Booksellers and bookselling -- Fiction; Brooklyn (New York, N.Y.) -- Fiction; Mystery and detective stories
"Hullo?" said Roger. Aubrey, leaning over him, noticed that the little
bookseller's naked pate was ringed with crystal beads.
"Hullo?" replied Titania's elfin voice promptly.
"Did you open the suitcase?"
"No. It's locked. Mr. Weintraub said there were a lot of old books in
it for a friend of his. It's very heavy."
"Look here," said Roger, and his voice rang sharply. "This is
important. I don't want you to touch that suitcase. Leave it wherever
it is, and DON'T TOUCH IT. Promise me."
"Yes, Mr. Mifflin. Had I better put it in a safe place?"
"DON'T TOUCH IT!"
"Bock's sniffing at it now."
"Don't touch it, and don't let Bock touch it. It--it's got valuable
papers in it."
"I'll be careful of it," said Titania.
"Promise me not to touch it. And another thing--if any one calls for
it, don't let them take it until I get home."
Aubrey held out his watch in front of Roger. The latter nodded.
"Do you understand?" he said. "Do you hear me all right?"
"Yes, splendidly. I think it's wonderful! You know I never talked on
long distance before----"
"Don't touch the bag," repeated Roger doggedly, "and don't let any one
take it until we--until I get back."
"I promise," said Titania blithely.
"Good-bye," said Roger, and set down the receiver. His face looked
curiously pinched, and there was perspiration in the hollows under his
eyes. Aubrey held out his watch impatiently.
"We've just time to make it," cried Roger, and they rushed from the
shop.
It was not a sprightly journey. The train made its accustomed detour
through West Philadelphia and North Philadelphia before getting down to
business, and the two voyagers felt a personal hatred of the brakemen
who permitted passengers from these suburbs to straggle leisurely
aboard instead of flogging them in with knotted whips. When the
express stopped at Trenton, Aubrey could easily have turned a howitzer
upon that innocent city and blasted it into rubble. An unexpected stop
at Princeton Junction was the last straw. Aubrey addressed the
conductor in terms that were highly treasonable, considering that this
official was a government servant.
The winter twilight drew in, gray and dreary, with a threat of snow.
For some time they sat in silence, Roger buried in a Philadelphia
afternoon paper containing the text of the President's speech
announcing his trip to Europe, and Aubrey gloomily recapitulating the
schedule of his past week. His head throbbed, his hands were wet with
nervousness so that crumbs of tobacco adhered to them annoyingly.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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