Three days later the following letter appeared in the newspapers. It is given here because it will make a fitting ending to the Hundred and First Tale of the Decameron.
New York, December 14, 1912.
Sir:
I have read with interest the various explanations given in the papers concerning the disappearance of the book from Mr. Libro's library. I can supply the key to the whole problem.
Some two years or so ago, I was stone broke. One day I read that Mr. Libro had purchased at a great price the book which has caused all this commotion. I thought I would lift it some night when I had nothing better to do, and sell it back to its owner or some other book crank. I called one afternoon at the Libro house with some magazines on pretence of securing subscriptions. The ruse worked. Mr. Libro ordered the Bookman,—a magazine I had never heard of. He showed me one or two of his books,—these maniacs always want to show you their things. I was bored to death, as you can imagine.
While he was signing the subscription blank I made a wax impression of the key to the cases. That night I did a second story job. The window was open. I easily found the library. But where was the confounded book? I looked everywhere. There seemed to be millions of books. In one case I noticed a shelf that was uneven. I looked at it. I saw the name "Boccaccio." I placed the volume underneath my coat and left.
The evening papers were filled with the news. What could I do with the volume? I could not keep it in my room, as I feared the police would find it. I did not dream that it would be missed so soon, and I did not anticipate all this fuss over a shabby old book. I tried to think of a place to hide it, but could not. One of the papers said that a Richard Hooker was the other crank who had bid for it at the auction sale. If I went to him now he would refuse to buy it and arrest me.
I tried another and surer course. That night I went to Hooker's house,—another second story job—and left the cursed book in the most conspicuous place in the library. The next day I called on him. I said I was Mr. Scott,—a detective. I accused him of stealing the book from Mr. Libro. He said I lied. I told him he had the book in his house now. From the expression on his face I knew I had him. He said he had found the book in his library, but had not taken it and did not know how it had got there. I asked him if he thought anyone would believe him. He said—No! Everyone would think he had stolen it. Hooker offered me a thousand dollars to take the book and say nothing. I accepted two thousand dollars in cash. I took the book, but where to hide it I did not know. It was under my coat when I was passing 42nd Street and Fifth Avenue. A thought struck me. I would place it where it would never be found. The people here have no time to read books; it was the best place of all. In a moment I was in the library; I threw the cursed old thing on one of the shelves. I left in great glee.
At the corner of 40th Street and the Avenue I was arrested by one of Captain Bunting's men. They tried to get something on me, but could not. I was innocent!
I am on my way to London to visit the British Museum, for I find the study of books profitable.