The Man in the Dark Trench Coat

I sat in the back. I was told that I could observe and so that’s what I did.

The woman with red manicured hands to my left gripped her Hermès bag and looked at me through the corner of her eye, she tried to be discrete, but it didn’t work. A moment later she zipped it open and pulled out a compact to powder her nose.

I should have put some lipstick on that morning. Instead, I did what I did most days, just a slick of black mascara on my blonde lashes to bring out my eyes. I rarely put anything else on unless I was going out on a date, I’m not fussed to put more effort in, plus my business didn’t require me to look glamorous. In fact, it makes me seem more knowledgeable and approachable if I don’t.

You see, I own a second-hand bookstore, but I like to think that it’s special. At the front, I have a regular section where I keep all of the popular titles. In that same area, I have a corner dedicated to novels that have won various awards, the likes of The Booker or Pulitzer Prize. I hung an ‘Award Corner’ sign above, and customers tend to head there first. The front room of the shop is my quick turnaround that pays my bills. But it’s the section out the back where I keep all of the rare books for collectors.

It was when I got drenched and skinned my knee after slipping in a puddle as I chased a man in a dark trench coat down Pebble Lane, that I decided to invest in a glass cabinet with a lock for the most valuable books. I didn’t catch up to him, the man who thought I wasn’t watching when he tucked a signed, first edition copy of Patricia Highsmith's, The Talented Mr Ripley inside his coat.

I limped back in the direction of the store, tears streaming down my cheeks, my hair sticking to my head and blood soaking through my newly ripped jeans. People surrounded me as I hobbled along: some put their hands on my back, an arm hooked my elbow, a huge umbrella was placed above my head and a concerned old gentleman even handed me his perfectly ironed handkerchief. Thinking back now, he probably offered it to me to mop up my knee, but I brought it up to my nose and blew hard into it instead. I think that I thanked them all and gave them an I’ll be okay wave as I entered my store and locked the door behind me. I shuffled to the back room and flopped into the reading chair and put my head in my hands. He may as well have run off with $6998. Many of the valuable titles I get for a bargain price at auctions and resell, but that one I was particularly proud of and had found it in a box at the back of a local thrift store for $2.

I thought I’d try my luck and I went back to that same thrift store in search of more titles. I found a copy of The Luminaries and The Life of Pi, both in good condition in the $2 box. They’ll make the ‘Award Corner’ of the store and a profit of $1.50 each. Further along, there was a wooden box with old photographs and postcards. On the top was a fading black and white seaside photo with a family huddled together looking happy but cold. Underneath was a small black notebook. I picked it up and carefully turned the pages full of neat old-fashioned writing with loops and curls. I flicked back to the beginning and read the first words. “Everybody was drunk. The whole battery was drunk going along the road in the dark.”

I stared at the pages in my hands, while the echo of the words rang in my head. The powerful simplicity of words could only belong to one great. But surely? It couldn’t? I didn’t dare put the book down and so I slipped my phone from my back pocket and opened the search engine and typed in ‘Hemingway handwriting.’ Images of letters he had written popped up on the first page. My chest pounded. I took the small black notebook along with the two novels to the lady who was crouched down underneath the front counter.

She stood when she saw me, and her gold earrings jingled and got caught in her permed blond hair as she gave me a wide smile.

“Oh, hello dear!” she said sliding the novels towards her that I placed down on the counter. “It’s good to see you back here again. And I see you found yourself a couple more of those books to read,” she looked up at me.

I clenched the small black notebook in my hand in fear that she’ll realize what she has.

“Do you read much, honey?” she said as she put the two books in a worn plastic bag.

I nodded quickly. “Mmm I do… I umm,” I was about to blurt out that I own a bookshop and then realized how silly that would be. “Reading is my favorite pastime.”

“Okay, well that’ll be $4 then,” she pushed the bag towards me and waited patiently.

“Oh... um... I ah want to get this also, it’s from the box with the old photographs and postcards,” I nudged my head in the direction of the box, still holding the notebook for dear life.

She threw her head back giving a cackle as she slapped the table. “That old piece of junk! You can have it. I’ll just throw it in as a gift shall I?” she gave me a wink. “Wanna just put it in the bag?”

I held it closer to my chest. “Oh no, that’s okay I’ll just keep a hold of it. But even though it is very kind of you, I can’t accept a gift. I want to pay for it.”

“A dollar then,” she gave me a firm look. “I’d say a nickel, but I don’t like to hold those small coins.”

I unbuttoned the top pocket of my denim jacket and pulled a folded $5 note out and handed it to her. “Thank you.”

Just as I had one foot outside the shop, she called out to me. My heart stopped.

“Honey! Oh Honey! You forgot your books you silly thing!” She waddled out after me. “There, you’ll forget your head next!” She gave the top of my hand that grabbed the plastic bag a little tap.

Two months later I’m here, waiting.

The murmur of the crowd silenced as a man in a smart suit moved with authority into the room and stood behind the lectern. Seven official people stood to the side behind a barrier and each of them lifted a telephone and held it to their ears, their cashed-up clients on the other end of the line.

Thirty minutes later he announced:

“Lot 17, Ernest Hemingway’s little black book with his handwritten draft of his short story, ‘In Our Time.’” He scribbled something down. “Do I have an opening bid of $10,000?” he pointed to a woman in front of him. “Thank you. Do I have 12,500?”

I concentrated on controlling my breathing as I unbuttoned my cardigan. My eyes darted around the room, trying to keep track of the increments of $1000, $500. Then I looked down at the paper in my hand with all of the listed lots, trying hard to not crumple it with my fingers.

“At 25,000 selling to you,” the auctioneer lent forward and looked around the room. “Do I have any more takers?” his voice rose dramatically.

I sucked my breath in to not squeal. With a $5000 commission to the auction house, I would pocket $20,000.

“Final call! $25,000…. sold to bidder 35!” he tapped the gavel.

I turned my head in the direction of the winner standing in the corner of the room. It was him. The man in a dark trench coat.