The Flyleaf Killer Read Free

irrelevant. All that really mattered was finding a way to secure this beautiful book. But he remained suspicious. After all, this shop hadn’t been in existence a couple of weeks ago…
    ‘I see you’ve selected a top quality book,’ the bookseller eventually observed. ‘But don’t imagine you can read it, borrow it or keep it without full and proper payment.’ From his tone and attitude it was abundantly clear he meant exactly what he said.
    ‘Tell me, which title is it?’ he asked. ‘Then I shall be pleased to tell you the price.’
    Robert held out the book. ‘It doesn’t say, Mister Plowrite. Look, see for yourself.’ He turned the book spine uppermost and thrust it towards the shopkeeper but, glancing down, hastily snatched it back for there, in gold-embossed letters he read:
    THE SECRET OF SUCCESS
    Pilo Sephten
    Rotating the book through forty-five degrees showed the front cover to be similarly inscribed. Robert was both astonished and perplexed.
    ‘That’s strange!’ he exclaimed, a-flush with embarrassment. ‘I’m
sure
it was blank before—the front cover too,’ he endeavoured to explain. ‘Sorry, I just couldn’t have looked properly…’ Lamely, his voice tailed off.
    The bookseller rubbed claw-like hands and shaped his mouth into a tolerant smile—in reality a hideous grimace—and said, ingratiatingly, ‘A wise choice, a very special book. One with many titles and, therefore, everything to all men. Look again, boy,’ he commanded.
    Obediently, Robert looked down and was staggered to find both style and title changed:
    YOU
CAN
YOU
MUST
YOU
WILL
    Pilo Sephten
    While Robert gaped in astonishment, the original title reappeared briefly before vanishing altogether, leaving both spine and cover completely blank.
    It would have been incredible, had not Robert witnessed it with his own eyes! Desire for the book became even more profound.
    Think, old son
, he told himself. What should he do to gain his objective? He shifted his mind into top gear.
    A course of action became apparent in a flash. Well practised, he decided to play the sympathy card for all it was worth. Even if it didn’t help, it certainly would do no harm.
    He screwed his eyes to make them glisten, puckered his face in anguish and prevailed upon his lower lip to tremble, pathetically…There now, that should do it! Confident an entreating expression was firmly in place, Robert blinked back a tear and gazed at the bookseller. Taking a deep breath, he launched his campaign.
    ‘I’d like to buy the book, Mr Plowrite,’ he began. ‘Please, can you tell me how much it is?’ (Surely his carefully pitched, plaintive tones deserved
something
in the way of sympathy?) ‘But I’m afraid I don’t have much money,’ he added, hopefully.
    ‘Certainly, Robert, of course. Now let me see.’
    Henry Plowrite reached beneath the counter. Producing a clipboard, he rifled through typewritten sheets, stopped abruptly and ran a bony forefinger halfway down a page. Emitting a grunt of evident satisfaction, he looked up.
    ‘Ah, yes, here we are,’ the apparent bookseller said, with a calculating rub of his beak-like nose. ‘This rare and very special book can be yours for’—he paused—‘just sixty-six pounds and six pence. And very reasonable too for such a fine volume, as I’m sure you will agree,’ he declared, with an unmistakable air of finality.
    Robert’s heart sank. His dismay must surely be apparent for again his lower lip trembled—this time of its own accord. Realising his back was up against the wall he thought furiously. He had little chance of raising such a large amount, yet felt in his heart the book was worth more. He simply
had
to acquire this exciting treasure; nothing else seemed to matter. Robert’s mind raced, calculating assets at top speed.
    His newspaper round was worth eight pounds a week. A princely sum, were he not obliged to hand over six pounds towards his keep. An evening round would bring in more, but