The Burglar Who liked to Quote Kipling

CHAPTER Four

I met J. Rudyard Whelkin on a slow midweek morning two weeks prior to my little venture in breaking and entering. The Yankees had just dropped the first two games of the Series, and the night before I’d watched a kid barely old enough to shave strike out Reggie Jackson with the bases loaded. This morning it was damp and drizzly, and it figured.

I hadn’t had any customers yet and I didn’t much care; I was settled in behind the counter with a paperback. I don’t stock paperbacks, and the ones that come in I wholesale to a guy on Third and Sixteenth who deals in nothing else.

Sometimes, though, I read them first. The one I was reading was one of Richard Stark’s books about Parker. Parker’s a professional thief, and every book runs pretty much to form-Parker puts together a string of crooks, he goes someplace like Spartanburg, South Carolina, to buy guns and a truck, he gets a dentist in Yankton Falls to put up front money for the operation, he and his buddies pull the job, and then something goes horribly wrong. If nothing went horribly wrong, all of the books would end around page 70 and by now Parker would own his own island in the Caribbean.

Last time I was inside, everybody was a big fan of Parker’s. My colleagues read everything they could get their hands on about him, even if they had to move their lips to get the job done. I swear there were grizzled cons in that joint who would walk around quoting passages at each other, especially parts where Parker maimed someone. One safecracker always quoted the part where Parker settled a score with an unworthy fellow laborer by breaking three important bones and leaving him in a swamp. It was the adjective that did it for him, the idea of deliberately breaking important bones.

I had just reached the part where Parker was putting in an urgent call to Handy McKay at his diner in Presque Isle, Maine, when the little bells above the door tinkled to announce I had company. I moved the paperback out of sight as my visitor approached the counter. After all, antiquarian booksellers have an image to protect. We’re not supposed to read trash.

He was a stout man, florid of face, jowly as a bulldog, with thinning mahogany hair combed straight back over a glossy salmon scalp. He wore a charcoal-brown herringbone tweed jacket with suede elbow patches, a tobacco-brown sweater vest, a tan oxford-cloth shirt with a button-down collar, a chocolate-brown knit tie. His trousers were fawn cavalry twill, his shoes brown wing tips. He had a long narrow nose, a graying guardsman’s mustache. His eyebrows were untamed tangles of briar; beneath them his eyes (brown, to match his outfit) were keen and cool and just a trifle bloodshot.

He asked if Mr. Litzauer was expected, and I explained about the change in ownership. “Ah,” he said. “No wonder he hasn’t been in touch. I’m a collector, you see, and he always lets me know when he runs across an item I might fancy.”

“What do you collect?”

“Victorian poets, for the most part, but I follow my taste, you know. I’m partial to artful rhymers. Thomas Hood. Algernon Charles Swinburne. William Mackworth Praed. Kipling, of course, is my keenest enthusiasm.”

I told him whatever I had was on the shelves. He went to look for himself and I got Parker out from beneath the counter and returned to vicarious crime. Two of Parker’s henchpersons were just getting ready to set up a doublecross when my tweedy customer presented himself once again at the counter, a small clothbound volume in hand. It contained the collected lyric poems of Austin Dobson and I had it priced at six or seven dollars, something like that. He paid in cash and I wrapped it for him.

“If you happen on anything you think I might like,” he said, “you might want to ring me up.”

He handed me his card. It bore his name, an address in the East Thirties, and a phone number with a MUrray Hill 8 exchange. The card conveyed no suggestion of what the man did for a living.

I looked from it to him. “You collect Kipling,” I said.

“Among others, yes.”

“Is there a family connection?”

He smiled broadly. “Because of the name, you mean? Natural guess, of course. But no, I’m no relative of Kipling’s. Rudyard’s not a family name, you see. It’s the name of a lake.”

“Oh?”

“In Staffordshire. Kipling’s parents first met on a picnic at Lake Rudyard. When in due course their son was born he was given the lake’s name as a middle name. His first name was Joseph, actually, although he never did use it and was known as Ruddy from earliest childhood.”

“And your first name-”

“Is James, as it happens, and I don’t use it either. James Rudyard Whelkin. I was eight years old when Kipling died and I remember the day very well. That was in 1936, just two days after George V preceded him to the grave. A day of mourning in our household, as you can well imagine. My father admired Kipling enormously. He’d have to have done, to name his only son after him, wouldn’t he? Because I was named for Kipling, of course, not for a lake in Staffordshire. ‘First the old king and now the Bard of Empire,’ my father said. ‘Mark my words, Ruddy. There’ll be war in Europe within the next two years.’ He was off by a year of course, and I don’t suppose Kipling’s demise had much to do with Hitler’s invading Poland, but it all linked up in the old fellow’s mind, you see.” He smiled fiercely and his great eyebrows shook. “Are you interested in Kipling, Mr. Rhodenbarr?”

“I read him when I was a kid.”

“You might try him again. He’s returning to fashion, you know, after altogether too many years of neglect. Have you had a look at Kim lately? Or The Light That Failed? Or-But reading must be a bit of a busman’s holiday for you, eh? Must grow sick and tired of the printed word by the end of a long day.”

“Oh, I still enjoy reading. And maybe I will try Kipling again.”

“Do. There’s books on your own shelves, for a starter.” An appraising glance from his alert brown eyes. “I say, sir. Do you suppose you could possibly lunch with me this afternoon? I might have something to say that would interest you.”

“I’d like that.”

“My club, then. Do you know the Martingale? And how’s half past twelve?”

I told him I knew where the club was, and that twelve-thirty was fine.

He’d already said something that interested me.

The Martingale Club was just right for him, a good match for his dress and his faintly pukka sahib manner. It stood at the corner of Madison Avenue and Thirtieth Street and was decorated largely with uncomfortable Jacobean oak furniture and the heads of innumerable dead animals.

We dined in a fair-sized room on the second floor under the glass-eyed stare of a bison allegedly shot by Theodore Roosevelt for reasons I could not begin to guess. Lunch was a leathery mixed grill with thawed green peas and spineless French fried potatoes. The waiter who brought this mess to the table was a rheumy-eyed chap who walked as though his feet were killing him. He looked almost as woebegone as the bison.

Whelkin and I talked books through the meal, then both turned down dessert. The sad waiter brought us a large silver coffeepot of the sort they used to serve you on trains. The coffee was even better than the old Pennsy dining car once supplied, rich and winy and aromatic.

Our table was next to a pair of casement windows. I sipped my coffee and looked out at Madison Avenue. The last of the Good Humor men was doing light business on the corner. In a matter of days he’d be gone, yielding place to a seller of hot pretzels and chestnuts as the seasons changed in their inexorable fashion. You couldn’t watch the leaves turn, not from this window, but you could mark time’s passage by keeping an eye on the street vendors.

Whelkin cleared his throat, interrupting this reverie. “H. Rider Haggard,” he said. “I told you I collect him as well?”

“I think you mentioned him.”

“Interesting man. Did for South Africa what Kipling did for India. She, King Solomon’s Mines-but of course you know his work.”

“In a general way.”

“He and Kipling became great friends, you know. Both of them were on the outs with the Bloomsbury crowd. Both lived long enough to see their own literary reputations fade dismally. The public came to think of them in the same breath as apologists for a discredited imperialism. Do you know the J. K. Stephens poem?”

I didn’t even know whom he was talking about, but he managed to quote the poem from memory:

“Will there never come a season

Which shall rid us from the curse

Of a prose which knows no reason

And an unmelodious verse:

When the world shall cease to wonder

At the genius of an Ass,

And a boy’s eccentric blunder

Shall not bring success to pass:

When mankind shall be delivered

From the clash of magazines,

And the inkstand shall be shivered

Into countless smithereens:

When there stands a muzzled stripling,

Mute, beside a muzzled bore:

When the Rudyards cease from Kipling

And the Haggards Ride no more.”

He moved to refill our coffee cups. “Nasty piece of billingsgate, eh? One of many such. Just drove the two of them closer together, however. Haggard spent as much time at Kipling’s house in Surrey as he did at home. They’d actually work together in Kipling’s study, sitting on opposite ends of the long desk, batting ideas back and forth, then scribbling away furiously at one thing or another.”

“Interesting,” I said.

“Isn’t it? Not too long after the 1918 Armistice the two men set about organizing the Liberty League, a sort of anti-Communist affair which never got terribly far off the ground. The bit of doggerel someone wrote gives a fair idea of the Liberty League’s slant on current affairs. You know the poem?”

“I don’t think so.”

“It’s cleverly rhymed, and I think I mentioned my admiration for a facility at rhyming.

“ ‘Every Bolsh is a blackguard,’

Said Kipling to Haggard.

‘And given to tippling,’

Said Haggard to Kipling.

‘And a blooming outsider,’

Said Rudyard to Rider.

‘Their domain is a bloodyard,’

Said Rider to Rudyard.

“Neatly done, don’t you think? I could quote others of a similar nature but I’ll spare you that.”

I very nearly thanked him. I was beginning to think I’d been mistaken, that he’d just brought me here to quote verse at me. Well, at least the coffee was good.

Then he said, “Liberty League. After it fell apart, Kipling went through a difficult time. His health was poor. Gastritis, which he thought might be symptomatic of cancer. Turned out he had duodenal ulcers. He was subject to depression and it may have affected his thinking.

“The man became briefly fixated on the curious notion that the British Empire was menaced by an unholy alliance of Jewish international financiers and Jewish Bolsheviks. These two unlikely forces were joining together to destroy Christianity by wresting the overseas empire from the British crown. Kipling wasn’t the sort of moral degenerate to whom anti-Semitism comes naturally, and he didn’t persist in it for any length of time, nor did it color his work to a considerable extent.

“But he did write one extremely bizarre piece of work on an anti-Semitic theme. It was a narrative poem in ballad meter, some three thousand two hundred lines called The Deliverance of Fort Bucklow. The plot line concerns the efforts of a gallant British regiment to save India from a revolution stirred up by Jewish agitators, and it’s quite clear that the battle for Fort Bucklow is not merely the decisive battle of this war but Kipling’s version of the Battle of Armageddon, with the forces of Good and Evil pitted against one another to decide the fate of humankind.

“Do you remember Soldiers Three? Learoyd, Ortheris and Mulvaney? Kipling brought them back to make them the heroes who deliver Fort Bucklow and save the day for God and King George. Oh, there are some stirring battle scenes, and there’s a moment when ‘two brave men stand face to face’ in a manner reminiscent of The Ballad of East and West, but poor Kipling was miles from the top of his form when he wrote it. The premise is absurd, the resolution is weak, and there are elements of frightful unwitting self-parody. He often skated rather close to the edge of self-parody, you know, and here he lost his footing.

“Perhaps he recognized this himself. Perhaps his vision of the Hebraic Conspiracy embraced the world of publishing. In any event, he didn’t offer The Deliverance of Fort Bucklow to his London publishers. He may have planned to do so ultimately, but in the meantime he elected to safeguard the copyright by bringing out the poem in a small private edition.”

“Ah.”

“Ah indeed, sir. Kipling found a printer named Smithwick amp; Son in Tunbridge Wells. If Smithwick ever printed another book before or since, I’ve never heard of it. But he did print this one, and in an edition of only one hundred fifty copies. It’s not fine printing by any means because Smithwick wasn’t capable of it. But he got the job done, and the book’s quite a rarity.”

“It must be. One hundred fifty copies…”

Whelkin smiled widely. “That’s how many were printed. How many do you suppose survive?”

“I have no idea. The Deliverance of Fort Bucklow ? I’ve never heard the title.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“Fifty copies? Seventy-five? I have no idea what the survival rate would be.”

The coffeepot was empty. Whelkin frowned and rang a bell mounted on the wall. He didn’t say anything until the waiter limped over with a fresh pot.

Then he said, “Kipling wrote the poem in 1923. He’d hoped to give out copies to close friends for Christmas that year, but the holiday had come and gone before Smithwick was able to make delivery. So Kipling decided to hold them over for Christmas of ’24, but sometime in the course of the year he seems to have come to his senses, recognizing the poem as a scurrilous piece of Jew-baiting tripe and bad verse in the bargain.

“As was his custom, Kipling had presented his wife, Carrie, with an inscribed copy. He asked for it back. He’d given another copy to a Surrey neighbor of his named Lonsdale as a birthday gift in early spring and he managed to get it back as well, giving the man several other books in exchange. These two books, as well as the other bound volumes, the printer’s proofs, and the original holograph manuscript plus the typed manuscript from which Smithwick set type-all of this went up the chimney at Bateman’s.”

“Bateman’s?”

“Bateman’s was the name of Kipling’s house. There’s an undated letter to a London acquaintance, evidently written in the late summer or early fan of ’24, in which Kipling talks of having felt like an erring Israelite who had just sacrificed a child by fire to Moloch. ‘But this was a changeling, this bad child of mine, and it was with some satisfaction I committed it to the flames.’ ” Whelkin sighed with contentment, sipped coffee, placed his cup in its saucer. “And that,” he said, “was the end of The Deliverance of Fort Bucklow.”

“Except that it wasn’t.”

“Of course not, Mr. Rhodenbarr. The Rider Haggard copy still existed. Kipling, of course, had given a copy to his closest friend almost as soon as he received the edition from Smithwick. Had it slipped his mind when he set about recalling the other copies? I don’t think so.

“Haggard, you see, was in failing health. And Kipling had dedicated the book to Haggard, and had added a personal inscription to Haggard’s own copy, a paragraph running to over a hundred words in which he hailed Haggard as a kindred spirit who shared the author’s vision of the peril of Jewish-inspired holocaust, or words to that effect. I believe there’s a letter of Rider Haggard’s in the collection of the University of Texas acknowledging the gift and praising the poem. After all that, Kipling may have been understandably reluctant to disown the work and ask for the book’s return. In any event, the copy was still in Haggard’s possession upon his death the following year.”

“Then what happened to it?”

“It was sold along with the rest of Haggard’s library, and no one seems to have paid any immediate attention to it. The world didn’t know the book existed, and no doubt it was sold in a lot with the other copies of Kipling’s works, and for very little money, I’m sure. It came to light shortly after Kipling’s death-not the copy, but the realization that Kipling had written an anti-Semitic poem. The British Union of Fascists wanted to disseminate it, and Unity Mitford was rumored to have been on the trail of the Haggard copy when war broke out between Britain and Germany.

“Nothing further was heard until after the war, when the Haggard copy turned up in the possession of a North Country baronet, who sold it privately. There were supposed to have been two or three additional private transactions before the volume was scheduled to appear in Trebizond amp; Partners auction of effects from the estate of the twelfth Lord Ponsonby.”

“You say scheduled to appear?”

He nodded shortly. “Scheduled, catalogued and withdrawn. Six weeks ago I took one of Freddie Laker’s no-frills flights to London with the sole purpose of bidding on that book. I calculated that the competition would be keen. There are some rabid Kipling collectors, you know, and his reputation’s been making a comeback. The University of Texas has a well-endowed library and their Kipling collection is a sound one. I expected there would be buyers for other institutions as well.”

“Did you expect to outbid them?”

“I expected to try. I didn’t know just how high I myself was prepared to go, and of course I had no way of knowing what levels the bidding might reach. Upon arriving in London, I learned there was a Saudi who wanted that particular lot, and rumor had it that an agent for some sort of Indian prince or Maharajah was paying extraordinary prices for top-level Kiplingana. Could I have outbid such persons? I don’t know. The Deliverance of Fort Bucklow is interesting and unique, but it hasn’t been publicized sufficiently to have become important, really, and the work itself is of low quality from a literary standpoint.” He frowned, and his eyebrows quivered. “Still in all, I should have liked the chance to bid in open auction.”

“But the lot was withdrawn.”

“By the heirs prior to sale. The gentleman from Trebizond ’s was quite apologetic, and reasonably indignant himself. After all, his agreement with the heirs precluded their making private arrangements. But what could he possibly do about it? The buyer had the book and the heirs had the money and that was the end of it.”

“Why arrange a private sale?”

“Taxes, Mr. Rhodenbarr. Taxes. Death duties, Inland Revenue enquiries-the tax laws make finaglers of us all, do they not? What voice on earth speaks with the volume of unrecorded cash? Money in hand, passed under the table, and the heirs can swear the book was set aside as an heirloom, or destroyed in a flash flood, or whatever they choose. They won’t be believed, but what matter?”

“Who bought the book?”

“The good people at Trebizond ’s didn’t know, of course. And the heirs weren’t telling-their official line was that the book hadn’t been sold at all.” He put his elbows on the table and placed his fingertips together. “I did some investigatory work of my own. The Deliverance of Fort Bucklow was sold to Jesse Arkwright, an artful dabbler in international trade.”

“And a collector, I suppose?”

“An acquirer, sir. Not a collector. A gross ill-favored man who surrounds himself with exquisite objects in the hope that they will somehow cloak his own inner ugliness. He has a library, Mr. Rhodenbarr, because to do so fits the image he would like to project. He has books, some of them noteworthy, because books are the sine qua non of a proper library. But he is hardly a collector, and he most certainly does not collect Kipling.”

“Then why-”

“Should he want this book? Because I wanted it, Mr. Rhodenbarr. It’s that simple.”

“Oh.”

“Do you remember the Spinning Jenny?”

“It was a dance craze, wasn’t it?”

He looked at me oddly. “It was a machine,” he said. “The first machine capable of producing cotton thread. Sir Richard Arkwright patented it in 1769 and launched the modern British textile industry.”

“Oh, right,” I said. “The Industrial Revolution and all that.”

“And all that,” he agreed. “Jesse Arkwright claims descent from Sir Richard. I’m no more inclined to take his word on that point than any other. His surname means builder of arks, so perhaps he’ll next hire a genealogist to trace his roots clear back to Noah.”

“And he bought the book to keep you from having it?”

“I once acquired something that he wanted. This seems to have been his way of paying me back.”

“And he won’t sell it.”

“Certainly not.”

“And there’s no other copy extant.”

“None has come to light in half a century.”

“And you still want this particular copy.”

“More than ever.”

“How fortunate that you happened to pop into Barnegat Books this morning.”

He stared.

“You called me by name before I had a chance to supply it. You came into the shop looking for me, not for Mr. Litzauer. Not because I sell secondhand books but because I used to be a burglar. You figure I’m still a burglar.”

“I-”

“You don’t believe people change. You’re as bad as the police. ‘Once a burglar, always a burglar’-that’s the way you figure it, isn’t it?”

“I was wrong,” he said, and lowered his eyes.

“No,” I said. “You were right.”