A Touch of the Creature by Charles Beaumont

Author:Charles Beaumont
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Valancourt Books
Published: 2015-08-15T04:00:00+00:00

Time and Again

His manner was courteous and, I thought, a little sad at the task before him—which was to cheat me. He glanced away from the books nervously. “Of course, you understand, Mr. Friedman,” he said, “there’s practically no call whatever for this sort of thing these days.”

I nodded. He was a bright lad: the meaning of my smile did not go by him. He averted his eyes. I think it was this gesture—of sweeping the eyes downward, of profound embarrassment—that first set me to wondering where our paths might have crossed before.

“The universities aren’t buying much any more; that could have been an outlet. Can’t even sell them folklore, though. Which makes it rough, you see.” He drew a deep breath. “To tell you the truth, sir, we actually couldn’t use your library at all and, frankly, I’d be taking a big chance to make you any kind of an offer.” The words came out hyphenated: an unhappy schoolboy’s mumbling fulfillment of the week’s elocution assignment. His ears were burning.

“However,” he went on, “since-I’m-here-I’ll-take-the-risk-just-to-get-them-off-your-hands.” He had unconsciously withdrawn a pristine copy of Breasted’s excellent study; his fingers ran along the finely tooled leather. It was an example of Bayntun’s­ best work.

“That is very kind of you,” I said, “under the circumstances.”

He blushed. It was amusing, how carelessly he replaced the book, suddenly conscious of the tactical error. He took a checkbook from his pocket. “Five—” His voice quavered a moment and then switched to a defensively arrogant authoritativeness. “Five hundred dollars is the limit we could possibly go,” he said, still looking at the rug.

I felt sorry for the boy. Quite apart from the growing sense of recognition, he was plainly intelligent and agonized at the ignominy of his position. He had been unable to conceal his excitement at my library—I’d collected for many years and in many lands and the collection abounded with choice items. Many volumes had cost considerably in excess of the price I was now being offered for the lot. And the boy knew it. Clearly.

“Very well,” I said, perhaps maliciously, “if you think that a fair bid, I accept.”

He swallowed. Then he unscrewed his pen and began to fill in the check. He got no further than the date. “Mr. Friedman,” he said, slowly, “on second thought, the risk is too great. I’m—afraid I’ll have to withdraw the offer. We can’t use these books.”

“Oh? Pity. I’d hoped you could—you see, I’m leaving for Cairo next week. Probably for good. Well, no harm done; there are other book stores, now, aren’t there. What about Martindale’s? Do you suppose they might—”

“Sir—” The boy tore up the check and walked over to my bookcases. He looked up suddenly: the feeling of familiarity burst powerfully at this exact instant: somewhere, at some time, I’d seen that face. But not merely the face. More disturbing, the entire personality was closely associated with my memory.

“Sir, I’ve got to tell you something.”

“By all means.”

He licked his lips and dropped his eyes to the folio of pre-­Dynastian tablets he’d removed.

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