Beginning with a Bash. Phoebe Atwood Taylor
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COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
Copyright © 1937 by Phoebe Atwood Taylor.
Originally published under the pseudonym “Alice Tilton.”
Published by Wildside Press LLC
wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com
CHAPTER 1
The young man darted into the open vestibule, flattened himself against the wall, and strained his ears to catch the sound that had almost become a part of him in the last breathless hour—the eternal padding thud of broad official heels.
They had pounded behind him from the fruit store on Charles Street, in and out of the narrow twisting cobweb of Beacon Hill, through silent areaways and booming lanes of traffic, over brick walls and tall spiked fences. If he had sped up, the tireless policeman quickened his pace; if he slowed, so had his pursuer.
Now the young man could hear no sound at all, but that in itself was ominous. Probably the cop was in the next vestibule, getting his own breath, biding his own time. He could well afford to.
The young man laughed mirthlessly to himself. The police could afford to play cat and mouse with him as long as they wanted. They had him. They had him cold. They knew they had him, and they knew he knew. He was bottled up now in Pemberton Square, and even if he succeeded in getting out of the place, they could pick him up inside often minutes. It was below zero in Boston; the damp east wind bit through his thin gray flannel suit and numbed his bare hands as they steadied a full bag of golf clubs. Those were the things—the cold weather and the flannels and the golf clubs—which had him licked. The police knew he was broke and friendless. They knew he had no other clothes. They knew he couldn’t throw away the clubs—the only things he owned in the world and the only things from which he might realize a few cents. Dressed as he was, he stood out from the bundled up throng of Bostonians like the proverbial sore thumb. There was really nothing to be done. It was merely a question of time before the desk sergeant scrawled his name on the record and blotted it with the everlasting green blotter.
The street lamps flashed on suddenly, and the young man became aware of a large painted sign on the opposite wall of the vestibule. The gilt letters were worn almost completely away, and he had to lean forward and peer closely to make them out:
PETERS’ SECOND-HAND BOOKSTORE.
Come in and Browse.
And underneath was a small white card which added simply, “It’s warm inside.”
The young man re-read the notices and considered them.
If he stayed quiet for many minutes more, he would undoubtedly freeze to death. As soon as he set foot out on the street, or out of the square, the police would get him. It was the inevitable, and he was resigned to it, but he saw no reason why he should not stave off the evil moment as long as he could. So, slinging the golf bag over his shoulder, he mounted the six granite steps and opened the door.
As he entered, the young man blinked, then gasped and stopped short.
Framed in the doorway at the end of the dimly lighted hall stood an elderly man with gray hair and a small pointed beard. He looked like William Shakespeare—so much so that it seemed as if an engraved frontispiece or library bust had suddenly come to life.
The resemblance was nothing short of uncanny. More than one Shakespeare lover had poked the midriff section of Leonidas Witherall with a tremulous forefinger to make sure the man was real. Even those to whom the Bard of Avon was at best a hazy memory were wont to stop short and wonder where in blazes they had seen that old duffer with the beard before. He looked familiar.
The young man’s gasp of surprise gave way to a chuckle of pleasure.
“Bill Sh—I mean, Mr. Witherall! It is you, isn’t it? How’s Meredith’s Academy? I’m Jones, Martin Jones.”
Leonidas Witherall smiled. “M’yes,” he said as he shook hands. “Martin Jones. Carraway’s House. You broke all the high jump records, and went to Yale instead of Harvard. Yes, indeed. Jones, you seem a bit distraught.”
“I’m more than that, sir,” Martin returned honestly. “I’m at my wits’ end. I’ve spent the last hour trying to shake off a cop. I couldn’t. He’s outside somewhere now, waiting to nab me.”
It was entirely characteristic of Leonidas Witherall that he appeared not at all upset over the information, nor did he request any explanations. Instead he put on the pince-nez which he had been swinging from their broad black ribbon and fixed on Martin those two intensely blue eyes before which forty years of Meredith Academy boys had wavered. They had a way, those eyes, of piercing through pretence, ruthlessly brushing aside what you said or looked, and seeing only what you felt or what you meant to say. Behind them was a twinkle which nothing on earth had ever been able to quench.
Martin met the searching look without faltering.
“You see, sir,” he said, “they thought I stole—”
“M’yes,” Leonidas interrupted, “Jones, you’re purple with cold. Come into the bookstore and get warm.”
“But, Mr. Witherall, you haven’t heard what— Don’t you know that I— That is, you should hear—”
“Come,” Leonidas said briskly.
“Yes, sir. But you really ought to—” Martin looked at Leonidas and smiled. “Thank you for trusting me, sir. Er—uh—how’s the academy?”
Leonidas shook his head. “I no longer teach there, Jones. I was retired five years ago, and when I returned last spring from a leisurely trip around the world, I—er—found my funds somewhat depleted, and my pension—er—decapitated. Er—virtually extinct. I’m no longer a professor, Jones. I janit.”
“You what—?”
“I janit,” Leonidas repeated firmly. “Here. In this building. I live in the attic. Lately I’ve been helping out at the bookstore here as well. The rest of the place is unoccupied. No, don’t say you’re sorry for me. I thoroughly enjoy my new position. Now, come into the bookstore. The door on our left. Miss Peters, you won’t mind if a friend of mine thaws out over your register, will you?”
The good-looking red-headed girl who sat before a desk in the middle of the sea of books turned around, then jumped up quickly.
“Mart Jones! My dear, I thought you were in Chicago! How’d you ever find my store?”
Martin gripped her outstretched hands. “Dot Peters! Is—is this place yours?”
Curiously he looked around.
Books—old books! There was actually only fifty odd thousand, but it seemed like as many millions, in all stages of decay, crowded into the small room.
Rows of shelves which extended from floor to ceiling ran around the four walls without a break, except for the space by the door and for the two small lanes that led to the front window display. On his right three broad double stacks spread into the dimness of the back of the store. On the floor, and piled close to the stacks, were still more heaps of books.
“Yours?” Martin repeated blankly. “Yours? All this—this mess?”
“All mine. To the last frayed volume complete with dust. And what dust! My dear, it’s been here since Paul Revere hung lanterns and rode places. Probably his horse kicked a hoof-full in as he went by. You see, Uncle Jonas died and left this place to me weeks ago, but I couldn’t get over from New York until yesterday. This has been my first real day here. I’ve spent ages signing papers and mixing around with lawyers. How’d you happen in Mart? And why the tropical touch—what are you doing in flannels, and with golf clubs, on a day like this?”
Martin sighed. “Dot, haven’t you—or you either, Mr. Witherall, heard what’s been happening to me? Don’t you know I’m an ex-criminal? In fact, the cops are after me right this minute, and—”
“The whiches are what? Martin, stop joking!”
“I’m not,” Martin told her, “I’m telling you—look,