By the late 1840s, a growing portion of Calthrop’s business was coming from Washington. It had started with a single senator who wanted to collect several of his own speeches and writings in attractive volumes for friends and supporters. Through word of mouth, Calthrop eventually became Washington’s favorite bookbinder, even though he did not live there. Over time, Calthrop decided to move closer to his clientele. So the gray-haired bachelor moved to Washington and opened a small shop on the second floor of a K Street building, near the corner of Fourteenth Street, in 1855.
For Calthrop, a busy day was when a visitor climbed the stairs to his shop and he also received an inquiry through the mail. That was fine with him. Bookbindery was a lonely occupation that required a tremendous amount of patience. Calthrop enjoyed nothing more than the solitude of several quiet hours spent fixing small cracks and waiting for glue to dry before proceeding to the next step. The arrival of customers often bothered him because they interrupted his work-even though he knew they were the people who provided him with the ability to continue doing what he loved most.
When Mazorca walked into the shop with an armful of books just before lunchtime, Calthrop set down a tiny blade he had been using on an old volume of Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, owned by a cabinet secretary. He hoped this man would be the day’s only business.
“May I help you?” sighed Calthrop, not moving from his seat behind a table.
“Your services have been recommended to me. I have a book that would benefit from restoration.”
Mazorca placed the Schiller book beside Calthrop. The old man picked it up and cradled it gently. He flipped it over several times. Then he opened it and studied the pages.
“You have good taste,” he said. “I am a great admirer of Schiller’s. There aren’t many other people in Washington who know much about him.”
Mazorca simply nodded.
“Sprechen sie Deutsch?” asked the bookbinder.
“Excuse me?”
“Do you speak German? Apparently not.”
“No, I don’t. This book is for an acquaintance.”
Disappointed, Calthrop returned his gaze to the book and sighed again. “Its condition looks worse than it really is,” he said. “A few minor repairs should do the trick. Unfortunately, I’m a bit behind on several projects right now. I’m not sure how soon I could give it attention.”
“I was thinking about trying to fix the book myself. Would you be willing to show me what needs to be done and sell me the tools? I’d be happy to pay you for your time as well.”
Calthrop thought it was an odd request. He did not want an apprentice peering over his shoulder. He did have some spare tools, though. He always had more tools than he needed. Selling them to this fellow might not be a bad idea-and getting paid for a short lesson on top of that made additional sense.
The bookbinder studied the Schiller volume again, this time more intently. “Here is how I would approach the problem,” he said, outlining a strategy that would take three days to complete. For a half an hour, Calthrop described what to do and showed his student how to use several tools. When they were done, Mazorca had a small pile of knives, glue, and ribbon. They settled on a price-one that Calthrop found extremely pleasing.
“Please come back with additional questions as the need arises,” said Calthrop, surprising himself with the offer.
“I’m sure that won’t be necessary. You’ve told me everything I need to know, Mr. Calthrop.”
“Well, feel free to return.”
“I will,” said Mazorca, turning to exit.
“There is just one more thing, sir.”
Mazorca turned around. From his look, Calthrop could tell his customer desired to leave. But a question nagged him. “Are you from Cuba?”
“Excuse me?”
“I’d wager that you’re from Cuba.”
Mazorca froze. “What makes you say that?”
“I can hear a touch of Spanish in your accent, and specifically a Cuban dialect.”
“You are mistaken,” said Mazorca, coldly.
“Have you at least spent time there, or somewhere else in Spanish America?”
“No.” This time Mazorca was more insistent. “Not Cuba.” He pursed his lips. He looked annoyed.
Calthrop felt a need to explain. “I’m very sorry. I was a musician in my youth, and my ear catches small variations in sound. I would still be a musician today, except that I heard music better than I played it. I’m left with this ability to pick up tiny differences in the way people pronounce words. I’ve made guessing where people are from into a little hobby. I’m usually pretty good at it. I’ll feel better if you tell me you’ve at least spent some time in Cuba.”
“Where I’m from is no concern of yours.” Mazorca’s glare unsettled Calthrop.
“I didn’t meant to offend…”
Mazorca was gone before Calthrop could finish his sentence. The old man was glad this customer had purchased supplies rather than dropped off a book. He did not want to see him again.
“What’s this?” asked Rook, pointing to the stack of books piled next to Springfield on his bench in Lafayette Park. The colonel had slipped away from his sandbagging command for a short meeting. He bent over and looked at the spines. There were five copies of the same book: The Pickwick Papers, by Charles Dickens.
“I didn’t take you for a reader,” said Rook before Springfield could respond. “I took you for a vile and calumnious man.”
Springfield leaped to his feet, startled by the colonel’s comment. “Excuse me, sir?”
“I meant that in a Pickwickian sense.”
“A what?”
“Well, that proves it.”
“Proves what?”
“That you aren’t a reader.”
“I’m confused, sir.”
“Me too. You’re sitting here in the park with five copies of The Pickwick Papers beside you, and you don’t understand an elementary reference to them-a humorous one, I might add. If I say you’re vile and calumnious in a Pickwickian sense, then I mean the exact opposite. I’ve actually paid you a compliment.”
Springfield furrowed his brow. “Thank you, I guess. I haven’t read these books, sir.”
“Obviously not. What are they doing here?”
“I bought them this morning.”
“A good selection. But I hope you realize each copy is the same on the inside-you might have saved yourself some money buying only a single copy. An experienced reader would know that.”
“Right. Except saving money wasn’t the issue. Spending it was. I’ve been gathering information all morning on one of our secessionist friends. The price for some of it was five copies of this book.”
“Perhaps you had better start from the beginning,” said Rook, taking a seat on the bench. He gestured for Springfield to sit down as well, and the sergeant complied.
“You wanted me to learn more about the fellow seen leaving from Violet Grenier’s on Sunday, so this morning I did,” said Springfield. He described waiting for his man outside the boardinghouse on H Street, following him to the bookstore and the bookbinder, and finally trailing him back to the boardinghouse.
“After he returned, I went back and interviewed the storekeepers. He bought five books at French amp; Richstein and some supplies from Calthrop the bookbinder.”
“Did you get the titles of the books he bought?”
“French didn’t want to tell me. He mumbled something about proprietary information, but it turned out not to be so proprietary that he couldn’t be persuaded to share it.”