The Mystery of the 7 Little Words
Stories similar to this that you might like too.
I have just heard, and this is true, that in a certain room upstairs there are seven little words written on a sheet of paper. One may say to anyone he pleases: “Go up and read those words,” but it is impossible for him ever to do so without making himself guilty of murder.” – The New York Sun (1887)
What had happened was that I found myself with a friend at a small café on Park Avenue and West Thirty-third Street. My acquaintance had a habit of going through newspapers from all over the United States and Europe and then telling his friends what he thought they would find amusing or shocking.
He did not usually go into detail about these items, because it wasn’t his job; his real occupation involved getting things out of people by pretending to be interested in whatever item he was inquiring about. We were sitting around the dining table sipping coffee as we waited for my companion’s wife to arrive.
Suddenly the telephone rang. It was a private number and I answered immediately.
“Is this Mr. Huxley?” asked a voice that seemed familiar and yet somehow foreign.
”Yes,” said I, wondering who it could be.
“Good morning, Dr. Huxley, this is Mr. Treadwell speaking.”
“Mr. Treadwell?” I said blankly.
“It doesn’t matter whether it is or isn’t, I can still talk.”
Treadwell? That couldn’t be right. I hadn’t seen a face like that in years—in fact, I hadn’t seen anybody like that since before I became academic when I first started to get known for my books. Had anyone invented the time machine? No, there were no records of such a thing happening. And the idea that it could have happened in New York City in 1987 was laughable.
“Who is this?” I asked.
“You know perfectly well, Dr. Huxley. You know me better than you want to admit. But I can tell you only this much until your wife gets here. She won’t believe anything unless she hears it from you.”
“Why don’t you just come down here and say it to her?” I suggested.
“Because that wouldn’t be any fun. I like doing this kind of stuff on the phone. It gives me something to think about besides what I’m going to do after I’ve told you what I have to say. Anyway, it’s more interesting this way.”
We both laughed nervously.
“I can imagine how difficult this must be for you,” I said. “But it has been very good for me. It’s made me remember some things that I’d almost forgotten. So if you’ll forgive me I’d rather not hear them now.”
“Well, maybe not quite all of them, but the important ones,” said Mr. Treadwell, in a tone that was neither threatening nor reassuring. “First off, let me congratulate you on writing a book that has sold more copies than all the others put together.”
“How many books?” I asked, trying hard not to sound as though I believed this.
“Oh, hundreds of thousands of copies,” he said.
“Really? How can you possibly know that? There are millions of books published every year. How do you even begin to count their sales?”
“I didn’t, really. Not directly. A man called me from somewhere in Pennsylvania two weeks ago and told me that I ought to buy a copy of your book and read it while the weather was cold. After hearing my answer I hung up on him. Then a few days later another fellow called me asking why I hadn’t bought a book by somebody named Huxley—and then he gave me your name.
When I asked him where he got the information he refused to tell me. But he did agree to sell me three books at the cost price. I haven’t opened the envelope containing them yet, but I’m pretty sure one of the titles is yours. If I’m right, you’re probably wondering how I managed to get hold of such valuable items.”
I tried to remember what had happened two weeks ago—but it was all very hazy. The only thing I remembered clearly was the strange feeling I had that it was all wrong somehow and that there was a conspiracy against me.
“I’d be curious to know why someone wanted to frighten me off with your book. But if that’s not what you have to say…”
“No, no,” said Treadwell quickly, “that is part of it.”
“So I shouldn’t read it?”
“Of course not. You should read it, and take notes. Or you can skip the last third.”
The idea of reading anything written by Mr. Treadwell seemed unlikely to me. Still, the thought that some of my ideas had already been used by this man who seemed to be trying to scare me away from writing about certain matters was troubling.
And the notion that this person might have access to rare books, and knew how to get them cheaper than I did—even though those books weren’t his—seemed incredible. So I decided to open the envelopes he had sent me as soon as possible.
As we spoke Mrs. Huxley arrived. She listened intently to our conversation but said nothing. Finally, when it was over, she told me that the calls had been from the same number and that she had recognized that name.
“And what was it you were talking about?” she asked. “Someone calling me from Pennsylvania?”
“He wanted me to buy books by myself. Three books by me. At cost price.”
She was shaking her head slowly. “Mr. Treadwell is not someone you would want to do business with.”
“Is that so?” I asked.
“It’s not only so, but it’s also worse,” said Dr. Huxley, suddenly sounding worried again. “This man is dangerous.”
“Dangerous? Why?”
“Because he wants you to stop writing about certain subjects.”
“What are they?” I asked eagerly, hoping to learn something new.
“Letters,” said my wife quietly.
“Letters?” I repeated, thinking of some mysterious letters I had received in the mail recently. Those could have only come from him because the handwriting matched. But I couldn’t see what he would be doing sending me those letters, or why he wouldn’t just call or write instead.
“Yes, letters,” said Mrs. Huxley firmly.
“Letters!” shouted Treadwell, who had heard us discussing this. “You mean the letters from the British Library! They’re mine, aren’t they?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Huxley. “They are yours, Mr. Treadwell.”
“I’m glad you like them,” said Treadwell. “But why—”
“Why are you trying to frighten me away from writing about them?” asked Mr. Huxley.
Treadwell shook his head sadly. “You don’t understand. My interest in that subject is purely academic.”
“That’s an interesting answer,” I said, “because I happen to think you’ve been paid rather well for your interest.”
Treadwell turned red. “I’m not going to discuss my private life with you.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, “but I feel that I have a right to know. After all, it has had an impact on my work.”
Treadwell’s face became dark crimson. He started to speak angrily, but Mr. Huxley cut in:
“Now wait a minute, Harry. I can see by the look on your face that you think I am defending the boy here—and I suppose I must confess that I am, in my own small way. And you may even feel that I have been rather too friendly towards him. But I assure you I am not defending him now.” His eyes flashed angrily as he glanced at the telephone, which still lay on the table between us.
I looked down at the receiver. The little green light was blinking.
Then Treadwell took off his glasses and rubbed them absently with the back of his hand. When he put them back on again, he appeared calmer. “Look,” he began, “I’m sure you’re a nice young man—or woman if you prefer—but I don’t want any trouble.
You don’t know what you are doing by asking questions about my interests. It puts me in an awkward position, especially when one considers the possibility that you may be involved in some kind of conspiracy against me.”
He sounded reasonable enough. But then why hadn’t he answered the phone when it rang while we were chatting? And why had he waited until my wife left before calling me and starting this discussion?
“Conspiracy?” I asked, confused.
“Conspiracy,” Treadwell said emphatically, “conspiracy.”
“A conspiracy, Mr. Treadwell,” said Mr. Huxley in a low voice, “is an organized attempt to commit fraud or other crimes.”
Treadwell frowned. “No, it isn’t.”
“It’s not?” said Mrs. Huxley, looking startled.
“Not unless there’s an organization behind it,” said Treadwell, “which there isn’t.”
His wife nodded in agreement. “If he’s not part of a conspiracy, then what does he mean?”
“He means something,” I said, “and it might explain a lot. He thinks I’m a member of a conspiracy. That would explain why he hasn’t answered my calls—”
“Oh, shut up!” barked Treadwell suddenly, his cheeks turning red again. “You’ll give me more reason to suspect you. Now, I suggest you forget about the whole thing and go home.”
My wife turned to me with a frown. “We’re not going to do anything like that.” She turned back to Treadwell. “How long have you known Harry, Mr. Treadwell?”
Treadwell looked uncomfortable. “Several months.”
“And you never mentioned it to me?”
“Of course not! Why should I?”
Mrs. Huxley gave him a hard stare. “Are you sure?”
“Well,” he muttered, “maybe once. But he seemed so young and innocent—”
“So did you,” said Mrs. Huxley sharply.
“No,” he protested, “not at first.”
“Yes,” said his wife. “At first. So you didn’t tell anyone else about your suspicions about me and Harry?”
Treadwell sighed. “I thought about it.” He glanced at Mr. Huxley for confirmation.
Mr. Huxley nodded.
“Okay,” said Mrs. Huxley, “so I’ve been a nuisance to you. Are you going to keep bothering me?”
Treadwell hesitated, then nodded. “If you insist.”
She stared at him for a moment, then picked up her bag and got to her feet. “Then I’m afraid we’ll take our leave.”
The two men followed suit, though Treadwell tried to stop my wife. “Just one thing before you go, dear,” she said, “do you know where he’s gone now? Or who he’s been talking to?”
“To the south,” said Treadwell, “to the Antarctic.”
I blinked. Then I looked at Treadwell. “Antarctic?”
He shrugged. “South Pole.”
The End