“It’s too bad all prisoners aren’t treated as nicely,” she murmured.
“We’ll have those cuffs off in a jiffy,” Larry said, “I want to trade them for a smaller size that comes in the single model for the third finger, left hand.”
“Darling!” Gloria cried.
She was silent a moment for the excellent reason that her lips were engaged in another pastime. Finally she said, “Darling, who were you talking to a moment ago?”
Larry grinned at her. “One of my puppets.”
She laughed merrily.
“You say the funniest things, darling.”
Enchanted Bookshelf
First published in Fantastic Adventures, March 1943.
Chapter I
Phillip Poincare was a small undistinguished man with pale sensitive features and hair that was graying slightly at the temples.
However, on this particular morning, as he hurried along Michigan Boulevard, there was an unusual flush of excitement on his face and his small neatly gloved hands were clenching and unclenching nervously.
“Mon Dieu, if I am too late!” he murmured to himself for the dozenth time.
At this thought his hurrying steps quickened perceptibly. Panting slightly from his exertions he turned off the Boulevard and continued rapidly down a narrow, twisting side-street that was lined with taverns and small shops.
He did not stop until he reached a used furniture shop, the windows of which were so grime-crusted that it was practically impossible to see the various goods on display.
With nervous apprehension Phillip Poincare peered through the grimy glass and, as his gaze focused, the worried expression on his face faded away and was replaced by a relieved smile.
“Ah!” he murmured softly. “My beauty is still waiting for me.”
The object of his attention was a small, dusty book repository of the period Louis Quatorze. There were innumerable pigeon-holes and drawers in the little cabinet and a flat wide extension for writing. It was supported by four fragile legs, hardly thicker than pencils.
Phillip Poincare let out his breath in one final rapturous sigh and entered the shop.
The proprietor, a fat genial man in a dirty leather apron put aside his morning newspaper and heaved himself to his feet.
“Good morning,” he said, smiling. “I wondered when you was going to break down and come in. I’ve noticed you looking in every morning now for the past month.”
“It has been thirty-four days,” Phillip Poincare said gravely. “The bookcase in the window I desire very much to buy. What is your price?”
The proprietor glanced speculatively at his customer’s neat but inexpensive suit and noticed his slightly frayed gloves. He frowned and began to scratch his chin thoughtfully.
“Well, it’s a mighty nice piece of furniture,” he said. People lately seem to be interested in that kind of stuff.”
An expression of worry flitted across Phillip Poincare’s features.
“But you have not sold it, yes?”
“No, it’s still for sale,” the proprietor said. “For one hundred bucks.”
“One hundred dollars,” Phillip Poincare repeated softly. He looked helplessly at the bookcase and he blinked his eyes nervously. “I see, sir. Thank you very much. I will return when I have a hundred dollars. I did not expect it to be quite that much.”
He walked slowly toward the door.
“Now just a minute,” the proprietor said. “I might throw off a little on that price. How much was you figuring on paying?”
“I have only sixty-four dollars. It has taken me thirty-four days to save that much. You see, I began saving the day I noticed the bookcase in your window.”
“Sixty-four dollars, eh?” the proprietor said musingly. “Are you sure that’s all you’ve got?”
Phillip Poincare smiled wanly. “I am quite sure,” he said.
The proprietor shrugged.
“I’ll never make a dime this way, but it’s a deal. Take it for sixty-four dollars.”
The proprietor was being ambiguously truthful. He would not make a dime. He would make approximately five hundred dimes.
But Phillip Poincare turned from the door, his face shining.
“That is extremely good of you,” he said. He drew a thin well-worn wallet from his inner coat pocket and carefully removed the entire contents, exactly sixty-four dollars.
The proprietor of the shop took the money eagerly.
“Where do you want it delivered?” he asked.
Phillip Poincare gave him the address of a rooming house on the Near North Side.
“I have informed my landlady to expect an article of furniture,” he said. “She will let your men into my room.”
“Fine. We’ll have it over before noon.”
“Thank you,” Phillip Poincare said. “Now I must be going.”
The proprietor walked with him to the door.
“Not that it’s any of my business,” he said, “but why are you so interested in that particular piece of furniture?” Phillip Poincare shrugged his slight square shoulders and a faint smile curved his lips.
“It is hard to explain, even to myself,” he murmured. “Perhaps because at one time it was a part of France.”
“Are you a Frenchie?”
Phillip Poincare nodded. His sensitive features were clouded.
“Like that bookcase I too was once a part of France. But it has the happier memories. If it can dream it dreams of the Musketeers and King Louis and the days of France’s glory. My dreams are bitter reminders of Laval and Darlan and their minions. But—” He stopped suddenly and passed his hand over his brow, shaking his head from side to side. “Forgive me,” he said quietly. “I am not often a bother such as this. Good day.” When Phillip Poincare left the furniture shop he glanced at his watch. It was almost 8:45. He was due at his desk in fifteen minutes and he had a long walk ahead of him. He set off, walking swiftly toward Michigan Boulevard.
Phillip Poincare was at his desk in the large offices of the Bartlett Brokerage Company by 8:56. It took him only a moment to change his coat for the neat gray smock, which was practically the uniform of Bartlett employees, and when the nine o’clock buzzer sounded, he was busily at work, totalling figures and checking accounts as he had done every day for the past twelve years.
Phillip Poincare had come to America in 1930, because economic conditions in France had become so bad that making a living was practically an impossibility. He had applied for his citizenship papers, because he thought it only fair that he should pay his taxes and give his allegiance to the country whose arms had welcomed him when he was in desperate need. But a part of his affections had ever remained with his own beautiful France, which he had known and loved so well. Because of this sentimental attachment he had collected in his small room books and paintings and articles of furniture that expressed the quiet charm of his native land. It was something of a hobby with him, his only avocation, for he was a shy retiring man, and he had never learned the knack of making friends quickly and easily.
As sometimes happens to men who are unable to mix smoothly and normally with their fellow man, Phillip Poincare found another existence, another life in books of fiction, and in these romantic chronicles of swashbuckling heroes of other times, he enjoyed a thrilling escape from reality. Sometimes, when he was lost in the adventures of some romantic hero, he found it difficult to be sure which was his real existence, so completely did he live and share the vicissitudes of the character he happened to be following.
The day passed quickly, because part of his thoughts were busy with the bookshelf and desk he had acquired that morning. When he had spent a few evenings cleaning and polishing its fine old wood there would be a wonderful difference in its appearance. Although the sixty-four dollars it had cost him had been saved from his lunch money and by scrimping on everything else, he didn’t in the least regret the expenditure.