When he had completed his work the five o’clock buzzer sounded. He cleared up a few last details, dusted off the top of his desk and was about to slip into his suit coat when the office manager, an unsmiling, sharp-tongued man named Harker, came up behind him.
“I hope you’re not in a hurry, Poincare,” he said. “I’ve got a little job I’d like you to finish before you leave.”
Phillip turned slowly, trying to keep the disappointment out of his face. The other clerks were already jamming their way through the door, laughing and talking animatedly. Harker never asked any of them to put in extra time. It was always he who was assigned such chores.
“I didn’t have anything in particular to do, Mr. Harker,” he said. “What is it you want?”
“You don’t sound very happy about staying,” Harker said. He was a big man with a round red face and straight black hair. For some reason he took a peculiar pleasure in tormenting and humiliating his subordinate, Phillip Poincare.
“I do not mind staying,” Phillip said quietly. There were times when he longed for the courage to tell Harker precisely what he thought of him, but he was desperately afraid of what might happen if he lost his job. He had known hunger and the gnawing fear of insecurity the better part of his life, and those privations had left a mark on his soul. Any dim spark of revolt that might have kindled in his breast, had long since been stamped out.
“I don’t see why you should mind staying,” Harker said sarcastically. “You don’t do anything with your spare time but read those wild books of fiction all the time. What do you get out of that anyway? Take that yarn about the three musketeers that De Maupassant wrote, for instance. What sane man would waste his time reading such an impossible collection of bilge?”
“De Maupassant did not write the Three Musketeers,” Phillip said mildly. “Dumas, the Elder, wrote it. And it is generally conceded to be a classic.”
Harker’s ironic smile faded. His cheeks flushed with anger. Although he didn’t realize it his dislike of Phillip Poincare resulted from the fact that the man’s air of quiet culture and dignity made him feel inferior.
“Dumas or De Maupassant,” he snapped. “What difference does it make? It’s still a lot of bilge. Frenchmen just don’t have that kind of guts. Look at ’em today! Bowing and scraping like beggars before the Nazis. If they had any guts would they have quit fighting when the going got tough?”
“The French people fought until their ammunition was exhausted,” Phillip said. He was conscious of a hot flame of anger running through his veins. “Only then did they lay down their arms. And they are fighting now with the underground movement, hindering the Nazi machine in every way they can.”
“Bah!” Harker said scornfully. “They’re glad to have someone shout orders at ’em. That’s the kind of people they are.”
“The French People,” Phillip said, his voice trembling, “have had the misfortune to be duped by their unscrupulous leaders. But they hate Nazism as bitterly as we do here in America. And when the time is ripe they will prove that to the satisfaction of the world.”
“The time is now,” Harker said loudly. “What are they waiting for? If they hate the Nazis, why don’t they revolt?”
“It is not easy when a bayonet is at one’s throat,” Phillip said simply.
“That proves my point!” Harker said triumphantly. “They’re just gutless and afraid, that’s all. And the frogs always have been. That’s why those adventure books you read are such a waste of time. The only place you’ll ever find a brave Frenchman is right where you look for them — in a book of fiction.”
“But—”
“I haven’t any more time to waste,” Harker said rudely. “If you’re smart you’ll think about what I said. You’ve got the wrong slant on a lot of things, Poincare. Now get busy. You’ll find the work I’ve laid out for you on my desk. It shouldn’t take you more than an hour or so.”
He turned on his heel and strode away. The arrogant swing of his walk and the cocky angle of his beefy shoulders indicated more clearly than could any words his complete satisfaction with his handling of the discussion.
Phillip waited until he had left the office, then he slumped into his chair, staring unseeingly ahead of him. While he hated Harker, he realized with sickening clarity that at the moment he hated himself still more.
Finally he roused himself from his black reverie and began walking. Although he worked steadily and swiftly, it was two hours later before he left the office and started homeward.
Chapter II
When Phillip Poincare had finished his frugal evening meal, he caught a street car and rode northward to his boarding house.
His landlady met him in the hall.
“There were some furniture men here today,” she announced. “I let them into your room. They delivered another one of them antiques you’re so interested in.”
“Thank you,” Phillip said.
With anticipation quickening his steps he ascended the carpeted stairs to his room. The annoying worries of the day slipped from his shoulders and a cheery whistle was on his lips as he entered his room and snapped on the lights.
The first object that met his eyes was the bookshelf that he had acquired that morning. The delivery men had left it in the middle of the floor.
Phillip surveyed it lovingly. Somehow it seemed even more beautiful and perfect here in his room than it had in the furniture store. His room was furnished with graceful, early French furniture and the walls were lined with books and softly tinted tapestries. Against this background his newly acquired bookshelf seemed perfectly in place.
He got a cloth from the closet and set about polishing its fine, close grained surface. On his knees he dusted the under sides of the book shelf and burnished its slender, curving legs.
The job took him almost an hour, but when he was finished the bookshelf’s surface gleamed with a new, beautiful luster.
Phillip studied the results of his labors with satisfaction. As a final measure he pulled out the tiny drawers, dusted their insides and shoved them back into place. With the cloth wrapped about his index finger he probed into the tiny pigeonholes, scraping out the dust and the tiny filaments of spider webs.
Just as he was about to climb to his feet his hand ran against a sharp splinter on the underside of the lowest shelf. With a worried frown he bent low to examine it. He saw that the thin wood had warped slightly and cracked. A slim jagged splinter protruded from the otherwise smooth surface.
Carefully Phillip peeled off the thin splinter. A touch of varnish should completely hide the faint scar, he thought. He lit a match and bent down again to examine the damage.
The patch where the splinter had been removed gleamed whitely against the dark mahogany of the shelf. And on this white scar Phillip saw faint scratches that looked like writing.
Excited, he bent closer and struck another match. In the bright illumination he saw clearly that the scratches spelled a name. And when he read that name, he felt his heart beginning to beat faster.
For the signature scratched in small crude strokes on the underside of the shelf was that of Alexander Dumas. The “Alexander” wasn’t spelled out of course, but who else could A. Dumas be, but France’s immortal writer of romances?
Phillip sat back on his heels and the match in his hand burned down to his fingers. Absent-mindedly he dropped the match to the carpet, for his thoughts were hundreds of years away.