway. Her eyes were of some color or other, I could not see them in this semi-darkness, anyway, and the same for her hair. To tell you the truth, sergeant, now that I come to describe her I find I hardly noticed her at all. People are like that, aren’t they?” he inquired blandly.
“Like what?” asked the sergeant irritably.
“I mean, like I am—er—go through life, you know, with their eyes shut, hardly knowing what goes on around them. You know, you meet and talk to people every day that you couldn’t for the life of you describe, although you may know them well, so how can you expect a man to describe a woman he had no cause to notice”—the Lord have mercy on your soul, Valentine Morley!—“and only saw for a moment or two? What was the name of this bird—a magician, I think, who used to walk full-speed in front of crowded shop windows and then was able to describe accurately every little thing in⸺”
“Yes, yes, I know,” interrupted the officer. “You’ve been about as helpful as Peters, here,” he waved to the old man.
“Sorry, I’m sure, officer,” replied Val, with a sincere show of regret, “Anything I can do, of course—why⸺”
“Thanks, Mr. Morley,” said Connolly. “Is there anything you want to say to Mr. Morley, coroner?” he asked, turning to another member of the group.
“Not at this moment, sergeant,” replied the coroner. “A little later, perhaps. Don’t go away yet, Mr. Morley.”
Val nodded. “All right. Any objection to my talking to Mr. Peters,” he nodded in the direction of the bookseller’s old clerk. “I am interested in the disposition of this store, naturally, and⸺”
“No objection at all,” interposed both the coroner and Connolly. “Go right ahead.” They dismissed him temporarily with a nod and continued their consultation in a little group, finally going into the back room presumably for another inspection of the body, which had been laid out there after the coroner had made his examination. Val sat down next to Sam Peters. The old clerk raised his white head, his eyes red with weeping.
“Oh, Mr. Morley!” he whispered. “What a horrible thing⸺”
“There, there, Sam,” soothed Val. “Don’t talk about it. I know how you feel.”
“He was like a brother to me, Mr. Morley,” said Peters, “I have been with him for twenty-five years, and to find him as I did this morning⸺” his voice quavered and broke. Val clapped him on the shoulder gently.
“I know, Sam, I know. I loved the old man, myself. What are you going to do now?” he asked.
“Me?” asked Peters. “I don’t know—don’t care much, now. I wouldn’t want to work for anybody else now, and yet⸺”
“Didn’t Mat have a sister somewhere?” asked Morley.
“Yes, his only relative. Lives out of town. She has been telegraphed for. She’ll probably be here to-day. What a homecoming!” They were silent for a brief space.
To Val the most pitiable object of it all was old Peters, whose life was wound around that of Masterson’s and the old bookshop. A man absolutely without friends, presumably, and whose only interest in life was his work here among these books which had been his friends and companions since his youth. He was old now—there was little more left in life for him—and now that little was to be ruthlessly taken away.
“I suppose she’ll sell the old shop,” he put in, tentatively.
“I suppose so,” sighed the old man.
“And then⸺”
“And then⸺” the old man sighed again. “I suppose I’ll be turned out, of course. Who would want to hire a man of my age? And even if I could get another job, I hate the thought of leaving this place. Tliis has not been a job for me, Mr. Morley,” said the old man. “It has been my home, my life. It meant something to me to come down here every day and fuss around these books—something that I cannot explain—something more than merely buying and selling books. Books get to be more than just paper and print to you, you know⸺” he was silent again and neither spoke a while. It was a minute or two before Val broke the silence. When he did he offered his suggestion tentatively, almost hesitatingly.
“Why don’t you buy the place, then?” he asked. The other looked up at him with a half smile and shook his head.
“Hardly,” he replied. “I’ve managed to save a little money—but far from enough to take over this business. You know⸺”
“Yes, I suppose so,” offered Val, interrupting the old man. “But it wouldn’t take so much, and if you don’t mind accepting help from me, why . . .”
The old man’s hand went to his throat and his old eyes shone a bit brighter. His voice quavered a little as he answered.
“Why, Mr. Morley, it’s mighty decent of you. Of course, I couldn’t accept⸺”
“Oh, simply a loan, of course,” interposed Val brusquely, waving any possible objections aside with his hand, which he flicked in the air with a slight gesture as though to a business man of his caliber it was nothing. “Just a loan, you know. Of course, I should expect it repaid with interest,” he stated, quite severely. “It is purely a business transaction—you understand, to be sure.”
The other smiled. “Ah, you say that, Mr. Morley, but I know it is because this old place means something more than just books to you, as it does to me, that you make that offer. We’ll call it a loan, since you want it to be so—but it’s a kind thing to do for a burnt out old man, and I’d like you to know that I appreciate it, my boy.”
“Nonsense!” declared Val sternly. “One must put out one’s money at interest—it must be earning something for you, eh? And why not here? So we’ll call it settled, then. You attend to the financial details of it and let me know how much money will be needed.”
Peters nodded and his thin, withered little body shook visibly. After many years he was to be independent at last—he was to be the owner of his own bookshop. It was something to have lived for. And this shop—he sobered in an instant, suddenly, as the thought of poor old Mat Masterson came back to him—he had almost forgotten. He was rejoicing over his own good fortune while his late employer and friend lay cold in the back room—unknowing in the midst of his own store, the work of his hands and his brains. He⸺”
The voice of Val recalled Peters to himself. Val was leaning close to him—the others were in the rear room, Val spoke quietly, softly, into his ear.
“About that—er—lady that was here last night—ah—you understand, don’t you, that—er⸺”
“Yes, perfectly, Mr. Morley,” answered the old man. “To tell the truth I scarcely noticed the young female person—er—not enough, to be sure, to give a coherent description of her. Impossible to do so, I might say.”
“Of course. Thank you, Peters—as the proprietor of a bookshop, you are a model of discretion.” Val clapped him on the shoulder and arose as the coroner and his party came out of the rear room.
“Is there any further need for my presence?” asked Val, addressing the group at random.
The coroner answered. “I am through with you, if Sergeant Connolly is. There is nothing to be gained by detaining you. Of course, you may be wanted at the inquest—I think it will be the day after to-morrow—but if we need you there you will be sent for.”
Val bowed assent. “Surely. Just call me up at my home and leave the message if I’m not there. Any further information I can give you⸺”
“No, not now,” interposed Connolly. And under his breath: “Further information—holy smoked mackerel!”
“Righto,” said Val. “I’ll be off, then. Hope you have some luck in getting the murderer—beastly thing to do, you know.”