The Museum of Literary Souls (A Short Story) Read Online Free PDF Page B

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.

CHAPTER
NINE
    Lights came on. They were dim, and the illumination they offered had a touch of
jaundice to it, but they revealed lines of shelves stretching off into