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In 'Murder in the Bookshop' by Carolyn Wells, readers are immersed in a classic detective story set in a unique literary context. The book follows the murder investigation led by detective Pennington Wise and his sidekick Zizi in a quaint bookstore, filled with rare and valuable books. Wells' writing style is engaging with cleverly placed plot twists and a fascinating display of deductive reasoning. The narrative is reminiscent of classic whodunits, making it an enjoyable read for fans of mystery fiction. Wells' attention to detail and intricate storytelling make this book a standout in the genre. The author's use of language and setting adds depth to the story, creating a vivid portrayal of the bookshop and its inhabitants. Carolyn Wells' ability to craft a compelling mystery showcases her talent as a skilled writer with a knack for storytelling. Her passion for literature and mystery shines through in 'Murder in the Bookshop', captivating readers from start to finish. I highly recommend this book to anyone who appreciates a well-crafted mystery novel with a literary twist.
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Murder in the Bookshop
Table of Contents
Chapter 1 The Crime In The Bookshop
Mr. Philip Balfour was a good man. Also, he was good-looking, good-humoured and good to his wife. That is, when he had his own way, which was practically always.
When they came to live in New York, Philip Balfour wanted to live on Park Avenue and Alli, his wife, wanted to live on Fifth Avenue. They lived on Park Avenue.
Then, Balfour wanted a duplex apartment, and Alli was all for a penthouse. So they had a duplex.
To be sure, they could have found an apartment which combined the two horns of the dilemma, but they didn’t. Philip didn’t favour a penthouse.
And in her three years of married life Alli had learned that compliance is the best policy. She was a darling, Alli was, with soft, short brown curls and soft, big brown eyes. Tallish, slender and carelessly graceful, she devoted her energies to the not-too-easy task of being Philip Balfour’s wife. With full realization of what she was doing she had thrown over, actually jilted, a young man she was engaged to in order to become Mrs. Balfour.
And had seldom regretted it. Although her husband was twenty years older than herself, she was naturally adaptable, and save for one problem that was at present engrossing her attention, she was quite happy.
She adored her home and lavished time and money on its adornment and improvement.
The main room, intended as a drawing room or living room, was enormous and was Balfour’s library. He was a retired Real Estate man and an enthusiastic collector of old and rare books. He had a capable and experienced young man for his librarian, but Alli did much to assist in the care of the books.
Of late, Balfour had noticed that Keith Ramsay, his valued librarian, was not quite as effective as he had been. The young man sometimes forgot to attend to an order or seemed unsure as to his collations or translations.
And when, one evening, he sat listening to his employer talk, he showed such a brooding air and such a vacant countenance that Balfour said:
‘Whatever is the matter, Ramsay? Are you ill? Are you worried about something?’
‘Yes, I am, Mr. Balfour. Shall—shall I tell you about it?’
‘If you like,’ was the indifferent reply, for the speaker somehow sensed that the matter was unconnected with his books.
‘Then, to put it plainly, I am giving you what is, I believe, called “notice”.’
‘You’re not leaving me, Ramsay?’ Balfour was roused now. ‘That will never do! Want more salary? Anything wrong in the house?’
‘That comes near it. Something wrong in the house—with me.’
‘Out with it, then, and we’ll soon settle it.’
The two men were alone in a small room adjoining the library. This was used as an office and also held a small specially built safe, which housed the most valuable volumes.
‘I wish we could, Mr. Balfour, but I doubt it. To state my case in a few words, I am in love with your wife and, therefore, I have decided to leave you as that seems to me the only honourable course.’
‘You are indeed frank. You are acting nobly, I have been told angels do no more than that. And may I inquire if Mrs. Balfour returns your affection?’
‘I have not asked her. I am told that to run away from danger is considered a cowardly act, but that is what I propose to do. It will be best for us all.’
‘Pardon me, if I disagree with that statement. It may, of course, be better for you—and possibly for Mrs. Balfour—to see no more of one another, but don’t undertake to say what is best for me. You are very necessary to my well-being—I cannot so readily dispense with your services. I never can find an assistant who is so perfectly fitted to look after my books, my future purchases and my collection generally. I have no intention of letting you go because of a silly flirtation between you and Alli. In fact, I think you overestimate your own charms. I doubt my wife is seriously interested in you or your attentions. So just drop the idea of leaving me. I’ll speak to the lady herself concerning this, but I desire you to stay with me in any case.
‘I appreciate your taking the stand you have, it is a manly thing to do. But I can’t take the matter seriously, and I’d rather send her away than see you go. Now, put it out of your head until tomorrow, anyway. Tonight, later on, I want you to go over to Sewell’s with me on that little marauding expedition we have planned. Good Lord, Ramsay, I couldn’t possibly get along without you! Don’t be silly!’
‘I’ll go to the bookshop with you, Mr. Balfour, but don’t consider the other matter settled. We’ll speak of it again.’
‘All right; I’ll choose the time for the conversation. We’ll go over to Sewell’s about ten. Be ready.’
‘What are the books we’re after?’
‘Two small Lewis Carroll books. Not stories, they are mathematical works. One is Symbolic Logic and one is A New Theory of Parallels, Part I. Not very valuable, yet hard to find and necessary to keep my collection up to the mark. Also, he may have the Button Gwinnett. If so, we’ll annex it.’
Philip Balfour went into his library and was at once absorbed in his books. He was a true bibliophile. Every time he looked over his treasures it seemed to him he saw new beauties and new glories in his possessions. Pride entered into his satisfaction, but just for his own gratification he loved his books and cherished their beauty and rarity.
Keith Ramsay was entirely in sympathy with him and they had worked together happily, until the loveliness of Alli had blurred the title page or the errata of the volumes he was examining or collating.
It had been a tremendous effort for him to tell his employer, and the way Philip Balfour took the confession so amazed him that he was bewildered at the situation.
But he had no intention of changing his plans and was still fully determined to leave the next day. He went upstairs to do a little more packing and in a dimly lighted corridor met Alli.
Unable to resist, he took her in his arms and she laid her head against his shoulder as they stood in utter silence.
Then, ‘You spoke to him?’ she whispered.
‘Yes; but he flouted my confession and wants me, for his own selfish ends, to stay on as his librarian. I can’t—darling, you know I can’t do that!’
‘You must, Keith, you must. Think of me.’
‘It’s you I’m thinking of. No, sweet, it must be a complete break. I can’t risk the danger for you that it would mean if I stayed here. Especially now that he knows!’
They drew apart suddenly as a maid came round the corner from a cross corridor.
‘You two are going over to Sewell’s tonight?’ Alli said to Keith in a casual tone.
‘Yes, very soon now—and I may not see you again.’
The maid had disappeared, and if she had not it is doubtful if Alli could have controlled herself. She reached up and kissed Ramsay on the forehead and breathed a low-voiced ‘Good-bye.’
But it was not the end, a desperate embrace followed, and when at last Keith let her go, it was to turn and face Philip Balfour as he reached the top stair.
‘Let’s go,’ Balfour said, as if he had seen nothing unusual and Ramsay went for his hat and coat.
Keith Ramsay had not at all intended to do what he had done, but there are times when human volition takes a back seat and the physical senses carry on. The occurrence made him more than ever certain that the sooner he got away from the beloved presence the better.
A few moments more and the two men were walking down Park Avenue for a few blocks and then crossing over to Lexington, on which Sewell’s Secondhand Bookshop had its abode.
Its façade was not impressive, save to the lover of old bookshops. It was not of the modern building type, where one walks in on a level with the sidewalk; it was not a passé brownstone front, where one climbs twelve or fourteen steps to get in.
But it was the sort where you go down a few stone steps and find yourself in a room that has seemingly settled itself down below the street level.
A room after the own heart of E. L. Pearson, who speaks of it as a place where one feels a shyness in the presence of books.
It has not that odour of sanctity which to amateur bibliophiles means the smell of old leather.
The room discovered after descending Sewell’s three stone steps was large and hospitable. The walls were book-covered up to the high ceiling, and on tables and benches and chairs were more books. And not only books, there were fascinating bits of curious crafts. Old glass, Early American as well as foreign stuff. Pretty tricks, like ships in bottles and silver teaspoons in a cherry pit.
But mostly books. Books you’d forgotten and books you wished you had forgotten. Rare books and always genuine. Queer books, holy books and poems by the Sweet Singer of Michigan.
But all these things were in the great front room. There was a smaller room back of it, where the more nearly priceless volumes were kept in safes, and where conferences were held that often proved John Sewell’s right to the title awarded him as most knowledgeable of all the dealers in the city.
And it was to this back room that Philip Balfour and his librarian made their way.
They did not go round on Lexington Avenue at all. From the cross street—they were walking on the south side—they turned into an alley about midway of the block.
The dark wooden gate swung easily open and the two men stepped through, a few more paces bringing them to the rear of the shop.
It seemed inadvisable to use a flashlight, but they knew their way and Ramsay felt round for the window-sill.
‘Are you going to open door or window?’ Balfour whispered, and Ramsay returned:
‘Window, I think. The door creaks like an old inn signboard.’
‘Have you a thin-bladed knife?’
‘Rather,’ and Keith opened the article in question. Then he slipped it between the sashes and the window went up easily.
He stepped inside, unlocked the door and opened it carefully, to minimize the creak, and Balfour entered.
Ramsay closed the door and said, ‘What about lights?’
‘Of course we must have light,’ Balfour told him. ‘I think they’ll not be noticed; it isn’t very late and undoubtedly Sewell is often here of an evening. Turn on two, anyway.’
Ramsay snapped on two small side lights and they looked about the room. A little more formal than the front room, there were lockers and cupboards instead of book-shelves and a large table with several chairs around it.
The room had a scholarly air—every item was of definite interest and of distinct historic or literary value. On the walls were old prints and portraits; a panoply of savage weapons; some rare bits of textile fabrics.
Ramsay loved the room. It was one of his greatest pleasures to lounge there while John Sewell and Philip Balfour discussed bookish themes.
Sometimes there were caucuses, where six or eight connoisseurs and collectors gathered to exchange views, or more likely to get the benefit of Sewell’s views.
Many experiments had proved the futility of trying to catch him with a name he had never heard. However obscure or of however recent prominence, Sewell invariably proved to be thoroughly acquainted with the man and his works, his history and his place in the literary world.
On a side table lay some delightful old silver toys. Groups of tiny people playing games or working at ancient machinery. Sets of furniture, of silver or gold filigree, and silver boxes of bewildering and intricate charm.
There was a silver skewer, a foot long, plain, with a ring fixed in the end for utility, that might once have been used in the kitchen of some lordly manor or regal palace. Fascinating bits, everywhere.
Ramsay knew all of these by heart. Balfour knew well any of them in which he took a personal interest, and meant some day to purchase.
A silence fell, as the two men hunted sedulously for the volumes they hoped to find. Both found it hard to resist the continual temptations to pause for a dip in this or that tempting volume or brochure, but both put aside the thought and worked diligently.
At last Ramsay found a book that made him open his eyes wide. It was not a very large volume, and it was labelled Taxation in Great Britain and America. He glanced across the room at Balfour, and saw only his back, the book-lover being absorbed in a volume he was scanning.
Ramsay slipped the book he had discovered into the sidepocket of his topcoat, which he had not removed, as the place was chilly. After which, he went on with his search, noting that Balfour was still engrossed in reading.
Suddenly, the lights went out and the room was in black darkness. Ramsay turned and stumbled in the direction of Balfour.
It was some time later that Keith Ramsay sat down at Sewell’s desk and took up the telephone.
He tried, and successfully, to control his voice as he said:
‘Give me Police Headquarters.’
The response came duly, and it was swiftly arranged that Inspector Manton, with a detective from the Homicide Bureau and others would arrive as soon as possible.
Then Ramsay called Sewell at his home.
‘No,’ Mrs. Sewell told him, ‘John isn’t home. Anything wrong?’
This question Ramsay ignored and said:
‘Do you know where Mr. Sewell is? Can I get him? It’s rather important. Or do you know where Gill is?’
‘No, I don’t know anything about Preston. But you may find Mr. Sewell at the Balfour home. I think he intended to go there this evening. Who is this? Where are you speaking from?’
‘Thank you,’ said Ramsay, briefly.
He cradled the instrument and sat back in the swivel chair, looking deeply thoughtful and carefully avoiding any glance in the direction of Philip Balfour, who lay dead on the other side of the room.
After a moment he took the telephone again, and called the Balfour home.
‘Potter,’ he said, as the butler responded, ‘don’t mention my name, understand?’
‘Yes, Mr.—Yes, sir.’
‘That’s right. Is Mr. Sewell there?’
‘Yes, sir, he is talking with Mrs. Balfour.’
‘Ask him to take a telephone message on this extension. If he wants to know who’s calling, say you don’t know.’
‘Yes, sir.’
And in a few moments Ramsay heard John Sewell’s voice inquiring as to his identity.
‘Keep quiet, Mr. Sewell, don’t mention any name. But come down here to your shop right away. I can’t tell you on the telephone, but there’s serious trouble. Get here as soon as you can, but don’t breathe a word to Mrs. Balfour. Tell her you’re called to the home of an important customer or something of that sort.’
‘All right, I get you. Be there in two jumps.’
Sewell returned to the library where he had been sitting and told Mrs. Balfour that he must hasten away on important business. He bade her good night in his courteous way and shook hands with Carl Swinton, another caller.
‘Glad I’m not leaving you quite alone, Mrs. Balfour. When your husband returns, please tell him I will see him tomorrow about the Button book. He will be pleased, I know.’
Sewell went away and strode down Park Avenue, then crossed over to Lexington.
With his key, he entered his own front door, and finding the front room dark, went quickly through it to the lighted rear room.
As he did so, the police arrived at the back door, which Ramsay opened to them.
Sewell stared at the incoming visitors, stared harder as he saw Balfour’s body on the floor, and stared hardest of all at Keith Ramsay, who seemed to be going about like a man in a dream.
‘Well, now, what’s this all about?’ asked the Inspector.
‘That’s what I’d like to know,’ Sewell declared; ‘can you explain, Ramsay? Who killed Mr. Balfour? Is he dead?’
‘You called Headquarters, sir?’ and Inspector Manton looked at Ramsay.
‘I did.’
‘Will you please tell your story? Please explain the conditions we find here?’
‘I’m not sure that I can, but I’ll tell all I know.’
‘Go to it, my boy,’ Sewell urged. ‘How did you get in the shop? Has Gill been here? Who jammed that skewer in Balfour’s breast?’
‘Just a moment, Mr. Sewell. Let me conduct the inquiry.’ Inspector Manton had a nice way with him, but his speech was a trifle dictatorial. ‘Tell me names, please. Who is the dead man, and who are you?’
Keith began, slowly. ‘The man who is dead,’ he said, ’is Mr. Philip Balfour, who lived on Park Avenue, several blocks farther uptown. He was a wealthy man, retired, and devoted to the hobby of collecting old and rare books. I am—was—his librarian, and I had charge of the details of the library’s business affairs and kept it in order generally.’
‘And I can vouch for both of them,’ declared John Sewell, eager to vindicate his friends from any thought of wrong-doing. ‘Mr. Balfour was one of the finest gentlemen I have ever known and Mr. Ramsay is an ideal librarian.
‘Facts we’re after,’ put in Captain Burnet of the Homicide Squad. ‘What are you two men doing here, and who killed Mr. Balfour?’
‘Were you here when these men arrived, Mr. Sewell?’ asked Manton, who thought he had heard Sewell come in just as he came in himself.
‘Well, no,’ Sewell returned, looking a little perplexed. ‘I just came in myself, as you did. Tell your story, Keith.’
‘I will,’ and Ramsay’s face grew stern and set, ‘but I am afraid you’ll find it hard to believe.’
‘Out with it,’ Sewell urged. ‘I know neither of you two did any wrong, whatever happened.’
The Inspector nodded at Ramsay and he began.
‘It was the wish of Mr. Balfour to come here tonight to see about some books. He bade me telephone Mr. Sewell that we were coming, but I couldn’t get him on the telephone, so Mr. Balfour said he was probably here at the shop and we would come along, anyhow.’
‘H’mm,’ observed Sewell, not with any seeming doubt, but expressing a mite of surprise.
‘So we came over soon after dinner and, as Mr. Balfour wanted to find a couple of books, we both looked for them.’
‘What were the names of these books?’ asked Burnet.
‘They were two of Lewis Carroll’s less well-known volumes. One was Symbolic Logic and the other A Theory of Parallels. You know them, Mr. Sewell?’
‘Yes, yes; oh, yes,’ he replied, but Captain Burnet shrewdly declared to himself that though the sagacious book-dealer doubtless knew the books, he did not know why Mr. Balfour was over in his shop hunting for them.
But he said nothing and Ramsay went on.
‘You may find this hard to believe,’ he hesitated a little, ‘but I swear I am speaking only the exact truth. I was looking along those shelves opposite the outside door and Mr. Balfour was on the other side of the room, near the door. I heard no unusual sound, saw nothing unusual, when suddenly the lights went out and the room was in total darkness.
‘Then I heard a thud as if Mr. Balfour might have fallen to the floor, and I tried to grope my way over toward him, when I was chloroformed. Don’t tell me I don’t know what I’m talking about, for I do. Someone grasped me, held a saturated cloth against my nostrils and held me so firmly that I couldn’t move, until I became unconscious. The swivel chair, the desk chair, was nearest, and I assume my assailant seated me in that after I was entirely oblivious.’
‘Who was your assailant?’ asked John Sewell, gravely.
‘I’ve no idea. I can only assume the intruder was a swift worker, that he put me out of commission, then took that long silver skewer from the table there, drove it into Mr. Balfour’s heart and departed.’
‘You think Mr. Balfour put up no fight?’
‘I can’t say. But it’s quite possible that the killer chloroformed his victim and then stabbed him when he was helpless.’
‘Go on.’
‘I’ve little more to tell. After a time, I’ve no means of knowing how long, I began to come out of the stupor and even then it took some time to regain my full senses. When I was able to do so I went over and looked at Mr. Balfour and saw him as you see him now. I looked hastily round, saw no intruder present, saw no definite or striking evidence that anyone had been here, yet there was the dead body of my employer and friend. I did the only possible thing, I called the police. Then I tried to get Mr. Sewell. He was not at home, but Mrs. Sewell told me he was probably even then at Mr. Balfour’s house, and I called up and he was there. I asked him to come here without telling Mrs. Balfour anything about it, and I assume he did so.’
‘I did,’ said Sewell, ‘and of course I believe your story, Keith. In fact, it’s the only thing that could have happened. How else could Philip Balfour have been killed?’
‘For my part,’ said the detective, ‘I don’t believe one single word of Mr. Ramsay’s recital. We will investigate it, of course, but it doesn’t ring true to me.’
Chapter 2 Ramsay’s Word Is Doubted
Doctor Jamison, the Medical Examiner, was what the novelists call a strong, silent man. Two not indispensable traits for one of his calling, for his strength was seldom needed and his silence was frequently exceedingly annoying.
On his arrival, he gave a brief nod that seemed intended as a general greeting, and went straight to the body of Philip Balfour.
The situation seemed to him quite apparent. Beyond doubt, Philip Balfour had been killed by the vigorous stab which had also felled him to the floor.
‘What’s this thing?’ the Examiner demanded, carefully drawing the long weapon out of the wound.
‘It’s an old silver skewer,’ Sewell told him. ‘Early English, Georgian, most likely. It is my property and was lying on that table beside you when last I saw it.’
‘Then it was handy for the murder,’ exclaimed the Inspector. ‘They often pick up a weapon on the spot. Eh, Jamison?’
The doctor made no verbal reply nor did he look toward the speaker. Manton held out his hand for the skewer and took it gingerly on a sheet of cardboard he held ready.
It was a beautiful piece. Twelve inches long, exactly, it tapered from the point to the ring at the top, which measured an inch across.
The ring and the blade were all in one piece, the ring being not unlike a plain wedding ring.
‘There’s a hallmark on it,’ Manton observed, ‘you know, four little bits of squares under one another with designs in them. A lion and a sort of crown and a letter H and something I can’t make out. And above it all, some letters—’
‘Give it to me,’ said Burnet, ‘you’ll spoil the fingerprints—if any.’ The Captain took the skewer and laid it carefully aside.
The finger-print man, who with the camera men had come at the time Jamison did, turned his attention to the weapon.
‘It served its purpose,’ he remarked; ‘in all the detective stories, the killer uses a dagger from foreign parts, masquerading as a paper-cutter. I’ll bet there’s no prints on it. The killer was too cute.’
‘He knew his way about,’ vouchsafed John Sewell. ‘He took his ready-made weapon from the table and he lifted it with a cloth that belongs here. See that piece of flannel on the floor beside Mr. Balfour’s shoulder? That’s a duster I keep to flirt around now and then. And I keep it in this desk drawer, which, as you see, is now empty. So you’re looking for a chap who knows this place familiarly.’
Sewell stopped suddenly, for he realized this could be made to apply to Keith Ramsay, who sat staring at him but saying no word.
‘Oh, yeah,’ said Detective Burnet. ‘You been here before, Mr. Ramsay?’
‘Many times,’ said Keith, speaking indifferently.
‘I have a couple of dozen friends who come here ten times as often as Mr. Ramsay,’ Sewell declared, ‘and they all know where I keep that dust-cloth. That’s no clue. But I’ll give you a pointer. A new development in finger-printing allows prints to be secured from fabrics—a trick only lately used. Save that duster, Inspector, you may bring in your man with its help. And you needn’t look toward Mr. Ramsay; I wouldn’t have mentioned it if it were possible to imagine him implicated.’
The Examiner rose from his stooping posture and said, succinctly: ‘Stabbed straight through the heart with that skewer. A strong, hard blow. Died practically instantly. Stabbed by a man who used his right hand. Took the blow without resistance, so probably unconscious at the moment.’
‘Was he chloroformed, too?’ asked Burnet.
‘I think not. More likely knocked out by a blow. Here’s a lump on his jaw made by a blow that would have smashed an ox.’
‘How long’s he been dead?’ Manton asked.
‘Dunno. Not long. Half an hour more or less.’
‘The blow on his jaw didn’t kill him?’
‘No. Guess I’ll be gettin’ on, now. You can send the body to the morgue. Any notion who killed him?’
‘No,’ said John Sewell, before anyone else could speak.
‘I have,’ said Keith Ramsay, slowly. ‘It comes back to me now that a man came in at the back door—it must have been the back door, because I heard a slight creak—and I heard a noise like someone falling, and when I looked round, I saw a man with a black satin mask on coming toward me, and as I looked past him, toward Mr. Balfour, I saw he was crumpled up on the floor.’
Detective Burnet regarded the speaker with unconcealed derision.
‘Just made that up?’ he inquired, sarcastically. ‘An important fact like that, and you forgot it in your first account!’
‘Exactly,’ returned Keith; ‘and you’d forget things, too, if you were given a knock-out dose of chloroform.’
‘Tell me a little more about the man in the iron mask,’ said Manton as the Medical Examiner went away.
‘It wasn’t iron,’ said Keith, seriously. ‘But it was black satin. Not just a piece of stuff with eyeholes cut in it, but a regular, well-made mask, like you’d buy for a party.’
‘You looked at it very carefully, Mr. Ramsay,’ and Manton shook his head a little.
‘Not consciously. For a few seconds I saw the man coming toward me and, as I stared, the mental picture of that mask fixed itself in my brain permanently. I think I should know it if I saw it again. It was stitched round the edges and had a sort of ruffle that covered his mouth and chin.’
Burnet looked at him with mock admiration.
‘You certainly succeeded in getting a mental photograph of the thing, didn’t you?’
‘Couldn’t help it,’ Keith said, carelessly. ‘You see, when the lights went out it was dark, but always, in a few seconds, one’s eyes adjust themselves to the change and you sort of see things dimly. I did, anyway. I heard Mr. Balfour fall and then I discerned this figure coming toward me. I could see a large white handkerchief, or cloth, in his hand, but my attention was caught by that mask and I stared at it. I could see his eyes glittering through the eyeholes and then, in a moment, the sickening whiff of chloroform came to me and though I struggled for a few seconds, I lost consciousness. When I came to the lights were on and Mr. Balfour lay on the floor with that skewer sticking in his heart. The man was not here.’
‘How long were you under the influence of the anaesthetic?’ asked Manton, looking at him curiously.
‘I’ve no idea,’ returned Ramsay; ‘how could I have? One doesn’t time one’s actions in such circumstances.’
‘Yet you seem to have a pretty clear idea of what went on.’
‘Not at all. When I regained consciousness, which came slowly, I saw Mr. Balfour dead—’
‘How did you know he was dead?’ interrupted Burnet.
Keith Ramsay looked at him, calmly. He did not seem to resent the Captain’s questions, but he seemed to think him ignorant or impertinent.
‘It doesn’t require a very vivid imagination to assume a man is dead when he lies motionless, in a distorted position, with a dagger in his heart.’
‘What did you do?’ asked Manton.
‘I started to cross the room, to go to him, but I found myself wobbly and had to wait a few moments to get steady enough to walk.’
‘And then you walked?’
‘I did. My brain cleared more rapidly than my muscles coordinated, and when I found myself at Mr. Balfour’s side I sat down in that chair and thought out what to do.’
‘And you decided to call Headquarters?’
‘I did. That is the duty of any citizen who discovers a crime. I was, of course, aware that you would at once conclude that I was the criminal. That is for you to prove, if you can. I did not kill Mr. Balfour, I would have no reason for doing so. He was a splendid man. I admired and respected him. I used my best efforts to be a satisfactory librarian to him and he said I was one. I have learned much about rare books, both from him and from Mr. Sewell, and I am deeply interested in collecting them.’
‘Yes, yes, Mr. Ramsay,’ the Inspector said, ‘but let us get to the facts of what happened here this evening. At what time did you and Mr. Balfour come here?’
‘I think soon after ten o’clock. Mr. Balfour said we would start at ten, but we were delayed a little.’
‘I’m not quite clear about the details of your visit. If Mr. Sewell was not here when you arrived, how did you get in?’
John Sewell looked at Ramsay. He had every confidence in the young man, but he very much wanted to hear the answer to that question.
The witness hesitated. Implicit as Sewell’s confidence was, he had to admit to himself that Keith Ramsay looked like a man with something to conceal.
Detective Burnet spoke.
‘I’ll tell how you got in, Mr. Ramsay; you forced an entrance through that back window.’
He pointed to a window in the rear wall next the door.
It was closed now, but the detective had examined it. He went on: ‘You shoved back the catch with a jack-knife or something like that, pushed up the window, climbed in—’
‘And then opened the door to Mr. Balfour,’ said Keith, calmly. ‘Yes, Inspector, that was the way of it. I think, Mr. Sewell, if I tell you it was all right, you will believe me.’
‘Well, yes,’ Sewell returned, ‘but it seemed a little odd at first.’
‘Seems odd to me yet,’ declared Burnet. ‘Why the breaking and entering act, Mr. Ramsay?’
‘I can give you no answer to that except the truth. Mr. Balfour was exceedingly anxious to come here tonight. He wanted to find two certain books that are missing from his library, and he thought they might be down here—by—by accident.’
John Sewell showed amazement in every line of his countenance.
‘What’s that, Ramsay? What books are you talking about?’
‘Please leave the witness to me, Mr. Sewell. The titles of the books are of no interest, we want to get at the facts of the murder. Go on, Mr. Ramsay. Did Mr. Balfour, then, come here on a secret errand? Did he know Mr. Sewell would not be here and he would have opportunity to hunt for his books by himself?’
‘That I can’t say. It was Mr. Balfour’s habit to keep his plans or motives to himself. Many a time I would start off with him having no idea of our errand or our destination.’
‘Did you go to the front door first?’
Sewell began to look more and more amazed; Keith Ramsay became more and more hesitant and embarrassed.
‘We did not,’ he said, after a pause. ‘Mr. Balfour stopped at a narrow alley that runs part way through the block, and we came along that until we reached the rear of this house, and Mr. Balfour asked me if I had a pocket-knife and if I could force the window catch with it. I could and did, but I do not look upon it as a felonious entrance for we had no wrong intent. If Mr. Sewell had been here, Mr. Balfour would have knocked at the door and been admitted.’
‘Are you often here of an evening, Mr. Sewell?’
‘Oh, yes, frequently.’
‘And does Mr. Balfour, when he visits you, always come to the back door?’
‘Why, I don’t remember. No, not always.’
‘Sometimes?’
‘Y-Yes.’
‘I think, Mr. Sewell, that you must admit that this is the first time the gentleman ever came here and arrived at the rear entrance. Isn’t that right?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. I don’t remember. What has that to do with it, anyway?’
‘Only that, unless it was his habit, it seems very strange for Mr. Balfour to make the entrance he made this evening.’
‘Oh, very well, we’ll agree it was strange. But of no consequence as I can see.’
A heavy tread was heard, as of someone coming through the big front room. In a moment a shock-headed youth appeared in the doorway.
‘Hello,’ he said, cordially. ‘What’s going on?’
‘How did you get in?’ asked Burnet, gruffly.
‘Through the front door with my latch-key. My God! What’s that?’
He stared at the still form, now covered with a spread from the police equipment.
‘Who—who is it?’ he stammered.
Sewell spoke gently. ‘Sit down, Gill. Inspector, this is Mr. Gill, my assistant. He has a key and comes and goes at will.’
‘Is it somebody dead?’ Gill persisted, looking now at Manton.
‘Yes, Gill,’ said the Inspector, ‘it is Mr. Philip Balfour. As you are here, will you give an account of your own doings this evening? Where have you been since, say, nine o’clock?’
‘Well, no, Inspector; I don’t care to give an account of myself, unless you have reason to demand it. Was Mr. Balfour murdered? Or why the Criminal authorities?’
‘Yes, Mr. Balfour was stabbed by an unknown assailant.’
‘Gee! Can you find out who did it?’
‘We hope to, and we fully expect to. You are not helping us by your refusal to answer my question.’
‘It wouldn’t help you any if I did answer it. And I haven’t been in this vicinity until just now. I was passing, I saw a light, so I came in. Your henchmen in the front room didn’t want me to pass, but I rather insisted and they gave in. What about it all, Mr. Sewell?’
‘Do you know anything about two small mathematical books that are missing from Mr. Balfour’s Lewis Carroll collection?’ Sewell said.
‘Sure I do. Want ’em? Here they are.’ He took from his overcoat pocket two small books and handed them to Ramsay.
‘Yes, these are the right ones,’ and Ramsay laid them on the table beside him. ‘Thank you.’
‘What are you doing with them, Gill?’ and John Sewell looked a bit accusing.
‘It’s all right, Guv’nor. Tell you all about it some other time. Of no interest to these uninterested onlookers. Get down to cases. Who killed poor old Balfour?’
‘We’ll find out,’ Burnet told him. ‘Let’s hope it wasn’t you.’
‘Don’t try to get me fussed,’ Gill said; ‘I’d hate to kill anybody. I never have, as yet, and I doubt I ever shall. Did some person or persons unknown kill Mr. Balfour? I’ve a right to know about things, haven’t I, Mr. Sewell?’
‘Yes, so far as I am concerned. In my opinion, a marauder came here, masked, and stabbed Mr. Balfour with our old English skewer. The long silver one. There it is on the table.’
‘I see it,’ and Gill rose and went to the table. ‘Don’t be alarmed, Inspector, I shan’t touch it. What’s going to happen next?’
‘This, for one thing.’ Sewell looked anxious. ‘I want you to look, Gill, and see if that little book that came today is all right.’
Gill went round the room, taking books from the shelves, here and there diving into well-filled chests, opening certain drawers, and camouflaging his real place of search, turned back to his employer, and said:
‘No, Mr. Sewell, it is not in the place I left it.’
‘No? That’s bad. Inspector, I am fairly positive that a very valuable book has been stolen from this room. A volume worth, to a collector, perhaps a hundred thousand dollars.’
‘Now, now, Mr. Sewell, I’ve heard collectors tell big yarns, but that’s a whale this Jonah finds hard to swallow.’
‘Value it at less, if you choose, but call it one of the most eagerly desired books in America. And now can you bring this session to an end? Or can you excuse me? I am deeply saddened at the tragic death of my friend, but this loss is not unconnected with the case. The book in question was destined for Mr. Balfour and it is not impossible that the intruder who stabbed him also stole the book. There you have a motive. But in any case, I want to get busy about finding the volume. If you want to stay here—’
