Perfect Crime

The Marine bookstore, located at the corner of Shore Rd, and Palm Tree Street, near the seaside, belonged to Mr. Chapman, a peaceful septuagenarian. Latter, as usual, after opening the bookstore and filing new orders, he allowed himself a few minutes' rest which consisted of letting his gaze wander beyond his storefront, towards the sea. It was summer, and by this early hour the avenue and the beach were thankfully deserted. Mr. Chapman loved this moment because it gave him the feeling that the ocean, calm and sleepy, the clean beach and the rustling palm trees, freshly watered, pinpointed at best his state of mind, for a long time serene and without passion. Today the sea rippled, purring, lazy, under a cloudless sun… It was beautiful and the old man, connoisseur, appreciated. Suddenly, from the end of the avenue, a hoarse, peremptory roar covered Mr. Chapman's thoughts and a heavy sports car loomed at high speed into his now mistreated field of vision. Suddenly, in shrill braking, the machine stopped in front of the storefront. Silence finally fell. A young, athletic man stepped out of the monster and, nonchalantly, walked over to the store and entered. Mr. Chapman, somewhat resentful, "Boys will be boys", but always courteous, "the customer is king", walked up to him.

- Can I help you? Do you need something specific?

The man was tall and dressed in black, his hands gloved with those kinds of airy leather mittens, revealing the long fingers of a pianist. Yet what surprised him the most was his totally white hair that contrasted strongly with a tanned complexion and dark clothing.

- No, thank you, I'm not looking for anything specific. His green eyes, wearily, scanned the shelves quickly ...

- Besides, I've read all these books before so I doubt I'll find anything new here.

What arrogance, what shouldn't be heard!

- But, sir, we have more than seventeen thousand titles here. Would you imply that you read them all?

-I'm not implying, sir, I’m sure of it.

- But that’s impossible!

- You do not believe me?

- Well...

- All right, take a book, any.

Mr. Chapman, condescending, complied and picked up a book. It was Alice in Wonderland, published by The MacMillan Company.

- Open it at random. What page do you have?

- Page 31.

- Alright, here's what you can read after the illustration:

“We're all mad here. I'm mad. You’re mad. ”

“How do you know I’m mad?” said Alice.

“You must be,” said the Cat, “or you wouldn’t have come here.”

- Should I continue?

- No, it's perfect!

- Take another book.

The bookseller, taken aback, chooses then without thinking George Orwell's most famous book 1984, page 128. The young man, with his deep voice, recited:

“One of these days, thought Winston, Syme will be vaporized. He is too smart. He sees too clearly and speak too openly. He goes to the Chestnut Tree Café, where the painters and musicians go and where Goldstein himself used to go. The Party does not like people like that. One day, he will disappear. It is written in his face.”

- Is that enough for you?

- Yes, yes indeed.

The man in black fell silent, satisfied. Mr. Chapman, admiringly, exclaimed:

- It’s marvelous, incredible, you have such a phenomenal memory!

The man smiles, amused.

- It is not simply memory, it’s a gift and I KNOW all the writings even before the birth of their authors... Obviously, that I could not prove it to you easily.

There, it was too much, he was exaggerating! That he could be some kind of circus attraction, yes, in a pinch, but that last claim was far beyond belief. Who was he kidding? An idea arose in the mind of Mr. Chapman who disappeared for a moment behind his counter. He reappeared, looking triumphant, holding a small book in his hand.

- This is a collection of short stories that arrived last night. The publisher asked me to only promote it in two days. I haven't read this story and no one in the audience knows about it yet. I challenge you, sir, to mumble a single line of it.

An ominous lightning flashed in the man's gaze, quickly erased by a smirk. With a slow wave of his hand he let the old man know that he was ready to endure the ordeal.

Mr. Chapman opened the book this time towards the end, it was the beginning of a story. He read the title: Perfect Crime.

The man in black, mockingly, began:

- The Marine bookstore, located at the corner of Shore Rd, and Palm Tree Street, near the seaside, belonged to Mr. Chapman, a peaceful septuagenarian...

- But… but it's me we're talking about… This story is about me, the bookstore, my bookstore, how-?

- It seems like it. Do you want me to continue?

- No, well I don't know, I don't understand ...

- You are not yet convinced of my gifts?

- Yes, but I…, I…

Mr. Chapman closed his eyes. This story was beginning to overtake him slightly.

- Listen, Mr. Chapman, that's your name, isn't it?

- Yes indeed.

- Good, Mr. Chapman, how about reading the rest of the story? I am curious to know; you owe me this courtesy.

- Yes, yes, why not. That interests me too, as you can imagine.

- Perfect. We are on the first page, skip the first lines, they are of no interest. But stop there at: Suddenly from the end of the avenue ... Do you have it?

- Yes.

- Well go ahead.

- Suddenly from the end of the avenue, a hoarse, peremptory roar covered the thoughts of Mr. Chapman and a heavy sports car appeared at high speed in his now mistreated field of vision ...

Mr. Chapman suddenly felt he had to sit down as soon as possible, his legs wobbling in shock. He swallows painfully.

- But these lines… perfectly describe your arrival, just a few minutes ago!

- I am afraid, indeed.

- It's impossible!?

- You seem to be overusing that word. But if I were you, I would read the text further. This would judiciously allow you to confirm or deny your opinion definitively. Here, take for example the first dialogue of the characters, at the beginning of the story, that moment when you say to me:

" Can I help you? Do you want something specific? "

And I answer you? Read, let's see.

- Yes, I see, it is written here:

- No thank you, I'm not looking for anything specific. Besides, I have read all these books so I doubt to find anything new here ...

But that's exactly, word for word, what you told me earlier…

The old man had slumped into his chair and was now shaking nervously.

- What a strange coincidence, isn't it?

- I’m… I’m dreaming, isn’t it? Otherwise our free will, where is it eh? Tell me, where is it?

- Calm down my dear sir, you must not put yourself in such a state. But you're right: it would be quite fun to read what we're going to be able to say in the next few minutes.

-         Impossible! In any case for me, it is completely out of the question that I say what I should have said and that after reading it!

- You think too much, Mr. Chapman. Instead, go to the last sentence, the very one I'm talking about right now, and tell me what's written right after.  

The man in black's voice was now soft and slow, almost warm. The old man courageously tried to pull himself together. He cleared his throat and said in a voice he thought was strong:

- It is written:

It is written, it is still you speaking.

- Me?

- Yes you. It is written:

- Mr. Chapman, I know that all your life you have been a keen reader of fantastic stories. Today, at the time of the great departure, I have decided, being the master of ceremonies, to send you this with a little originality. There, it's done. I therefore wish you a pleasant and happy passage to the afterlife.

Your devoted young fool, Death.

Mr. Chapman, haggard, stammered the last words painfully, then with murky eyes, stared at the man with angel hair for a few moments, then betrayed by his heart, unaccustomed to such concepts, he collapsed without a cry. The man leaned over him and gently took the book from him with his long fingers. Undisturbed, he read the last sentence of the text:

 … Last sentence of the text: He closed the book and put it on a shelf. Then, in a hurry since he still had other customers to see in the neighborhood, he was gone.