Free The Wanderer in Unknown Realms by John Connolly

letting the food settle in our stomachs that I raised again the subject of Dunwidge & Daughter.
    Young Mr. Blair puffed his cheeks, and scratched his chin, and drummed his fingers on the table, like a man contemplating the purchase of an item of whose provenance and quality he was profoundly distrustful.
    â€œDreadful woman,” he said at last, as if the conclusion had ever been in doubt. “Quite, quite dreadful.”
    I made it clear that I was not about to disagree with his assessment, and then explained something of my quandary: a mutual acquaintance (at this Young Mr. Blair tapped a finger to his nose and winked theatrically) had sought a book from Dunwidge & Daughter (frown, more puffing of cheeks, “appalling woman”), but the book was so obscure that they were unable to source it. Under such circumstances, I asked, to whom might our mutual acquaintance have turned?
    Young Mr. Blair considered the question.
    â€œOccult?” he asked.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œBad stuff. Ought to have stayed away from it.”
    â€œProbably.”
    â€œRare?”
    â€œVery.”
    â€œExpensive?”
    â€œVery, very.”
    â€œMaggs,” said Young Mr. Blair decisively. “Maggs is the man.”
    â€œDoes he have a first name?”
    â€œMight do. Never uses it. Rotten fellow.”
    He leaned across the table and whispered, “Maggs the Maggot,” and nodded his head solemnly.
    â€œIs he a bookseller?”
    â€œOooooh, no, no, no.”
    Young Mr. Blair appeared quite offended at the suggestion, as though by even implying such a thing I had besmirched the reputation of his trade.
    â€œBook scout ,” he corrected.
    â€œI don’t know what that is.”
    â€œLooks for rare books. Buys ’em cheap—widows and suchlike, don’t know any better—and sells ’em on to booksellers. Won’t have him in the shop. Thief, um? Cheat, um? But he can find ’em. Can find anything if it’s got a cover on it. Knows his books, does Maggs. Doesn’t love ’em, though. That’s the thing of it. You have to love them. No point to it otherwise.”
    Young Mr. Blair rubbed his right thumb against the middle and index fingers of his right hand in an unmistakable gesture.
    â€œAll about this, you know? Money, um? Nothing else. Bad as the woman. Ought to marry her!”
    He laughed at his joke and glanced at his pocket watch.
    â€œMust be off,” he said.
    He withdrew a wallet from the inside pocket of his jacket, but I waved it away.
    â€œA thank you,” I said. “For your help.”
    â€œOh,” he said, and I thought that his eyes went moist. “Oh, my dear fellow. Most kind.”
    â€œJust one last thing,” I asked, as he began gathering his belongings. “Where would I find this Maggs?”
    â€œPrincelet Street,” he said. “By the synagogue. Don’t know thenumber. Have to ask. Again, most kind, most kind.”
    He tapped my arm.
    â€œBeware of Maggs,” he said solemnly. “Doesn’t love books. Might have done, once, but something happened. Occult. Bad books, bad business. Understand?”
    I didn’t, not then, but I thanked him once more. We shook hands, and he headed into the night.
    Princelet Street: that was in Whitechapel, close to Spitalfields. I knew that part of the city well, and from what I could recall there were two synagogues on Princelet Street: the Princelet Street Synagogue and the Chevrah Torah. I looked at my watch. It was after eight. I could go back to my lodgings, or I could try to find Maggs the book scout. Like Young Mr. Blair, or the domestic vision that I had of him, there was little for me at home, and I realized I might well have been projecting my own loneliness onto the old bookseller.
    No matter. I decided to go after Maggs.

VIII
    IF IT was true that nobody in Whitechapel had a bad word to say about Maggs the book scout, then it was only because