Braid took it from him, a photostat of what was unquestionably a column of old newspaper type. The significant words had been scored round in ballpoint.
A Young Lady, being desirous of covering her dressing-room with cancelled postage stamps, has been so far encouraged in her wish by private friends as to have succeeded in collecting 16,000. These, however, being insufficient, she will be greatly obliged if any good-natured person who may have these otherwise worthless little articles at their disposal, would assist her in her whimsical project. Address to Miss E. D., Mr. Butt’s, Glover, Leadenhall Street.
Braid made the connection instantly. His throat went dry. He read it again. And again.
“You understand?” said Messiter. “It’s a stamp man’s dream — a room literally papered with Penny Blacks!”
“But this was—”
“1841. Right. More than a century ago. Have you ever looked through a really old newspaper? It’s quite astonishing how easy it is to get caught up in the immediacy of the events. When I read that announcement, I could see that dressing room vividly in my imagination — chintz curtains, gas brackets, brass bedstead, washstand and mirror. I could see Miss E. D. with her paste pot and brush assiduously covering the wall with stamps.
“It was such an exciting idea that it came as a jolt to realize that it all had happened so long ago that Miss E. D. must have died about the turn of the century. And what of her dressing room? That, surely, must have gone, if not in the Blitz, then in the wholesale rebuilding of the City. My impression of Leadenhall Street was that the banks and insurance companies had lined it from end to end with gleaming office buildings five stories high. Even if by some miracle the shop that had been Butt’s the Glover’s had survived, and Miss E. D.’s room had been over the shop, common sense told me that those stamps must long since have been stripped from the walls.”
He paused and lighted a cigar. Braid waited, his heart pounding.
“Yet there was a possibility, remote but tantalizing and irresistible, that someone years ago redecorated the room by papering over the stamps. Any decorator will tell you they sometimes find layer on layer of wallpaper. Imagine peeling back the layers to find thousands of Penny Blacks and Twopence Blues unknown to the world of philately! These days the commonest ones are catalogued at ten pounds or so, but find some rarities — inverted watermarks, special cancellations — and you could be up to five hundred pounds a stamp. Maybe a thousand pounds. Mr. Braid, I don’t exaggerate when I tell you the value of such a room could run to half a million pounds. Half a million for what that young lady in her innocence called worthless little articles’!”
As if he read the thought, Messiter said, “It was my discovery. I went to a lot of trouble. Eventually I found the Post Office Directory for 1845 in the British Library. The list of residents in Leadenhall Street included a glover by the name of Butt.”
“So you got the number of this shop?” Messiter nodded. “And when you came to Leadenhall Street, here it was, practically the last pre-Victorian building this side of Lloyd’s?”
Messiter drew on his cigar, scrutinizing Braid.
“All those stamps,” Braid whispered. “Twenty-seven years I’ve owned this shop and the flat without knowing that in the room upstairs was a fortune. It took you to tell me that.”
“Don’t get the idea it was easy for me,” Messiter pointed out. “Remember I waited practically a year for those French people to move out. That was a test of character, believe me, not knowing what I would find when I took possession.”
Strangely, Braid felt less resentment toward Messiter than the young Victorian woman who had lived in this building, his building, and devised a pastime so sensational in its consequence that his own walls mocked him.
Messiter leaned companionably across the counter. “Don’t look so shattered, chum. I’m not the rat you take me for. Why do you think I’m telling you this?”
Braid shrugged. “I really couldn’t say.”
“Think about it. As your tenant, I did nothing underhanded. When I took the flat, didn’t I raise the matter of redecoration? You said I was free to go ahead whenever I wished. I admit you didn’t know then that the walls were covered in Penny Blacks, but I wasn’t certain myself till I peeled back the old layers of paper. What a moment that was!”
He paused, savoring the recollection. “I’ve had a great year thanks to those stamps. In fact, I’ve set myself up for some time to come. Best of all, I had the unique experience of finding that room.” He flicked ash from the cigar. “I estimate there are still upwards of twenty thousand stamps up there, Mr. Braid. In all justice, they belong to you.”
Braid stared in amazement.
“I’m serious,” Messiter went on. “I’ve made enough to buy a place in the country and write my book. The research is finished. That’s been my plan for years, to earn some time, and I’ve done it. I want no more.”
Frowning, Braid said, “I don’t understand why you’re doing this. Is it because of the police? You said there was nothing dishonest.”
“And I meant it, but you are right, Mr. Braid. I am a little shaken to hear of your visit from the Inspector.”
“What do you mean?”
Messiter asked obliquely, “When you read your newspaper, do you ever bother with the financial pages?”
Braid gave him a long look. Messiter held his stare.
“If it really has any bearing on this, the answer is no. I don’t have much interest in the stock market. Nor any capital to invest,” he added.
“Just as well in these uncertain times,” Messiter commented. “Blue-chip investments have been hard to find these last few years. That’s why people have been putting their money into other things. Art, for instance. A fine work of art holds its value in real terms even in a fluctuating economy. So do jewelry and antiques. And old postage stamps, Mr. Braid. Lately a lot of money has been invested in old stamps.”
“That I can understand.”
“Then you must also understand that information such as this” — he put his hand on the photostat between them — “is capable of causing flutters of alarm. Over the last year or so I have sold to dealers a number of early English stamps unknown to the market. These people are not fools. Before they buy a valuable stamp, they like to know the history of its ownership. I have had to tell them my story and show them the story in Times. That’s all right. Generally they need no more convincing. But do you understand the difficulty? It’s the prospect of twenty thousand Penny Blacks and Twopence Blues unknown to the stamp world shortly coming onto the market. Can you imagine the effect?”
“I suppose it will reduce the value of those stamps people already own.”
“Precisely. The rarities will not be so rare. Rumors begin, and it isn’t long before there is a panic and stamp prices tumble.”
“Which is when the sharks move in,” said Braid. “I see it now. The police probably suspect the whole thing is a fraud.”
Messiter gave a nod.
“But you and I know it isn’t a fraud,” Braid went on. “We can show them the room. I still don’t understand why you are giving it up.”
“I told you the reason. I always planned to write my book. And there is something else. It’s right to warn you that there is sure to be publicity over this. Newspapers, television — this is the kind of story they relish, the unknown Victorian girl, the stamps undiscovered for over a century. Mr. Braid, I value my privacy. I don’t care for my name being printed in the newspapers. It will happen, I’m sure, but I don’t intend to be around when it does. That’s why I am telling nobody where I am going. After the whole thing has blown over, I’ll send you a forwarding address, if you would be so kind—”