All Fall Down

CHAPTER ONE

Screwing up his eyes in the morning sunlight, Ellis McKay stumped down Regent Street. His rolling walk was slower than usual; slower, and less decisive. As he reached the corner of Vigo Street, he stopped irresolutely, and thrust out his underlip in a gesture of simian perplexity.

It was one of those early summer mornings when nobody seems to be in a hurry. The mild, swimming air, the day’s benign promise, reached all alike. Even those who had definite errands were sauntering, to get the utmost from the sun; some smiling to themselves as if possessed of a happy secret, others looking about them, full of interest in their fellow creatures.

Ellis, standing stockily in the middle of the pavement, drew many a glance of surprise and veiled amusement. The thick, sturdy figure, the cheerful rubicund face with its prominent blue eyes, the high forehead topped by tufts of reddish hair that stood up round a large bald patch like furze round a clearing, had a knack of drawing attention anywhere. This morning, in the mellow, peaceful air, it was quite startlingly incongruous. Ellis was wearing a sports jacket of vivid tweed, a shade between green and blue possible only to the dyers of the Hebrides. His thick legs were clad in dirty gray flannel bags, his check shirt was crumpled, his tie crooked. His crimson cheeks were tinged with a yellowish pallor, the violence of his features blurred with an obdurate red stubble. The grimaces of indecision, and the dolorous tenor humming that accompanied them, completed a study in eccentricity which caused passers-by to give him most of the pavement to himself.

Suddenly, with a loud snort, Ellis turned sharp right and plunged up Vigo Street. Whatever decision he had come to had evidently cleared his mind and mood together. The puckers left his face; he blinked rapidly, rubbed his left eye with the back of his hand, squared his broad shoulders, and stepped out. His humming shot with a jerk into the major key, and he beamed right and left, disturbing the half-tones and shadows of the narrow street with colour and absurdity.

He did not go far. Before the street widened, he lowered his left shoulder, executed a burlesque turn, and pushed open a door. The familiar smell of the bookshop hit him, tangible as warmth when one comes in from a cold night. A girl assistant, dusting books with a feather brush, straightened up at sight of him and grinned. Then, as she saw his condition, her grin faded swiftly to a look of concern.

“Mr. McKay——!”

Ellis winked, and looked past her enquiringly. She pointed with the brush.

“He won’t be long.”

Paul Gilkison was busy with a customer. He turned, raised his brows, then continued his eulogy of a modern poet.

“—there are still plenty of the first edition to be had, but enquiries are beginning to come in. I’ve had three this week; from America; and that’s usually a sign.”

The customer dully contemplated the volume in his hand.

“You think they’ll go up?”

The bookseller’s smooth chin rose a couple of inches.

“That is not my reason for recommending the purchase. I don’t look at it that way. If I did, I should surely get all the copies I could lay hands on, and hold them for a rise.”

There being no reply, he went on:

“I never recommend an author unless I believe in the quality of his work. That’s my only criterion.”

The customer looked up, wary, unconvinced. Ellis whistled softly through his teeth, and made a rude gesture towards the customer’s back, causing Gilkison to cough and look hastily in another direction. Then he plodded over to a table of books. He made to pick up from it a new limited edition, caught sight of his hands, and rubbed them on the seat of his trousers. As soon as he was satisfied, he picked the book up gingerly, and examined it.

Gilkison was showing his customer out.

“I’m sure you won’t regret it. Yes. Thank you so much. Good-morning.”

Ellis did not turn as he heard his friend’s footstep.

“Gilkie—you ought to be shot. The bloodiest of ramps. The ordinary edition, plus thirteen and six for ninepenn’-orth of binding and the author’s signature.”

“I know. I know. But I have to stock it.”

Ellis gazed at the flamboyant scrawl.

“What a hand. If anything, it’s filthier than what he writes in it.”

“Come to that, you look pretty filthy yourself.”

“Do I? Yes. I do, by God. Hide me. I’ll scare your customers.”

“Come in the back. I’m just going to have coffee. Hester.”

“Yes, Mr. Gilkison?”

“Mr. McKay would like a cup too.”

“I would, and all.”

The girl smiled at Ellis, and disappeared between two high bookshelves. Gilkison led the way to his sanctum, stopping to wait as Ellis peered at the exhibits on the tables.

Once in a chair, Ellis stretched and yawned deafeningly.

“Tired?” Gilkison asked.

“M’m. Had no sleep for three nights. None to speak of. Bad case. Long and tough.”

“Finished?”

“An hour ago.”

Ellis shook himself. The spectacle of the little fanatic in the top back room in Percy Street, fighting with the silent ferocity of a trapped rat, came between him and the morning.

“Sort of case I hate,” he said. “Poor devil, brave as a lion, serving his conscience, doing what he believes to be right: and I’ve got to hunt him and send him to his death.”

“Your conscience against his, in fact,” Gilkison said, as lightly as he could.

“I? I’m a hireling. It’s my livelihood. No conscience about that.”

Gilkison knew, from the belligerent thrust of the underlip, that Ellis wanted to be contradicted, and fly into further excesses of self-denigration. Wisely, he held off.

“Going to get a rest?”

“Yes. Chief had me in, complimented me, and gave me a week’s leave.”

The note of complacency was in such contrast that Gilkison wanted to laugh. He stirred his coffee busily. Ellis relaxed and sighed.

“I felt all to pieces. Didn’t know what I wanted. Then I knew. Books. I want to rummage, Gilk, Nothing else’ll do me.”

“You’re welcome, as you know. But you’ll have to rummage alone. I’m off in a few minutes.”

“Where?”

“Home. To pack. I’ve got to go down West.”

Ellis sat up.

“Auction? Vicar died—rush, to rob the widow?”

“No. I’m going to see Matt Baildon.”

“Who’s he?”

“Don’t you know? You must have heard me talk of him. He’s got one of the finest private libraries in England. Must be seen to be believed. All higgledy-piggledy, yet he can find any book inside two minutes. He lives in an ordinary small house, and it’s stacked and piled solid with books, from cellar to chimney. Double in all the shelves—on tables—on chairs—on the floor, everywhere. And what books! He’s got by far the best collection of the ’nineties I’ve ever seen.”

“ ’Nineties, eh? Why does he want you? Is he selling?”

“No such luck. He’s been ill, and wants ’em valued, that’s all.”

“What—the whole lot? Take you a while, won’t it?”

“A couple of hundred picked ones. I’ve been there to see ’em twice before.” Gilkison’s voice took on a grim note. “In 1929, just before the slump, Matt Baildon parted with seven books—only seven—and netted two thousand three hundred and sixty guineas. And two of the books were duplicates. I tell you, it’s a marvellous library. I wish you could see it.”

He looked at Ellis.

“Why don’t you come with me? You can. You’re on leave. It’d do you good.”

Ellis regarded him.

“How?”

“Easy enough. I’ll say you’re an expert I’ve brought with me.

“Thanks. I’d be bowled out in a minute.”

“No you wouldn’t. Stick to your ’nineties. Besides, you wouldn’t get a word in edgeways.”

Gilkison saw that he had decided to come, but would still argue. He smiled in quick affection for the bellicose absurd figure sitting forward in the chair. He could see just what Ellis must have been like as a small boy.

The girl, putting her head in to see if they wanted any more coffee or biscuits, caught the smile, and smiled back. The two men were as unlike as possible. Gilkison, tall, dark, and donnish, in navy blue, with his gentle, musical voice and few smooth gestures, seemed a perpetual reproof to his explosive and uncouth companion.

“I’m persuading Mr. McKay to come with me,” Gilkison told the girl. “I tell him a holiday will do him good.”

She flushed.

“I’m sure it would,” she said eagerly, smiling from one to the other. “Would Mr. McKay like a little more coffee?”

“Mr. McKay, having a tongue in his head, says thank you very much, he would.”

She looked flustered for an instant. With an unspeakable grin Ellis put her right, and she took his cup and went out giggling. Ellis grunted.

“The way you enslave these girls that work for you. It’s disgusting.”

“I?” Gilkison spread his hands. “Monstrous! It is you, on the other hand, winking and leering——”

“Don’t evade, don’t evade. You know perfectly well that you never rest till you’ve wormed your way into their immature affections, done the helpless bachelor at them, made them yearn to sew the buttons on your pants——”

“This is disgraceful. This is positively coarse,” Gilkison exclaimed in delight.

“I have never seen a man take fouler advantage of the fact that young women are economically dependent on him. You make every request a solicitation, every approach a caress. Your very voice——”

“Be quiet,” Gilkison said sharply, as the girl came in.

“Thank you.” Ellis beamed on her. “I really do need it.”

“I’m sure you do,” she exclaimed, and withdrew.

“I never leer,” said Ellis. “Give me a biscuit.”

Gilkison surveyed him.

“Well. Are you coming with me?”

“Where is it?”

“Seven miles from Exeter.”

“When do you start?”

“Hour and a half.”

“Does he collect gramophone records?”

“My dear man—I’ve no idea. Why should he?”

“Why shouldn’t he? I do.”

“A dangerous standard to apply. Are you coming?”

“Damn you. I suppose I might as well.” He heaved himself to his feet.

“Paddington. Twenty past eleven.”

“Train goes?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll be there eleven ten. Keep a seat for me.”

“Don’t be late.” A note of entreaty came into the bookseller’s precise voice. “It’s no joke trying to keep a seat nowadays. People say the foulest things.”

“Hand ’em back, with interest.”

“You enjoy being rude. I don’t.”

Ellis rubbed his chin. A look of extreme surprise came over his face.

“I must shave,” he said.