Drury Lane’s Last Case (10 page)

“Mr. Lane!” he exclaimed. “This is a genuine pleasure, sir. Ever since I saw you play the Moor in London twenty years ago, I have wanted to know you. And then your scholarly articles on Shakespeare in the
Colophon
——”

“Kind of you, I'm sure,” said the old man hastily. “I'm scarcely more than a literary dilettante. I suppose Dr. Choate has told you about the little mystery which preceded your arrival?”

Dr. Sedlar looked blank. “I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, a mere trifle,” rumbled Dr. Choate, fingering his goatee. “I'm astonished that you've taken the incident seriously, Mr. Lane.”

“The facts present a rather curious superficial appearance, Doctor,” murmured Drury Lane. His brilliant eyes darted from Choate to Sedlar and back again. “You see, Dr. Sedlar, an old gentleman obviously disguised managed to worm his way into the museum on Monday—two days ago—and apparently attacked a case in one of the new rooms.”

“Really?” said Dr. Sedlar.

“It was nothing,” said the curator impatiently. “He didn't get away with anything, and that's the important thing.”

“I should think so,” agreed the Englishman with a smile.

“If I may interrupt this academic dispute,” said the old gentleman, “may I suggest we examine the evidence itself? Or perhaps you gentleman would rather——”

Dr. Choate nodded, but the Englishman said: “Dr. Choate and I are, I believe, already quite well acquainted. At the moment I should like nothing better than to see this shattered case.” He chuckled. “After all, if I'm to direct the destinies of the Britannic Museum I suppose I should learn something about the methods of your American art-thieves. Eh, Doctor?”

“Er—yes,” said the curator, frowning. “As you will, of course.”

They passed through the general reading-room, which was empty—as Patience observed with a faint twinge of disappointment; where was Gordon Rowe?—and into the Saxon Room.

The cabinet which yesterday had exhibited a broken glass had been repaired. There was nothing to distinguish its fresh gleaming pane from the tops of the other cases about.

“The glazier repaired it yesterday afternoon,” said Dr. Choate a trifle stiffly to the Inspector. “Let me assure you that he was not left alone for an instant. I myself stood over him until he had completed his job.”

The Inspector grunted.

Mr. Drury Lane and Dr. Hamnet Sedlar looked inquisitively through the glass. Into the eyes of both came a gleam of appreciation.

“Jaggards,” said Dr. Sedlar very softly. “Enormously interesting, Mr. Lane. Did I understand you to say, Dr. Choate, that this is a new room and these items a recent benefaction?”

“Yes. The contents of this wing were left to the Britannic by the will of Samuel Saxon, the collector. They will be on exhibition, of course, when the museum reopens.”

“Oh, yes! I believe Mr. Wyeth did mention something of the sort to me a month ago in London. I've often wondered what your American Mr. Saxon had in his library. Secretive soul, wasn't he? These Jaggards—exquisite!”

“Dr. Choate,” said Mr. Drury Lane dryly, looking up from an unwinking inspection through the glass, “have you a key to this case?”

“Certainly.”

“Will you open the cabinet, please?”

The curator stared, looked faintly uncomfortable for an instant, and then complied. They crowded about as the old gentleman raised the lid and propped it back. The three old volumes lay nakedy exposed on the soft black velvet. Under the harsh light of an overhead lamp their faded colours strengthened to titillate the eye. Carefully Lane lifted each calf volume out in turn, inspected its binding closely, opened to the flyleaf.… In one instance he spent some time searching the text. When he had replaced the three volumes in their original positions, he straightened, and Patience, watching his chiselled features attentively, saw them tighten.

“Very odd,” he murmured. “I can scarcely believe it.” And he stared down at the open cabinet.

“What's the matter?” cried Dr. Choate in a thick voice.

“The matter, my dear Choate,” said the old gentleman calmly, “is that one of the volumes which originally lay in this case
has been stolen
!”

“Stolen!” they cried simultaneously; and Dr. Choate took a step forward and stopped short.

“That's impossible,” he said sharply. “I examined these Jaggards myself when young Rowe found the cabinet bashed in.”

“Did you examine them internally?” murmured Lane.

The curator paled. “I didn't see——No. But then the most cursory examination …”

“Deceived even your trained eye, I fear, Doctor. As I said, this is the most curious thing in my experience.” His silky white brows drew together. “Look here.” He pointed a lean forefinger at the triangular placard which stood behind the central volume of the three, the book bound in blue calf. It read:

THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM

B
Y
W
ILLIAM
S
HAKESPEARE

(
Jaggard
, 1599)

Extraordinary and unique item from the Samuel Saxon Library. One of the three known copies extant of this rare work in the first edition. Published by the Elizabethan printer William Jaggard in 1599, it was fraudulently assigned by the notorious Jaggard to Shakespeare, although it contained only five poems from the Bard's pen among the twenty in the volume. The residue were by Richard Barnfield, Bartholomew Griffin, and other contemporary poets.

“Well?” asked Dr. Choate quietly. Hamnet Sedlar stood squinting through his monocle at the central volume; he seemed scarcely to have read the placard behind it.

“Is it—is it a forgery, a dummy?” asked Patience breathlessly.

“No, Patience, my dear. I do not claim to be an expert, but I know enough about these things to venture the opinion that the volume you see here is a genuine Jaggard edition of
The Passionate Pilgrim
.”

Dr. Choate grew angry. “Then I don't see——” He picked up the blue-bound book and turned to the flyleaf. His jaw sagged ludicrously. Dr. Sedlar, startled, peered over his shoulder. And he, too, exhibited a shocked surprise that was as intense as it was fleeting.

Lane paced hugely up and down behind the case, head bent.

“Well, but——” began the Inspector, bewildered. Then he threw up his hands and muttered anathemas.

“But if it's a genuine Jaggard,” cried Patience, “what——”

“Utterly, starkly impossible. Impossible,” murmured Dr. Choate over and over.

“It's mad,” said the Englishman in an awed voice.

Together they bent over the volume, searching its pages feverishly. They looked at each other and nodded with something like reverence. Then they returned their attention to the title-page. Patience, peeping over their shoulders, read:

The Passionate Pilgrim, or Certain Amorous Sonnets betweene Venus and Adonis. By W. Shakespere. The second edition. Printed by W. Jaggard, 1606
.

“I see,” said Patience slowly. “This isn't the 1599 Jaggard, then, which was the first edition, but a copy of the 1606 Jaggard, or the second edition. Obviously a less valuable volume——”

“My dear Miss Thumm,” said Dr. Choate sharply over his shoulder, “you have never been in greater error.”

“You mean it's
more
valuable?”

The Inspector began to exhibit signs of awakened interest. Lane continued to pace the floor, deep in thought.

There was no reply, and Patience, flushing, retreated.

“Patience,” said the old gentleman suddenly. She went gratefully to him, and he put his long arm about her shoulders. “Patience, my dear, do you know what makes this incident so astonishing?”

“I haven't the faintest idea, sir.”

He squeezed her shoulders gently. “Mr. William Jaggard was a well-meaning patron of the arts. He was apparently in the thick of things in London during the period when Shakespeare, Jonson, Fletcher, Marlowe, and the illustrious rest dripped gold from their quills. There was probably a good deal of competition among the publishers. Mr. William Jaggard sought names, just as some of our current theatrical producers and book publishers seek them to-day. And so he became something very like a pirate. He printed
The Passionate Pilgrim
. In it he included two previously unpublished sonnets by Shakespeare, and three poems drawn from the already published play,
Love's Labour's Lost
. The rest was padding. He assigned them, with colossal nerve, all of them, to Shakespeare. I've no doubt they sold well; and as for Shakespeare, he seems to have been a curiously indifferent dramatist as far as publication was concerned.” Lane sighed. “I tell you this to give you something of an appreciation of the background. I'm sure they sold well because after printing a first edition in 1599, he reprinted in 1606, and still a third time in 1612. Now what makes the present situation so amazing is this: There are three copies of the 1599 Jaggard extant. There are two copies of the 1612 Jaggard extant. But until a few moments ago the entire bibliophilic world thought there was
no
copy of the 1606 Jaggard extant!”

“Then this book is priceless?” whispered Patience.

“Priceless?” echoed Dr. Choate absently.

“I said,” replied the old man in dulcet tones, “that this was an odd case, my dear. Inspector, I scarcely blame you for being puzzled; although you didn't grasp the full intricacies of the puzzle quite clearly. Patience, my child, the situation becomes slightly insane. Apparently your man of the blue hat went to vast trouble, at great personal risk, to wheedle his way into a closed group, illicitly visit the Britannic Museum, drift away from the group while Dr. Choate expounded on the glories of his museum, make his way to this Saxon Room, smash in the glass of the Jaggard cabinet.… Throughout, this odd thief ran the enormous risk of arrest for grand larceny and vandalism—all for what?” Lane's voice sharpened. “To steal one rare and valuable book, and then to leave in its place a book even rarer and more valuable than the one he stole!”

8

The Beneficent Thief

“What's the row?” demanded a cheerful voice, and young Gordon Rowe sauntered into the Saxon Room from the corridor. He grinned at Patience and went to her side at once, like a scrap of iron filing drawn to a magnet.

“Ah, Rowe,” said the curator hurriedly. “The very man. The most extraordinary thing's happened!”

“We seem to be attracting marvels like Mr. Barnum's freak show,” said young Rowe with a wink at Patience. “Mr. Lane! Glad to see you, sir. Lord, what a solemn congregation! And I see you've been initiating Dr. Sedlar into our little domestic difficulties, Dr. Choate. 'Lo, Inspector. What's the trouble, Doctor?”

Dr. Choate mutely waved the blue volume in his hand.

Rowe dropped his smile instantly. “Not——?” He looked around and saw grave faces. Then he took the book from the curator and slowly opened it. An expression of the most intense amazement came over his face. He looked around again in blank confusion. “It isn't——? Why, this is a 1606 Jaggard!” he shouted. “I thought there weren't any——”

“Apparently there is,” said the old gentleman dryly. “Beautiful copy, isn't it, Gordon? There will be shouting in the streets when the news gets out.”

“I know,” muttered Rowe, “but——Where in God's good name did this come from? Who found it? You didn't bring it over from London, did you, Dr. Sedlar?”

“Scarcely!” drawled the Englishman.

“You won't believe it,” said Dr. Choate with a helpless shrug. “But we
did
have a theft here Monday. Some one left this in the Jaggard case, Rowe, and took away the 1599!”

“Oh,” said the young man. “I——” And he threw back his head and roared with laughter. “Lord, this is rich!” he gasped, wiping his eyes. “Wait until divine Lydia hears
this
. And Crabbe.… Oh, this is too much!” He gulped hard and composed himself. “I beg your pardon. It just struck me … you know. It would be Mrs. Saxon's luck to have a rare book stolen and an even rarer one left in its place. Crazy, that's what it is!”

“I think,” said the curator with a nervous tug at his beard, “you'd better get Mrs. Saxon over here at once, Rowe. After all——”

“Of course.” The young man caressed the 1606 Jaggard with tenderness, returned it to Dr. Choate, pressed Patience's arm, and left the room with a jaunty air.

“Frightfully boisterous young man,” remarked Dr. Sedlar. “I'm afraid I can't share his levity. You know, we can't accept this—this remarkable volume at its face value, Dr. Choate. It will have to be more thoroughly examined. It may be difficult to establish its authenticity——”

The hunter's glare invaded Dr. Choate's eye. “Quite. Quite.” And he rubbed his hands. He seemed content to have the stolen volume remain in possession of the thief, so long as the thief did not return and demand the unique volume he had left in the case. “I suggest we get to work at once. We'll have to proceed carefully, Sedlar. We don't want a breath of this to get out! We might call in old Gaspari of the Metropolitan, swear him to secrecy …”

Dr. Sedlar was strangely pale. He kept staring at the ravished cabinet as if hypnotized.

“Or Professor Crowninshield of the Folger,” he muttered.

Patience sighed. “We all seem to be assuming that the 1599 Jaggard was stolen by the man in the blue hat. There's really no proof, you know. Why mightn't the thief have been that second stranger on the bus, or one of the seventeen school-teachers?”

Inspector Thumm threw up his hands and scowled. It was evident that the entire affair was too much for him.

“I scarcely think so, Patience,” murmured Drury Lane. “There were nineteen persons on the bus, all of whom apparently entered the museum. Eighteen of them returned to the bus terminal after the visit, the eighteenth being the mysterious second stranger, as you so charmingly have christened him. In other words, our friend, the man in the blue hat, disappeared from the museum. And so did Donoghue. The link is too powerful to have been forged by coincidence. I think it extremely probable that the man in the blue hat stole the 1599 Jaggard, leaving this 1606 in its place, and that Donoghue disappeared in following him.”