In speaking to some of those spectators who attended the case religiously, I learned more of the background that had led to the man’s arrest. One of the prominent New York judges had, in an earlier position as an alderman, argued that copyright theft should be a criminal offense because it was an affront to the greatest tool possessed by mankind: the brain. This judge, a man named Salisbury, was half-English and had detested the theft of British literature by American publishers as an immoral example to the nation’s youth. Although criminal provisions were not included in the new copyright legislation that was based on the international agreement signed at Berne, Judge Salisbury convinced the city’s prosecutors to concoct a complicated bundle of charges tied with the new treaty to make an example of this notorious literary pirate: possession of stolen goods, fraud, unlawful importation of cargo, attempted larceny against the publishing firm. Copyright was just the beginning. The case of New York v. Lott would herald the start of this new era in protecting authors.
But the defense counsel was astute and the criminal charges could not be maintained, especially after the fire that nearly killed Mr. Fergins—the cause of which remained undiscovered—also destroyed or badly damaged almost half the evidence against the prisoner. Belial was released by the court after months of useless hearings and motions. In the six months since the July arrest, various authors and publishers had brought private suits against the bookaneer in civil court. But none of the other cases ever moved forward because after he was freed from the nearby Tombs he vanished from the jurisdiction. His disappearance, mentioned only in passing in the New York Evening World, came as no surprise to me. Though I had never exchanged a word with the notorious bookaneer, I almost felt I knew him through my visits and through the honest, spectacled eyes of Mr. Fergins. I was even a little gratified that the fellow had acted just as I expected.
I swore to myself I would not pester Mr. Fergins for further information after he seemed to have become so worn out. Just a few days after New Year’s, Mr. Fergins began reappearing on our train route. The first day of his return I was stacking dishes and did not have the chance to speak with him at any length before he had to go. He did tell me that he felt much better; in fact he said he had “never felt stronger.” The next occasion when we were both present, his time was monopolized by a loud bibliophile who was lecturing him about the flaws of various editions in his cart. We barely exchanged greetings. I decided to call on him at his boardinghouse. Finding him out, I left a note, and I could not help myself, despite promises to myself and to him: in a postscript I included only one of the many queries I was itching to ask.
“Was it Samoan,” asked my note, “that the bookaneer spoke to you that first day at the courthouse?”
The note sent to me in return read simply: “My dear Mr. Clover. Perhaps! Cordially and gratefully yours, as always, E. C. Fergins.”
Then he was gone.
? ? ?
I STILL HAD SO MUCH to ask about Davenport, about Belial, about Vao and Stevenson . . . If only I had taken note of the postmark on Mr. Fergins’s letter in response to my note asking about the bookaneer speaking Samoan, maybe I could have found him. It never occurred to me to save it, for I fully expected to see him soon. But Mr. Fergins never again stepped aboard our train. After three weeks of worrying about his health, I made the trek again to the bookseller’s rooms, slipping and gliding across sidewalks encrusted with ice. The rooms were empty. Not a single book or even a pamphlet left behind. The landlady would not say where he had gone. Maybe she did not know. I paused at the street door before exiting. There, in an otherwise empty iron stand, was the gaily striped umbrella of Mr. Fergins’s, the one that had been with him in Samoa; I picked it up, studied the dark crimson spotting on its wings, chilled to think of its source. I let it fall freely down into the stand with a clang, annoying the old lady one last time.
Remembering those last, brief meetings on the train, I began to wonder if the bookseller had been avoiding me. Our eyes had met as usual, he had whistled and smiled as usual, but there had been distance and hesitation in his demeanor. Toward the end of his narration of the Stevenson affair, he had recounted telling Belial that his time in New York would be temporary. He had never intended on staying here forever. Still, I never expected him to vanish.
One day, a few weeks after discovering his departure, I was walking by the courthouse. I recognized one of the men outside. He had a beaver hat, a distinctive set of lines around his eyes, as though someone had painted them, and a full, flabby chin; he had that air of importance seen around a courthouse. I had seen him while I was helping Mr. Fergins during his long convalescence, and before that glimpsed him with Mr. Fergins on these same steps. He was walking with a purposeful and rapid stride in the direction of a waiting carriage. I took a deep breath before I followed him.
“Excuse me, sir,” I said, and had to test my resolve when he gave no reply and I had to repeat it in a louder voice.
“‘Your honor,’ boy!” he roared, then kept walking after a sidelong glance at me.
“Your honor, very sorry,” I said, trying to keep up. “Your honor, excuse the interruption, if I could speak with you for a moment—”
“What could you possibly have to speak with me about?”
“It’s about Edgar Fergins. You called on him at his boardinghouse when I was there.”
He slowed down, then stopped, jiggled his chin and made a noise of agreement at me. “That bookseller is a fortunate man.”
“Because he recovered from his injuries?”
“Thank goodness. But I meant he is fortunate to return to London. A much more cultivated place for a bookman. Some of the finest editions in my collection came from my time in London society.”
“Are you Justice Salisbury?” I asked after listening to his accent and remembering the Anglophile judge I had heard about, the one who first hatched Belial’s arrest as an example to all copyright thieves.
“Indeed I answer to that name,” he said, so proud of the fact he did not seem to wonder how I knew. “Do not tell me your name, boy. I have an appointment and I haven’t the time to hear it.”