The Museum of Literary Souls

CHAPTER EIGHT

As Mr. Berger soon discovered, it was no easy business being a detective on a stakeout. It was all very well for those chaps in books, who could sit in a car or a restaurant and make observations about the world in a degree of comfort, especially if they were in Los Angeles or somewhere else with a climate noted for warmth and sunlight. It was quite another thing to hang around among dilapidated buildings in a small English town on a cold, damp February day, hoping that nobody one knew happened by or, worse, some passing busybody didn’t take it upon himself to phone the police and report a loiterer. Mr. Berger could just imagine Inspector Carswell smoking another cigarette and concluding that he now most definitely had some form of lunatic on his hands.

Thankfully, Mr. Berger found a sheltered space in the old cooperage and chandlery that afforded a view of the end of the laneway through a collapsed section of wall while allowing him to remain relatively concealed. He had brought a blanket, a cushion, a flask of tea, some sandwiches and chocolate, and two books, one of them a John Dickson Carr novel entitled The Crooked Hinge, just to enter into the spirit of the thing, and the other Our Mutual Friend, by Charles Dickens, the only Dickens he had yet to read. The Crooked Hinge turned out to be rather good, if a little fantastical. Then again, Mr. Berger considered, a tale of witchcraft and automatons was hardly more outlandish than apparently witnessing the same woman attempt suicide twice, the first time successfully and the second time less so.

The day passed without incident. There was no activity in the laneway, the rustle of the odd rat apart. Mr. Berger finished the Dickson Carr and started the Dickens, which, being the author’s last completed novel, meant that it was mature Dickens and hence rather difficult by the standards of Oliver Twist or The Pickwick Papers, requiring considerably more patience and attention. When the light began to fade, Mr. Berger set aside the book, unwilling to risk drawing attention by using a torch, and waited another hour in the hope that darkness might bring with it some activity at Caxton Library. No illumination showed in the old building, and Mr. Berger eventually gave up the watch for the night and took himself to the Spotted Frog for a hot meal and a restorative glass of wine.

His vigil recommenced early the next morning, although he chose to alternate Dickens with Wodehouse. Once again the day passed with little excitement, the appearance of a small terrier dog apart. The dog began yapping at Mr. Berger, who shooed it ineffectually until its owner gave a shrill whistle from nearby and the dog departed. Still, the day was warmer than the one before, which was a small blessing: Mr. Berger had woken that morning with stiff limbs and had determined to wear two overcoats if the new day proved as chilly as the last.

Darkness started to descend, and with it doubts on the part of Mr. Berger about the wisdom of his course of action. He couldn’t hang around laneways indefinitely. It was unseemly. He leaned into a corner and found himself starting to doze. He dreamed of lights in Caxton Library and a train that rolled down the laneway, its complement of passengers consisting entirely of dark-haired ladies carrying small red bags, all of them steeling themselves for self-destruction. Finally he dreamed of footsteps on gravel and grass, but when he woke he could still hear the footsteps. Someone was coming. Tentatively he rose from his resting place and peered at the library. There was a figure on its doorstep carrying what looked like a carpet bag, and he heard the rattle of keys.

Instantly Mr. Berger was on his feet. He climbed through the gap in the wall and emerged into the laneway. An elderly man was standing before the door of Caxton Library, his key already turning in the lock. He was shorter than average and wore a long, gray overcoat and a trilby hat with a white feather in the band. A remarkable silver handlebar moustache adorned his upper lip. He looked at Mr. Berger with some alarm and hurriedly opened the door.

“Wait!” said Mr. Berger. “I have to talk to you.”

The old gent was clearly in no mood to talk. The door was wide-open now, and he was already inside when he realized that he had forgotten his carpetbag, which remained on the ground. He reached for it, but Mr. Berger got there at the same time and an unseemly tug-of-war began, with each man holding on to one of the straps.

“Hand it over!” said the old man.

“No,” said Mr. Berger. “I want to talk with you.”

“You’ll have to make an appointment. You’ll need to telephone in advance.”

“There’s no number. You’re not listed.”

“Then send a letter.”

“You don’t have a postbox.”

“Look, you must come back tomorrow and ring the bell.”

“There is no bell!” shouted Mr. Berger, his frustration getting the better of him as his voice jumped an octave. He gave a final hard yank on the bag and won the struggle, leaving only a handle in the grip of the old man.

“Oh bother!” said the old man. He looked wistfully at his bag, which Mr. Berger was clutching to his chest. “I suppose you’d better come in, then, but you can’t stay long. I’m a very busy man.”

He stepped back, inviting Mr. Berger to enter. Now that the opportunity had at last presented itself, that worthy gentleman experienced a twinge of concern. The interior of Caxton Library looked very dark, and who knew what might be waiting inside? He was throwing himself at the mercy of a possible madman, armed only with a hostage carpetbag. But he had come this far in his investigation, and he required an answer of some sort if he was ever to have peace of mind again. Still holding on to the carpetbag as though it were a swaddled infant, he stepped into the library.