He swung his stick, puffed2 strongly at his cigar, and amorously3 surveyed the deep blue of the night, against which the huge blocks of apartment houses spread their random4 patterns of lighted windows. Between these granolithic cliffs flowed a racing5 stream of bright motors, like the rapids of a river of light hurrying downward to the whirlpool of Times Square.
My friend Dove Dulcet6 (the well-known poet and literary agent) vigorously expounded7 a theorem which I afterward8 had occasion to remember.
“There is every reason,” he cried, “why a poet should be the best of detectives! My boy, there is a rhyme in events as well as in words. When you see two separate and apparently9 unconnected happenings that seem (as one might say) to rhyme together, you begin to suspect one author behind them both. It is the function of the poet to have a quick and tender apprehension10 of similarities. The root of poetry is nothing else than describing things as being like other apparently quite different things. The lady who compared herself to a bird in a gilded11 cage was chaffed for her opulent and spendthrift imagination; but in that lively simile12 she showed an understanding of the poetic14 principle. Look here:
“Either for a poet or for a detective,” he said, gaily15, “this seems to me the ideal region. I tell you, I walk about here suspecting the most glorious crimes. When I see the number of banana splits that are consumed in these glittering drugstores, I feel sure that somewhere, in the purple silences of the night, hideous16 consequences must follow. Those who feed so violently on that brutalizing mixture of banana, chocolate ice cream, cherry syrup17, and whipped marshmallow, must certainly be gruesome at heart. I look out of my window late at night toward the scattered18 lights of that vast pile of apartments, always thinking to see them blaze some great golden symbol or letter into the darkness, some terrible or obscene code that means death and terror.”
“Your analogy seems to have some sense,” I said. “Certainly the minor19 poet, like the law breaker, loves to linger about the scene of his rhyme, or crime.”
“You are an amateur of puns,” he replied. “Then let me tell you the motto I have coined to express the spirit of this Little White Way—Ein feste bourgeois20 ist unser Gott. This is the proud kingdom of the triumphant21 middle class. It is a perilous22 country for a poet. If he were found out, he would be martyred at the nearest subway station. But how I love it! See how the quiet side streets cut across highways so richly contrasting: West End Avenue, leafy, expensive, and genteel; Broadway, so gloriously cruel and artificial; Amsterdam Avenue, so honestly and poignantly24 real. My club is the Hartford Lunch Room, where they call an omelet an omulet, and where the mystic word Combo resounds25 through the hatchway to the fat man in the kitchen. My church is the St. Agnes branch of the Public Library, over on Amsterdam Avenue. In those cool, quiet rooms, when I watch the pensive23 readers, I have a sense of treading near an artery26 of fine human idealism. In all this various neighbourhood I have a cheerful conviction that almost anything might happen. In the late afternoons, when the crosswise streets end on a glimpse of the Jersey28 bluffs29 that glow like smoky blue opals, and smell like rotten apples, I feel myself on the very doorsill of the most stunning30 outrages31.”
We both laughed, and turned off on Seventy-seventh Street to the small apartment house where Dulcet had a comfortable suite32 of two rooms and bath. In his book-lined sitting room we lit our pipes and sat down for a gossip.
We had been talking at dinner of the extraordinary number of grievous deaths of well-known authors that had happened that year. As it is almost unnecessary to remind you, there was Dunraven Bleak33, the humorous essayist, who was found stark34 (in both senses) in his bathtub; and Cynthia Carboy, the famous writer of bedtime stories, who fell down the elevator shaft35. In the case of Mrs. Carboy, the police were distracted because her body was found at the top of the building, and the detective bureau insisted that in some unexplainable manner she must have fallen up the shaft; but as Dulcet pointed36 out at the time of the Authors' League inquiry37, the body might have been carried upstairs after the accident. Then there was Andrew Baffle, the psychological novelist, whose end was peculiarly atrocious and miserable38, because it seemed that he had contracted tetanus from handling a typewriter ribbon that showed signs of having been poisoned. Frank Lebanon, the brilliant short-story writer, was stabbed in the fulness of his powers; and there were others whom I do not recall at the moment. Mr. Dulcet had suffered severely39 by these sad occurrences, for a number of these authors were his clients, and the loss of the commissions on the sale of their works was a serious item. The secret of these tragedies had never been discovered, and there had been something of a panic among members of the Authors' League. The rumour40 of a pogrom among bestselling writers was tactfully hushed.
“What is your friend Kenelm Digby writing nowadays?” I asked, as I looked along Dulcet's shelves. Digby, the brilliant novelist, was probably Dulcet's most distinguished41 client, an eccentric fellow who, in spite of his excellent royalties42, lived a solitary43 and modest existence in a boardinghouse somewhere in that part of the West Side. Outside his own circle of intimates Dulcet was almost the only man whom Digby saw much of, and many of us, who admired the novelist's work, had our only knowledge of his person from hearing the agent talk of him.
“By George, I'm glad you reminded me,” said Dulcet. “Why, he has just finished a story, and he telephoned me this afternoon asking me to stop over at his house this evening to get the manuscript. He never has any dealings with the editors on his own hook—likes me to attend to all his business arrangements for him. I said I'd run over there about ten o'clock.”
“That last book of his was a great piece of work,” I said. “I've been following his stuff for over ten years, and he looks to me about the most promising44 fellow we've got. He has something of the Barrie touch, it seems to me.”
“Yes, he's the real thing,” said Dulcet, blowing a blue cloud of his Cartesian Mixture. “I only wish he were not quite so eccentric. He lives like a hermit-crab, over in a lodging-house near the Park. Even I, who know him as well as most people, never feel like intruding45 on him except when he asks me to. I can't help thinking it would be good for him to get out more and see something of other men in his line of work. I tried to get him to join The Snails46, but he says that Amsterdam Avenue is his only amusement. And Central Park seems to be his country club. I wonder if you've noticed that in his tales whenever he wants to describe a bit of country he takes it right out of the Park. I sometimes suspect that's the only scenery he knows.”
“He has attained47 a very unusual status among writers,” I said. “In my rambles48 among bookshops I have noticed that his first editions bring quite a good price. It's very seldom that a writer—at any rate an American—gets 'collected' during his lifetime.”
“Did you ever see any of his manuscript?” asked Dulcet; and on my shaking my head, he took out a thick packet of foolscap from a cabinet.
“This is the original of 'Girlhood',” he explained. “Digby gave it to me. It'll be worth a lot some day.”
I looked with interest at the neatly49 written sheets, thickly covered with a small, beautiful, and rather crabbed50 penmanship.
“Worth a lot!” I exclaimed. “Well, I should say so! Why the other day I was browsing51 round in a bookshop and I found a lot of his first editions marked at $15 each. It struck me as a very high price for I know I have seen them listed for three or four dollars in catalogues.”
“Exorbitantly high,” Dulcet said. “I'm afraid your bookseller is profiteering. I admire Digby as much as any one, but that is an artificial price. The firsts aren't rare enough to warrant any such price as that. Still, I'm glad to know about it as it's a sign of growing recognition. I remember the time when it was all I could do to get any editors to look at his things. I'll have to tell him about that, it will please him mightily52.”
We sat for a while chatting about this and that and then Dulcet got up and put on his hat.
“Look here, old man,” he said. “You squat53 here and be comfortable while I run round to Digby. It won't take me more than a few minutes—he lives on Eighty-second Street. I'll be back right speedily, and we can go on with our talk.” I heard him go down in the elevator, and then I refit my pipe, and picked out a book from one of his shelves. I remember that it was Brillat-Savarin's amusing “Gastronomy as a Fine Art”. I smiled at finding this in Dulcet's library, for I knew that the agent rather prided himself on being something of a gourmet54, and I was reading the essays of the jovial55 French epicure56 with a good deal of relish57 when the telephone rang. I went to it with that slight feeling of embarrassment58 one always has in answering someone else's phone.
To my surprise, it was Dulcet's voice.
“Hullo?” he said. “That you, Ben? Listen, I want you to come round to Digby's right away,” and he gave the address.
Thinking he had arranged a chance for me to meet Digby (I had long wanted to do so), I felt hesitant about intruding; but he repeated his message rather sharply. “Please come at once,” he said. “It's important.” Again he gave the street number, made me promise to come immediately, and rang off.
It was nearly half-past ten, and the streets were fairly quiet as I walked briskly along. The house was one of a row of old cocoa-coloured stone dwellings59, and evidently someone was watching for me, for while I was trying to read the numbers a door opened and from a dark hall an arm beckoned60 to me. I went up the tall steps and a stout61 woman, who seemed to be in some agitation62, whispered my name interrogatively. “Is this Mr. Trovato?” she murmured.
“Yes,” I said, puzzled.
“Third floor front,” she said, and I creaked quietly up the stairs.
I tapped at the front room on the top floor, and Dulcet opened.
“Thank goodness you're here, Ben,” he said. “Something has happened.”
It was a large, comfortable room, crowded with books on three walls, furnished with easy chairs and a couch in one corner. A brilliant blaze of light from several bulbs under a frosted hood27 poured upon a reading table in the middle of the room. Sitting at this table, in a Windsor chair, slumped63 down into the seat, was a short stout man whose head lolled sideways over his chest. He was wearing a tweed suit and a soft shirt, and looked as though he had fallen asleep at his work. In front of him were some books and a can of tobacco. I recognized him, of course, from the photographs I had often seen. It was Digby.
I looked at Dulcet, aghast. But, as always at such moments, what was uppermost in my mind was something trivial and irrelevant64. I had an intense desire to open a window. The air in that room was thick and foggy, a sort of close, strangling frowst of venomously strong tobacco and furnace gas. After the clear elixir65 of the wintry night it was loathsome66. It was the typical smell that hangs about the rooms of literary bachelors, who work all day long in a room without ever thinking of airing it.
“Yes,” he said. “He's dead. Pretty awful, isn't it? I found him like this when I got here. No sign of injury as far as I can see.”
There was something profoundly dreadful in this first sight, as mere67 sagging68 clay, of the brilliant and powerful writer whose books I had so long admired, and whom I had thought of as one of the strong and fortunate few who shape human perplexities to their own ends. I looked down at him with a miserable blackness in my spirit, and laid a hand on Dulcet's shoulder in sympathy.
“I've sent for a doctor,” he said. “Before he comes I want to get all the information I can from the landlady69. I wanted to have you here as a witness. I haven't touched anything.”
“Come in, Mrs. Barlow,” said Dulcet. “Now please tell us everything you can about where Mr. Digby went this evening, and anything that has happened.”
Mrs. Barlow, who seemed to be a good-hearted, simple-minded creature, snuffled wretchedly. “Oh, dear, oh dear,” she said. “He was such a nice gentleman, too. Let me see, he went out about seven, I suppose for his supper, but he was always irregular about his meals, you never could tell, sometimes he would eat in the middle of the afternoon, and sometimes not till late at night. I always would urge him that he would die of indigestion, but he was so kind-hearted.”
“You don't know where he went?” said Dulcet. “Perhaps he went round to the laundry,” she said, “for he had a parcel with him, which I took to be his laundry because he usually took it out on Monday evenings because by that time the clean shirt he put on on Sunday was ready to go to the wash. I hate to think that in all the years he lived in this house his laundry was the only thing we ever had a difference about, because I used to have it done in the house for him but he said my washwoman tore the buttons off his shirts or collars or something, so a little while ago he started taking his things out to be done, but I don't know where because he used to call for them himself.”
“You haven't any idea where he used to eat?” insisted Dulcet.
“Oh, no, sir, he liked to go different places, you know yourself how he was always a bit queer and concentric and he never talked much about where he went, but always so nice and considerate. Oh, he was a fine gentleman.”
Mrs. Barlow, plainly much grieved, wept anew. “Please try to tell us everything you can think of,” said Dulcet, gently. “What time did he come in, and did you notice anything unusual?”
“Nothing out of the way that I can think of, but then I was down in the basement most of the evening, for I let my maid go to the movies and I had a deal to do. I suppose he went along Amsterdam Avenue, he was always strolling up and down Amsterdam or Columbus, poor man, getting ideas for his literature I guess. He came back about nine o'clock I should say, because I heard the door about then. Just a few minutes before he came in there was a man came to the door with a tin of tobacco for him, which he said Mr. Digby had ordered sent around, and I took it up and put it on his table, there it is now, poor man, Carter's Mixture.”
Mrs. Barlow pointed to the tin of Cartesian Mixture that stood on the table. Evidently it had only just been opened, for it was practically full.
“Yes,” said Dulcet. “Here's his pipe lying on the floor under his chair.” He picked up the briar and glanced at it. “Only just begun to smoke it, for the tobacco is hardly burned. He must have been smoking when he.... There wasn't anything else you can think of?”
The woman dried her eyes with her apron71. “There was just one other thing I noticed, but I suppose it's silly. But I took note of it special, because I thought I had heard it before, lately. While he was out, and a little before the man brought the tin of tobacco, I heard a sharp tapping out on the street in front of the house. I noticed it special, because I thought at first it was someone rapping on the door, and I wondered if the bell was out of order again, but when I went I couldn't see any one. But I wondered about it because I heard it two or three times, a sharp kind of tapping, it sounded some way like hitting on stone with a stick of some sort.”
Dulcet and I looked at each other rather blankly.
“And after that,” she went on, “I didn't think about anything one way or another till you came in and I told you to go right up.”
There was a clear peal72 from the front door bell. “That's the doctor,” said Dulcet, and Mrs. Barlow hurried downstairs.
I have never seen any one so brisk and matter of fact as that physician, and after his arrival the affair seemed to pass out of Dulcet's hands into the painful official machinery73 that takes charge in such events. Dulcet, acting74 as the dead writer's literary representative, went into the adjoining room, which was Digby's study, to look over the papers in the desk for any manuscripts that he ought to take care of. He wrote out a list of friends and relatives for me to send telegrams to and I went out to attend to this. I don't know how they get wind of these affairs, but the reporters were already beginning to arrive when I left.
The next day, and for several days afterward, the papers all carried long stories about poor Digby's brilliant career. Then the literary weeklies took it up. At the libraries and bookshops everyone was asking for his books, and I have never seen a more depressing illustration of the familiar fact that a writer's real fame never comes until it is too late to do him any good. Editors and people who had hardly been aware of Digby's genius while he was alive now praised him fluently, speaking of him as “America's most honest realist,” and all that sort of thing. Moving-picture people began inquiring about the film rights of his novels. Some of the sensational75 newspapers tried to play up his death as a mystery story, but the physicians asserted heart failure as the cause, and this aspect of the matter soon subsided77.
Except at the funeral, which was attended by a great many literary people, I did not see Dulcet for some days. I gathered from what I read in the news that Digby's will had appointed him executor of his literary property, and I knew that he must have much to attend to. But one afternoon the telephone rang, and Dulcet asked me if I could knock off work and come round to see him. As I was living up town at that time, it only took me a few minutes to go round to his apartment. I found him smoking a pipe as usual, and looking pale and fagged. He welcomed me with his affectionate cordiality, and I sat down to hear what was on his mind.
“You must excuse me if I'm a little upset,” he said. “I've just had an interview with a ghoul. A fellow came in to see me who had heard that I have a number of poor Digby's books and manuscripts. He wanted to buy them from me, offered big prices for them. He said that since Digby's death all his first editions and so on have gone up enormously in value. Apparently he expected me to do trading over the dead body of a friend.”
He smoked awhile in silence, and then said: “Sorry not to have seen you sooner, but to tell the truth I've had my hands full. His brother, who was the nearest kin1, couldn't come from Ohio on account of serious illness, and everything fell on me. I had to pack up all his things and ship them, all that sort of business. But I've been wanting to talk to you about it, because I'm convinced there was something queer about the whole affair. I'm not satisfied with that heart-failure verdict. That's absurd. There was nothing wrong with his heart that I ever heard of. It's very unfortunate that for the first few days I was too occupied with urgent matters to be able to follow up the various angles of the affair. But I've been turning it over in my mind, and I've got some ideas I'd like to share with you. You remember what I told you, with unfortunate levity78, about the secret of detective work being ability to notice the unsuspected rhymes in events? Well, there are one or two features of this affair that seem to me to rhyme together in a very sinister79 fashion. Wait a minute until I put on my other coat, and we'll go out.”
He went into his bedroom. I had not liked to interrupt him, but I was yearning80 for a smoke, for leaving my rooms in a hurry I had forgotten to bring my pouch81 with me. On his mantelpiece I saw a tin of tobacco, and began to fill my pipe. To my surprise, just as I was taking out a match he darted82 out of the bedroom, uttered an exclamation83, and snatched the briar from my hand.
“Sorry,” he said, bluntly, “but you mustn't smoke that. It's something very special.” He opened his penknife, scraped out the weed I had put in the bowl, and carefully put it back in the tin. He took the tin and locked it in his desk.
“Try some of this,” he said, handing his pouch. I concluded that the tension of the past days had troubled his nerves. This rudeness was so unlike him that I knew there must be some explanation, but he offered none. As we went down in the elevator he said: “The question is, can you make a rhyme out of tobacco and collar buttons?”
“Well,” he continued, “that's what we've got to do. And don't imagine that it's merely a nonsense rhyme, any more than Lear's were. Edward Lear was as great as King Lear, in his own way.” He led me to Eighty-second Street. The December afternoon was already dark as we approached Mrs. Barlow's house. At the foot of her front steps he halted and turned to me.
“Is your pipe going?” he said.
“Don't be surly, old chap; I'll give you some if you'll tell me what you do when your pipe goes out.”
“Why, you idiot,” I cried, “I do this.” And I knocked out the ashes by striking the bowl smartly against the palm of my hand.
“Ah,” he said. “But some people do this.”
He bent86 down and rapped his pipe against the stone ramp87 of the steps, with a clear, sharp, hollow sound.
“Yes, a good way to break a nice pipe,” I was remarking, when the basement door of the house flew open, and Mrs. Barlow darted out into the sunken area just below the pavement level. In the pale lemon-coloured glare of a near-by street lamp we could see that she was strongly excited.
“Good gracious,” she panted. “Is it Mr. Dulcet? Oh, sir, you did give me a turn. Oh, dear, that was just the tapping sound I heard the night poor Mr. Digby died. What was it? Did you hear it?”
“Like this?” said Dulcet, knocking his pipe again on the stone step.
“That was it, exactly,” she said. “What a fright, to be sure! Was it only someone knocking his pipe like that? Oh, dear, it did bring back that horrid88 evening, just as plain.”
“So much for the mysterious death rap,” said Dulcet as we walked back toward Amsterdam Avenue. “I can't claim much ingenuity89 for that, however. You see, the morning after Digby's death I went round to Mrs. Barlow's early, before she had been out to sweep her pavement. The first thing I noticed, by the lowest step, was a little dottle of tobacco such as falls from a halfsmoked pipe when it is knocked out. That seemed to me to make a perfect couplet with Mrs. Barlow's tale of the tapping she had heard. She heard it several times, you remember, in a short space of time. That suggests to me someone standing13 on the street, or walking up and down, in a state of nervousness, because he didn't smoke any of his pipes through. When they were only half smoked he knocked them out, in sheer impatience90. Was he waiting for someone?”
“Perhaps it was Digby himself?” I suggested. “I don't think so,” he said. “Because, in the first place, nervousness was the last thing I would associate with his temperament91, which was calm and collected in the extreme. And also, he always smoked Brown Eyed Blend, and had done so for years. That was the first thing that struck me as unusual the night we were there—that tin of Cartesian on the table. He was a man of fixed92 habits; why should he have made a change just that night? I picked up the little wad of tobacco I found lying on the step, and took it carefully home. It's Cartesian, or I'm a Dutchman. So item I in our criminal rhyme-scheme is: Find me a nervous man smoking Cartesian.”
“It's a bit fanciful,” I objected.
“Of course it is,” he cried. “But crime is a fanciful thing. Ever let the fancy roam, as Keats said. What the deuce is the line that follows? Suppose we stroll down Amsterdam Avenue and find a new place to have dinner.”
“Poor old Digby,” he said, as we walked along admiring the lighted caves of the shopwindows. “How he enjoyed all this. You know, there is a certain honest simplicity93 about Amsterdam Avenue's merchandising that is pleasant to contemplate94 after the shining sophistications of Broadway. In a Broadway delicatessen window you'll see such horrid luxuries as jars of cocks' combs in jelly; whereas along here the groceries show candid95 and heartening signs such, as this: 'Coming Back to The Old Times, 17c lb. Sugar.' Amsterdam Avenue shopkeepers speak with engaging directness about their traffic; for instance, there's a barber at the corner of Eighty-first Street who embosses on his window the legend: 'Yes, We Do Buster Brown Hair Cutting.' That sort of thing is very humane96 and genuine, that's why Digby was so fond of it. There's a laundry along here somewhere that I have often noticed; it calls itself the Fastidious Laundry——”
“Speaking of laundries,” I said, “what do you think of this?” We stopped, and I pointed to a neatly lettered placard in a window which had caught my eye. It said:
Notice to Artists and Authors
We Sew Buttons on Soft Collars Free of Charge
“By Jove,” I said, “there's a laundry that has the right idea. I think I'll bring my——”
I broke off when I saw my companion's face. He was leaning forward toward the pane97, and his eyes were bright but curiously98 empty, as though in some way the mechanism99 of sight had been reversed, and he was looking inward rather than out.
“That's very odd,” he said, presently. “I've been up and down this street many times, but I never noticed that sign before.”
He turned and marched into the shop, and I followed. In the soft steamy air several girls were ironing shirts, and a plump, pink-cheeked Hebrew stood behind a counter wrapping up bundles.
“I noticed your sign in the window,” said Dulcet. “What do you charge for laundering100 soft collars?”
“Five cents each, but we mend them, too, and sew on the buttons.”
“That's a good idea,” said Dulcet, genially101. “I wish I'd known that before; I'd have brought my collars round to you. How long have you been doing that? I often go by here, but I never saw the sign before.”
“Only about a week,” the man replied. “Let's see—a week ago last Monday I put that sign up. You wouldn't believe how much new trade it has brought in. I thought it would be a kind of a joke—the man next door suggested it, and I put it in to please him. But 'most everybody wears soft collars nowadays, and it seems good business.”
“The man next door?” said Dulcet, in a casual tone.
“Sure, the cigar store.”
“Stork? Why, no, Basswood. What do you mean, Stork?”
“I mean,” said Dulcet, slowly, “does he ever stand on one leg?”
“Quit your kidding,” cried the laundryman, annoyed.
“I assure you, I do not trifle,” said Dulcet, gravely. “I'll bring you in some collars to fix up for me. Much obliged.”
We went out again, and my companion stood for a moment in front of the laundry window, looking thoughtfully at the sign.
“While you ponder, old son,” I said, “I'll run into Mr. Stork-Basswood's and get some tobacco.”
He seized my arm in a firm and painful clutch and whispered, “Look at the corner!”
The laundry was the second shop from the corner. Under the lamp-post at the angle of the street I saw, to my amazement103, a man standing balanced on one leg. Directly under the light, he was partly in shadow, and I could only see him in silhouette104, but the absurd profile of his onelegged attitude afflicted105 me with a renewed sense of absurdity106 and irritation107. Dulcet, I thought, had evidently suffered some serious stroke in the region of his wits.
“Now,” he said, softly, “can you see any rhyme between soft collars and standing on one leg?”
As he spoke108, we both started, for somewhere near us on the street there sounded a sharp tapping, a ringing hollow wooden sound. Evidently it came from the one-legged man. This was too much for my composure. I broke away from Dulcet and ran to the corner. As I got there the one-legged creature put down a concealed109 limb and stood solidly on two feet, in a state of normalcy, as an eminent110 statesman would say. I was confused, and said angrily to the man:
“Here, you mustn't stand like that, on the public street you know, on one leg. It's setting a bad example.”
To my amazement he made no retort whatever, but turned and scuttled111 hastily down the avenue, disappearing in the crowds that were doing their evening marketing112.
“My dear fellow,” said Dulcet, calmly, coming up to me, “you shouldn't have done that. You've very nearly spoilt it all. Come on, let's go in and get your tobacco.”
Basswood's proved to be one of those interesting combination tobacco, stationery113, toy, and bookshops which are so common on the upper West Side. I have often noticed that these places are by no means unfruitful as hunting ground for books, because the dealers114 are wholly ignorant of literature and sometimes one may find on their shelves some forgotten volume that has been there for years, and which they will gladly part with for a song. A good many of these stores have, tucked away at the back, a shabby stock of circulating library volumes that have come down through many changes of proprietorship116. Only the other day I saw in just such a place first editions of Kenneth Grahame's “The Golden Age” and Arthur Machen's “The Three Impostors,” which the storekeeper was delighted to sell for fifteen cents each.
A dark young man was behind the tobacco counter, and from him I got a packet of my usual blend.
“Mr. Basswood in?” said Dulcet.
“Just stepped out,” said the young man.
We lit our pipes and looked round the shop, glancing at the magazines and the queer miscellany of books. As it was approaching Christmas time there was a profuse117 assortment118 of those dreadful little bibelots that go by the name of “gift books,” among which were the usual copies of “Recessional” and “Vampire,” Thoreau's “Friendship,” and “Ballads of a Cheechako,” bound in what the trade calls “padded ooze”. I was particularly heartened to observe that one of these atrocities119, called “As a Man Thinketh,” was described on the box (for all such books come in little cardboard cases) as being bound in antique yap. This pleased me so much that I was about to call it to Dulcet's attention, when I saw that he was looking at me from the rear of the store with a spark in his eye. I approached and found that he was staring at a doorway partly concealed by a pile of Christmas toys and novelties. Over this door was a sign: J. Basswood, Rare Book Department.
“Can we go in and look at the rare books?” said Dulcet.
“Sure thing,” said the young man. “Help yourself. The boss'll be back soon, if you want to buy anything.”
Mr. Basswood was evidently a man of some literary discretion120. To our amazement we found, in a dark little room lined with shelves, a judicious121 assortment of modern books, several hundred volumes, and all first editions or autographed copies. The prices were marked in cipher122, so we could not tell whether there were any bargains among them, but I know that I saw several particularly rare and desirable things which I would have been glad to have.
“Good heavens,” I said to Dulcet, “friend Basswood is a real collector. There isn't a thing here that isn't of prime value.”
He was staring at a shelf in the corner, and I went over to see what he had found.
“Upon my soul,” I cried, “look at the Digbies! Not merely one copy of each, but three or four! This man must have specialized123 in Digbies.”
“Not only that,” said Dulcet, “but he has three of 'The Autogenesis of a Novelist', the first thing that Digby wrote. It was privately124 printed, and afterward suppressed. It's devilish rare; even I haven't got a copy. I wish I knew what prices he asks for these things.”
“Look at this,” I said. “Perhaps this will tell us.” I picked up one of a pile of pamphlets that were lying in a large sheet of wrapping paper in a corner of the room. It was evidently a new catalogue of Mr. Basswood's rare books, that had just come from the printer.
“Here we are,” I said, turning over the leaves. “Look at this.”
Special Note
Fine Collection of Digbiana: J. Basswood wishes to call particular attention to the Digbiana listed below. Anticipating the growing interest in collectors' items of this great writer's work, J. Basswood has taken pains to gather a stock of first editions and presentation copies which is absolutely unique. The prices of these items, while high, are a fair index of the appreciation125 in which this author's work is held among connoisseurs126. All are copies in good condition and their authenticity127 is guaranteed.
November 15, 19—.
Dulcet seized the catalogue and ran his eye down the pages.
“'Girlhood,' first edition, Houghton Mifflin Company, 1901, $100,” he read. “'The Nuisance of Being Loved,' first edition, $75. 'The Princess Quarrelsome,' $90. 'The Anatomy128 of Cheerfulness,' autographed copy, $150. 'Distemper,' acting copy, signed by the author and Richard Mansfield, $200.
“Why,” he cried, shrilly129, “this is madness! I am in touch with all the dealers in this sort of thing, and I know the proper prices. This man has multiplied them by ten.” He thrust the catalogue into his pocket and glared round at the musty shelves.
“I suppose it's due to poor Digby's death,” I said. I saw that Dulcet was overwrought, and suggested that we go out and get some supper.
“Supper?” he said. “A good idea. I know a place on Broadway where we can get some guinea pigs.” He strode out of the store and I followed, wondering what next. He seized my arm and hurried me along Seventy-ninth Street to Broadway.
In the clarid blue of the evening that blazing gully of light seemed to foam131 and bubble with preposterous132 fire. Chop suey restaurants threw out crawling streamers of red and yellow brilliance133; against the peacock green of the western sky the queer church at the corner of Seventy-ninth, with the oriental pinnacle134 and truncated135 belfry rising above its solid Baptist wings, seemed like the offspring of some reckless marriage of two infatuated architects, one Jewish and one Calvinist. It was a fitting silhouette, I thought, congruent with an evening of such wild humours. Guinea pigs for supper, how original and enlivening! “Are guinea pigs properly kosher?” I asked, sarcastically136.
Dulcet paid no heed137, but, holding my arm, urged me along the pavement to an animal shop on the western side of Broadway. The window was full of puppies and long-haired cats. All down the aisle138 of the establishment were tiers of birdcages, covered with curtains while the birds slept. In lucid139 bowls persevering140 goldfish pursued their glittering and improfitable round.
“Those guinea pigs I ordered,” said Dulcet to the man, “are they ready?”
“All ready, sir,” he said, and took out a cage from under the counter. “Very fine pigs, sir, strong and hearty141; they will stand a great deal.”
“Yes,” I said, with a wild desire to shout with laughter. “But will they stand being eaten? They will find that rather trying, I fancy.”
Dulcet tapped his forehead, and the dealer115 smiled indulgently. My companion took the cage, paid some money, and sped outdoors again.
I made no further comment and in a few minutes we were in Dulcet's apartment.
“You have no kitchenette here, have you?” I protested. “Or do we devour142 them raw? Oh, I see, you have a camp oven. How ingenious!”
He had put on the table a large tin box. With complete seriousness he now produced a small spirit lamp, over which he fitted a little basket of fine wire mesh143. When the flame of the lamp was lit, it played upon the basket, which was supported by legs at just the right height. He now put the unsuspecting guinea pigs into the tin box, which was shaped like a rural-free-delivery letter-box, with a hinged door opening at one end. He took the spirit lamp with its attached basket and pushed the contraption carefully into the box with the pigs. Then he opened both windows in the room.
“Admirable!” I exclaimed. “Like those much-advertised cigarettes, they will be toasted. But won't it take a long time?”
“Don't be an ass,” he said.
He went to his desk, and took out the tin of Cartesian Mixture he had snatched away from me earlier in the evening.
“Your mention of those cigarettes is apt,” he said, “for in this case also the fuel is tobacco. Please go over by the window, and stay there.”
I watched, somewhat impressed by the gravity of his manner. From the tin of tobacco he took a small pinch of mixture and carefully placed it in the mesh basket above the lamp. Reaching into the box, he lit the wick of the lamp with a match, and hastily clapped to the hinged lid. The guinea pigs seemed to be awed144 by these proceedings145, for they remained quiet. Dulcet joined me at the window, and remarked that fresh air was a fine thing.
We waited for about five minutes, while the guinea-pig oven stood quietly on the table.
“Well,” said Dulcet, finally, “we ought to be able to see whether it rhymes or not.”
He snatched open the door of the tin box, and skipped away from it in a way that seemed to me perfectly146 insane. He picked up a pair of tongs147 from the fireplace, and standing at a distance, lifted out the lamp. The tobacco was smoking strongly in its mesh basket. Holding the lamp away from him with the tongs, he carried it into the bathroom, and I heard him turn on the water. Then, coming back, he inserted the tongs into the tin box, and gingerly withdrew first one guinea pig and then the other. Both were calm as possible, quite dead. Looking over the sill to see that the pavement was clear, he threw the tin box into the street, where it fell with a crash.
“Surely they're not cooked already?” I said.
“I haven't heard from the doctor yet,” he said; “but he promised to ring me up this evening. I'm awfully148 sorry to have delayed your dinner, old man. Meet me at the Lucerne grill149 room, Seventy-ninth and Amsterdam Avenue, to-morrow evening at seven o'clock and we'll eat together. You've been a great help to me.”
“I hope the doctor is a mental specialist,” I said; but he pushed me gently out of the room. “We'll finish our rhyme at dinner to-morrow evening.”
I went out into the night, and sorrowfully visited a Hartford Lunch.
The next evening I was at the Lucerne grill promptly150. This modest chop house was one of Dulcet's favourite resorts, and I found him already sitting in one of the alcoves151 studying the menu. He was in fine spirits, and his quizzical blue eyes shone with a healthy lustre152.
“Are you armed?” he said, mysteriously.
“What,” I cried, “are we going to do some more guinea pigs to death? It was cruel. I have scruples153 against taking innocent lives. Besides, your experiment proved nothing. Those pigs would have died anyway, shut up in an air-tight box like that.”
“Stuff!” he said. “The box was not hermetic. I had left small apertures154: there was plenty of oxygen. No, it was not the confinement155 in the tin box that killed them. After you had gone, the chemist whom I had consulted called me up. My suspicions were sound. Have you ever heard of fumacetic acid?”
This is going to be terrible, I thought to myself, and ordered tenderloin steak, well done, with a double order of hashed brown potatoes.
“Have you ever heard of fumacetic acid?” he repeated, relentlessly156.
“It is a deadly and little-known drug,” he said, “which (so the chemist tells me) possesses the property that when vaporized the slightest whiff of it causes instant death if inhaled158 into the lungs. The tobacco in that tin had been doctored with it. I sent the chemist the pipe that poor Digby was smoking when he died, and he analyzed159 what was left in the bowl. There is no doubt whatever. He was poisoned in that way. I tell you, my professional duty as a literary agent requires that in my clients' interest I should sift160 this thing to the bottom. It may explain some of those earlier deaths that baffled the Authors' League.”
“But Mrs. Carboy, surely, did not smoke,” I was about to say; but I checked myself in time.
“Dove,” I said, “you are superb. But I wish you would tell me how you worked the thing out. What was it that first aroused your suspicions? If it had not been for you, I should never have guessed anything wrong.”
“Of course,” he said, grimly, “it was that murderous placard in the laundry window, and that is to your credit, for you noticed it. That was the one thing that made plain the whole complicated business. Naturally I suspected the tobacco from the first, for (as I told you) it was a mixture that Digby never smoked ordinarily. But when I heard that that eccentric and damnable placard had been put there at the suggestion of the tobacconist next door, and then found that the tobacconist was also a bookseller, I knew the worst. I have spent to-day in rounding up the threads, and I think I may say without vainglory that the miscreant161 is in my power.”
“But the man standing on one leg?” I said, puzzled. “What was he up to, and why did he run?” Dulcet's face shone with quiet triumph.
“I told you,” he said, “to look for a nervous man smoking Cartesian Mixture. That tobacconist, Basswood, smokes Cartesian. It is a very moist, sticky blend, as you know. It can only be shaken out of the pipe, after smoking, by vigorously knocking the bowl on something hard. Very well, and if there is no stone step or something of that sort handy, what will a smoker162 tap his pipe on? Why, he will stand on one leg and knock it out on the lifted heel of the other. And his running away when you addressed him so whimsically, wasn't that a pretty good sign of nervousness—and also of a guilty and doubtful spirit?”
He finished his tumbler of the near-beer that has made Milwaukee infamous163, and leaned forward earnestly.
“You know very well,” he said, “that that laundryman would never have thought of his grotesque164 notice, addressed to 'Artists and Authors', if someone hadn't suggested it to him. Obviously he was only a gull130. That card was intended as a decoy, to lure76 Digby away from his room, so that Basswood could leave the poisoned tobacco for him. Basswood had studied Digby's habits, and must have known that the notice about the collars would be sure to catch his eye. Now we had better be going. The police will be at Basswood's shop at eight o'clock.”
I could have done with a little strong coffee, but he haled me out of the restaurant, and we walked up Amsterdam Avenue. How little, I reflected, did the passersby165, hurrying about their kindly166 and innocent concerns, suspect our dark and perilous errand.
“The motive167, of course,” said Dulcet, “was to profit by the increase of value Digby's death would give to his literary work. You will see a proof of that in a moment. Here we are. Come on, this is no time to hang back!”
He strode into the brightly lighted shop, and I followed with a clumsy assumption of carelessness. I must confess that my eye wandered in search of suitable cover in case there should be any gun play.
Mr. Basswood was behind his counter, smoking a battered-looking briar. One side of the bowl was worn down nearly half an inch (from repeated knocking out on stone steps, I suppose). He was a fat, cross-looking person, with a black jut168 of moustache and a small, vindictive169 eye.
“A friend told me about your bookshop,” said Dulcet. “He said that you sometimes buy books and manuscripts and that sort of thing.”
“Yes, sometimes,” said Basswood, without enthusiasm.
“I have an unpublished story of Kenelm Digby's,” said Dulcet. “It is about forty pages of manuscript. What would you give for that?”
The dealer's eyes brightened. He took his pipe from his mouth, and knocked it out smartly on his heel, tramping on the glowing cinders170. Dulcet looked at me gravely.
“Let me see it,” Basswood said, eagerly.
“I haven't got it with me. But give me an idea what it would be worth to you.”
“If it is genuine, and characteristic of Digby's genius,” said Basswood, slowly, “I would give you two hundred dollars for it.”
“Nonsense!” said Dulcet. “It isn't worth half that. I would not dream of selling it for more than seventy-five.”
Basswood looked startled.
“I guess you are not in touch with the market for such things,” he said. “There is more interest among collectors in Digby's work than in any other recent writer. Perhaps you don't realize what a difference his sad death has made in the prices of his editions. It is very regrettable, but the death of a writer of that kind always puts a premium171 on collectors' items, because there will never be any more of them.”
“Oh, I see,” said Dulcet, politely. “It is his death that has made the difference, is it?”
“Exactly.”
“Well, then, I suppose this manuscript is worth more than I thought. By the way, I think the title of it will interest you. It is called 'The Mystery of the Soft Collars' and deals with a murder that took place on Eighty-second Street.”
I couldn't help admiring the glorious nonchalance172 with which Dulcet made this remark, gazing the dealer straight in the eye. Basswood's face was a study, and his cheek was pale and greasy173. But he, too, was a man of considerable nerve.
“I don't believe it's genuine,” he said. “That doesn't sound to me like Digby's style.” His voice shook a little, and he added: “However, if it's as interesting as it sounds, I might pay even more than two hundred for it.”
“You rascal174!” shouted Dulcet. “Do you think you can buy me off? No! keep your hands above the counter!”
He had whipped out his revolver, and held it at the man's face.
“Look here, Mr. Basswood,” he said. “Even the cleverest of us make mistakes. Let me call your attention to one thing. If it was Digby's death that made the difference in the values of his books, how is it that this bill from your printer, for that new catalogue of yours, is dated ten days before Digby died? I picked it up in your back room the other day. Doesn't that seem to show that you knew, ten days before the event, that there was going to be a sudden boom in Digbiana? Ten days before he died you were multiplying the prices of the items you had gathered. Now, you dog, can you explain that?”
Basswood shook, but still he clung to his hope.
“I'll give you a thousand for that manuscript,” he said.
“Ben,” said Dulcet to me, “just slip around the corner and whistle three times. The police are waiting on Eighty-fifth Street.”
“There's still one thing that puzzles me,” I said to Dulcet late that night as we sat in his room for a final smoke. “I remember that before we discovered that sign in the laundry you said that what we needed to do was to find a rhyme between tobacco and collar buttons. Now what the deuce started you off on collar buttons?”
He smiled patiently.
“When I had to pack up poor old Digby's belongings,” he said, “I had the sad task of going through his bureau drawers. You know the devilish little buttons that the manufacturers insist on putting on soft collars. They always come off after one or two washings, and then the collar collapses175 round your neck into an object of slovenly176 reproach. Digby was a bachelor, and there was no one to do any mending for him. And when I found that every one of his soft collars had its little button neatly sewed on, I knew there was something wrong. I ask you, wouldn't that have aroused the alarm of the least suspicious?”
Up to the present time, as far as I know, Basswood remains177 the only bookseller who has ever been electrocuted.
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1
kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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amorously
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| adv.好色地，妖艳地；脉；脉脉；眽眽 | |
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random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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dulcet
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| adj.悦耳的 | |
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expounded
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| 论述，详细讲解( expound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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simile
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| n.直喻，明喻 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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syrup
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| n.糖浆，糖水 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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bourgeois
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| adj./n.追求物质享受的(人)；中产阶级分子 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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poignantly
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resounds
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| v.（指声音等）回荡于某处( resound的第三人称单数 )；产生回响；（指某处）回荡着声音 | |
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artery
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| n.干线，要道；动脉 | |
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hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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jersey
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| n.运动衫 | |
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bluffs
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| 恐吓( bluff的名词复数 )； 悬崖； 峭壁 | |
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stunning
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| adj.极好的；使人晕倒的 | |
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outrages
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| 引起…的义愤，激怒( outrage的第三人称单数 ) | |
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suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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41
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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royalties
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| 特许权使用费 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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45
intruding
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| v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的现在分词)；把…强加于 | |
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46
snails
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| n.蜗牛；迟钝的人；蜗牛( snail的名词复数 ) | |
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47
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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48
rambles
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的第三人称单数 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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49
neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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50
crabbed
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| adj.脾气坏的；易怒的；（指字迹）难辨认的；（字迹等）难辨认的v.捕蟹( crab的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
browsing
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| v.吃草( browse的现在分词 )；随意翻阅；（在商店里）随便看看；（在计算机上）浏览信息 | |
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52
mightily
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| ad.强烈地；非常地 | |
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53
squat
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| v.蹲坐，蹲下；n.蹲下；adj.矮胖的，粗矮的 | |
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54
gourmet
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| n.食物品尝家；adj.出于美食家之手的 | |
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55
jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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56
epicure
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| n.行家，美食家 | |
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57
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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58
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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59
dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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60
beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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62
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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63
slumped
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| 大幅度下降，暴跌( slump的过去式和过去分词 )； 沉重或突然地落下[倒下] | |
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64
irrelevant
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| adj.不恰当的，无关系的，不相干的 | |
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65
elixir
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| n.长生不老药，万能药 | |
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66
loathsome
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| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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67
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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68
sagging
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| 下垂[沉，陷]，松垂，垂度 | |
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69
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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70
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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71
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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72
peal
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| n.钟声；v.鸣响 | |
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73
machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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74
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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75
sensational
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| adj.使人感动的，非常好的，轰动的，耸人听闻的 | |
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76
lure
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| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
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77
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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78
levity
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| n.轻率，轻浮，不稳定，多变 | |
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79
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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80
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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81
pouch
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| n.小袋，小包，囊状袋；vt.装...入袋中，用袋运输；vi.用袋送信件 | |
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82
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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83
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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84
peevishly
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| adv．暴躁地 | |
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85
irritably
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| ad.易生气地 | |
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86
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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87
ramp
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| n.暴怒，斜坡，坡道；vi.作恐吓姿势，暴怒，加速；vt.加速 | |
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88
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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89
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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90
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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91
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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92
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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93
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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94
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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95
candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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96
humane
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| adj.人道的，富有同情心的 | |
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97
pane
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| n.窗格玻璃，长方块 | |
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98
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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99
mechanism
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| n.机械装置；机构，结构 | |
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100
laundering
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| n.洗涤（衣等），洗烫（衣等）；洗（钱）v.洗（衣服等），洗烫（衣服等）( launder的现在分词 )；洗（黑钱）（把非法收入改头换面，变为貌似合法的收入） | |
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101
genially
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| adv.亲切地，和蔼地；快活地 | |
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102
stork
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| n.鹳 | |
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103
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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104
silhouette
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| n.黑色半身侧面影，影子，轮廓；v.描绘成侧面影，照出影子来，仅仅显出轮廓 | |
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105
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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106
absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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107
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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108
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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109
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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110
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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111
scuttled
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| v.使船沉没( scuttle的过去式和过去分词 )；快跑，急走 | |
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112
marketing
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| n.行销，在市场的买卖，买东西 | |
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113
stationery
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| n.文具；(配套的)信笺信封 | |
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114
dealers
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| n.商人( dealer的名词复数 )；贩毒者；毒品贩子；发牌者 | |
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115
dealer
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| n.商人，贩子 | |
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116
proprietorship
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| n.所有（权）；所有权 | |
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117
profuse
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| adj.很多的，大量的，极其丰富的 | |
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118
assortment
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| n.分类，各色俱备之物，聚集 | |
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119
atrocities
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| n.邪恶，暴行( atrocity的名词复数 )；滔天大罪 | |
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120
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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121
judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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122
cipher
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| n.零；无影响力的人；密码 | |
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123
specialized
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| adj.专门的，专业化的 | |
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124
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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125
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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126
connoisseurs
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| n.鉴赏家，鉴定家，行家( connoisseur的名词复数 ) | |
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127
authenticity
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| n.真实性 | |
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128
anatomy
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| n.解剖学，解剖；功能，结构，组织 | |
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129
shrilly
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| 尖声的； 光亮的，耀眼的 | |
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130
gull
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| n.鸥；受骗的人；v.欺诈 | |
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131
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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132
preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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133
brilliance
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| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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134
pinnacle
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| n.尖塔，尖顶，山峰；(喻)顶峰 | |
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135
truncated
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| adj.切去顶端的，缩短了的，被删节的v.截面的( truncate的过去式和过去分词 )；截头的；缩短了的；截去顶端或末端 | |
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136
sarcastically
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| adv.挖苦地，讽刺地 | |
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137
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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138
aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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139
lucid
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| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
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140
persevering
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| a.坚忍不拔的 | |
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141
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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142
devour
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| v.吞没；贪婪地注视或谛听，贪读；使着迷 | |
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143
mesh
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| n.网孔，网丝，陷阱；vt.以网捕捉，啮合，匹配；vi.适合； [计算机]网络 | |
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144
awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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145
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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146
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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147
tongs
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| n.钳；夹子 | |
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148
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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149
grill
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| n.烤架，铁格子，烤肉；v.烧，烤，严加盘问 | |
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150
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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151
alcoves
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| n.凹室( alcove的名词复数 )；（花园）凉亭；僻静处；壁龛 | |
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152
lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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153
scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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154
apertures
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| n.孔( aperture的名词复数 )；隙缝；（照相机的）光圈；孔径 | |
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155
confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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156
relentlessly
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| adv.不屈不挠地；残酷地；不间断 | |
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157
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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158
inhaled
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| v.吸入( inhale的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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159
analyzed
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| v.分析( analyze的过去式和过去分词 )；分解；解释；对…进行心理分析 | |
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160
sift
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| v.筛撒，纷落，详察 | |
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161
miscreant
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| n.恶棍 | |
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162
smoker
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| n.吸烟者，吸烟车厢，吸烟室 | |
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163
infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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164
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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165
passersby
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| n. 过路人(行人,经过者) | |
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166
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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167
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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168
jut
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| v.突出；n.突出，突出物 | |
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169
vindictive
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| adj.有报仇心的，怀恨的，惩罚的 | |
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170
cinders
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| n.煤渣( cinder的名词复数 )；炭渣；煤渣路；煤渣跑道 | |
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171
premium
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| n.加付款；赠品；adj.高级的；售价高的 | |
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172
nonchalance
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| n.冷淡，漠不关心 | |
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173
greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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174
rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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175
collapses
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| 折叠( collapse的第三人称单数 )； 倒塌； 崩溃； （尤指工作劳累后）坐下 | |
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176
slovenly
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| adj.懒散的，不整齐的，邋遢的 | |
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177
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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