"The police are investigating," he said. "That's all I know. Perhaps you heard that Mrs. Fitch has had a stroke. She's in critical condition."
The bookman shook his head sorrowfully. "I knew the whole family. It doesn't seem like it's really happening. 'All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players,' as someone said."
There was a tiny "meow" in a dark corner, and Winston came into view, waving his plumed tail and jumping across tables - from medical books to biographies to mysteries to cookbooks.
Qwilleran stroked the fluffy smoke-toned back. "I'd like to write a column about your enterprise for the new paper, Edd. In your ad you mentioned book repair. Is there much repair work in a town like this?"
"Not much. The library gives me some work, though. Mrs. Duncan is very nice. And this morning a lady from Sawdust City brought me a family bible to be repaired. She saw my ad."
"Where do you do this work?"
"My bindery is in the back. Would you like to see it?"
"Yes, and I'd like to turn on my tape recorder and ask some questions."
Eddington led the way into the back room, and Winston jumped off the cookbooks and followed.
"Did you ever see a hand bindery?" the bookman asked with a show of pride. He pulled cords dangling from the ceiling, and fluorescent tubes illuminated a roomful of bookpresses, cutting machines, a grindstone, workbenches, stools of varying heights, a small gas stove, and unusual tools.
Qwilleran started making notes on what he was seeing, and Eddington saw him staring at the small stove.
"That's for heating the glue," he said. "And my soup."
The two men perched on stools, and Eddington handed Qwilleran an open book. "Look at page seventy-two. I can repair a tear with transparent Japanese tape and some cornstarch paste, and the mend is invisible."
It was true. Page seventy-two looked flawless.
As Winston jumped onto the workbench where they were sitting, the bookman said, "He always comes into the bindery when I'm working. He likes the smell of glue and paste."
"Koko likes to sniff glue, too. What kind do you use?"
"Nothing synthetic. I make my paste out of wheat flour or cornstarch. The glue comes from animal hides. I buy it in sheets and melt it. Did you know it's the glue used in bookbindings that attracts bookworms?"
As Eddington talked about his craft, he was no longer the shy man who ran the bookshop with a soft sell and whispered his lines at the Theatre Club. He spoke softly but with authority and demonstrated book-binding operations with skilled assurance.
"How did you get interested in books?" Qwilleran asked.
"My great-grandfather was a book collector. You know the town called Smith's Folly? He founded it in 1856. His mine failed twice, but the third time he struck it rich."
"What happened to your great-grandfather's fortune?" Qwilleran asked as he glanced around the room. In the far comer there was an uncomfortable-looking cot, a folding card table with a solitary folding chair, a small sink with a mirror hanging on the wall above it, and a shelf of dishes and canned goods.
"I'm sorry to say the next generation spent it all on lovely ladies," said Eddington, blushing an unhealthy purple. "My father had to earn his living selling books from door-to-door."
"What kind of books?"
"Classics, dictionaries, encyclopedias, etiquette books - things like that. People with no education wanted to improve themselves, and my father was like a missionary, telling them to read and live better lives. He never made much money, but he was honest and respected. As somebody said, 'Virtue and riches seldom settle on one man.' "
"And how did you get into the used-book business?"
"An old man died, and they threw his books on the dump. I carted them away in a wheelbarrow. I was only fourteen. Now I buy from estates. Sometimes there's an odd book in the lot that's worth something. I found a first of Mark Twain in a box with some old schoolbooks and etiquette books. And once I found a book that Longfellow inscribed to Hawthorne."
"In your ad you mentioned library care as one of your services. What does that entail?" Qwilleran asked.
"If a customer has a good private library, I go and dust the books and treat the leather bindings and look for mildew and bookworms. Most people don't even know how to put books on a shelf. If they're too far apart, they yawn, and if they're too close together, they can't breathe."
"Are there many good private libraries in this area?"
"Not as many as before. People inherit them and sell the books to buy yachts or put their children through college."
"Could you name some of your clients?"
"Oh, no, that wouldn't be ethical, but it's all right to say that I took care of the Klingenschoen library when the old lady was alive."
"How about the Fitch mansion? Off the record." Qwilleran turned off the tape recorder. "I've heard they have some rare books."
Almost in a whisper the bookseller said, "Cyrus Fitch's collection is worth millions now. If they sell it at auction, it'll be big news all over the world."
"Do you suppose the burglars who shot the young couple were after rare books?"
"I don't think so. Not around here. Unless..."
"Unless what?"
"Oh, nothing. Just a silly thought." Eddington looked embarrassed.
"Are there professional book thieves - like the art thieves who steal old masters - who might come up here from Down Below?"
"I never thought of that. I should check the books against the inventory. But first I'd better talk to the lawyer."
Qwilleran asked, "How long have you been making house calls to the Fitch mansion?"
"Almost twenty-five years, and when Mr. and Mrs. Fitch moved out, they told me to keep on taking care of the library."
"So you knew Harley's bride. What was she like?"
Eddington hesitated. "She had a pretty face-very pretty. A little-girl face. Idon't like to say anything unkind, but... she used to say some words that I wouldn't repeat even in front of Winston."
"What was her background?"
"Her name was Urkle. She came from Chipmunk. Of course, I knew her before Harley married her. She was one of Mrs. Fitch's maids."
Qwilleran remembered Mr. O'Dell's remark: "He married the wrong colleen." To Eddington he said, "One wonders why Harley would choose a girl of that class."
" 'Love makes fools of us all,' as Thackeray said. I think it was Thackeray," said the bookseller.
Qwilleran stood up. "This has been an enlightening session, Edd. A photographer will come around tomorrow to get a few shots."
"Maybe I'd better clean the front window."
"Don't overdo it!"
On his way to the exit Qwilleran stopped and asked, "When would you normally make your next house call to the Fitch collection?"
"Tuesday after next, but I don't know what to do now. I'll have to talk to the lawyer. I don't want to bother Mr. Fitch, but the books should be taken care of."
"I'd appreciate it if you'd take me along," Qwilleran said. "I might learn something."
"Shall I ask the lawyer if it's all right?"
"No, just take me along as your assistant. I'm good at dusting."
As Qwilleran walked home he marveled at the knowledge of the modest, self-educated little man, at his complete joy in working with books, and at his shabby living quarters. He remembered the narrow cot, and the sad table and chair, and the shelf above the sink. On it were a cup and plate, a dented saucepan, some canned soup and sardines, a razor and comb, and a handgun!
Arriving at his apartment he knew there was a message on the answer-box even before he reached the top of the stairs. Koko's mad racing back and forth told him the phone had been ringing in his absence.
The message was from Francesca. She would drop in at five o'clock. She had some stunning wallpaper samples for his bedroom. She also had some news, she said.