I sighed. A long-winded one. And in Latin, yet!
He motioned to Jimmy. "Let this gentleman have another drink, bartender." He moved closer to me. "I will tell you what I know," he said. "If you believe, perhaps you will be able to do something about it. This much is certain. Very little time remains before disaster strikes!"
It all began (he said) prosaically enough on the Tuesday of last week, on the third floor of the Public Library at 42nd Street, in Room 315. There, as you probably know, one may obtain books on most subjects by filling out a slip, receiving an odd or even number, and retiring to either the odd or even Reading Room, where your number will eventually flash on a lighted board. At the time I was engrossed in a study of the early life of Publilius Syrus and, I must admit, glanced only casually at the card given me by the young man at the desk. I saw that it was 18 and proceeded into the Even room on the right for what I knew from past experience would be a tedious wait.
Ah! Had I but paid more attention to the card handed me! But "Ad poenitendum properat, cito qui judicat." "He makes speed to repentance who judges hastily." The card which I thought was numbered 18, was actually 81. I had inadvertently glanced at it upside down. Had the Roman numeral system been used, as I have long advocated, this unfortunate accident could not have occurred: a XVIII cannot be mistaken for LXXXI no matter which way it is turned!
Be that as it may, number 18 flashed on the board in a surprisingly short time and I hastened to obtain the book from the extremely harried young lady behind the counter. I returned to my chair at one of the long reading tables. When I opened the book, which was of a disturbing blue color, I was highly irritated to learn that this was not a biography of Publilius Syrus; furthermore it was not even in Latin. I removed my glasses to make certain (someday I shall simply have to get bifocals) and saw that it was a foreign cookbook.
Annoyed, I snatched the book from the table and started to return to the counter. As I did so, a green slip of paper fluttered from between the pages. I glanced at it idly. There was an address on it, scrawled in almost illegible block letters. "432 West 28th Street." Being of a tidy nature, I slipped the bit of paper into my pocket and turned, only to find my way blocked by a rather large man wearing a trench coat with upturned collar. He tapped the book significantly and whispered, "Eight-thirty tonight. You know the place."
With that he strode rapidly from the room, giving me no chance to ask him what he was talking about. Irritated, I returned to the counter where a smallish man, wearing a loud-checked suit was arguing with the young lady. He was holding a number card.
"But I tell you," said the harassed young lady, "number 18 was flashed on the board and the book was picked up."
The little man clucked impatiently and waved the card. "But I have number 18," he said shrilly, "and I must have the book!"