Another student entered, a small, shy shabbily dressed boy. I recognized him immediately: John Littleton. “Tiny,” as he was known, was the kind of student no English teacher would ever forget. He was always the last chosen for teams in phys. ed., he belonged to no organizations, but the first time he read a role in class – it was Hamlet – I was amazed by his fine, resonant voice and his understanding of the character. Compared to the other mumbling, stumbling readers, he was “Hyperion to a satyr.” He was the recipient of one of my rare As.
He was startled to see me. “Hello, Mr. Petty.”
“Hello, Tiny.”
Library cards were free for elementary and high school students, fortunately, because I was sure his family could not have afforded to pay for one. He borrowed a couple of books, about Shakespeare, of course, and left. Soon Miss St. George returned from her quest and I was free to leave and to contemplate my total lack of progress on this case, on which my future as a detective depended. Driving home, I reflected how, as time passes, the memory of most students fades and disappears like smoke, but Tiny remained vivid. He could have been the poster boy for victims of bullying except that the other students, to whom he was an enigma, could not understand him and had a puzzled respect for him and left him alone.
Two days later, two days closer to the end of Rock Tuff, Tiny came in again. He returned one book, borrowed two more. As he stood at the desk, I noticed a bulge under his patched jacket, obvious on his scrawny frame.
“What’s that, Tiny?”
His face turned as scarlet as sin. Nervously, he opened the jacket under which were three books he had not checked out or intended to. I was elated and shocked and saddened: elated because I had caught the thief and saved my second career; shocked because the culprit was one of the best students I ever had; and saddened because I knew that Tiny was starting life with enough handicaps without a criminal record.
“Why, Tiny?”
“I love Shakespeare, Mr. Petty. I wanted my own library of his works and other books about him. I knew the other kids never borrow any of these books.”
He was right of course. What should I do? Why do moral questions always begin simply and grow in complexity?
Luckily, the Dragon was gone for a while, so that I could deal with the matter. Then a second thought struck me: I was equally guilty because I had encouraged Tiny’s passion for the Bard’s works. Would Trade and Son see this as aiding and abetting? I had a brief vision of myself in a prison library in jail garb.
“How many books do you have at home?”
“About two dozen.”
“I want you to get a box at the grocery store and put them all into it. I’ll pick it up tonight after dinner. And no more unofficial borrowing. Okay?”
“Okay.”
I told Miss St. George nothing when she returned, but the next day I reported for work with all of the missing books in a box. I fended off her questions, as I did in a later interrogation by Trade and Son, who of course wanted to know the identity of the thief. I pointed out that the books had all been returned safely and guaranteed that there would be no more thefts and asked if I could continue to practice as an unofficial detective. Reluctantly, they agreed.
The Dragon was less reluctant to dispense with my services as a library assistant.
Later I made the hour’s drive to the Undercover Book Store in Eloigne Place where I bought a complete works of Shakespeare, two biographies, and several volumes of critical essays – I knew that in Blandsville such a purchase would attract more attention than a Baptist minister’s buying a dozen bottles of Jack Daniel’s – and that night I left the books in a box on Tiny’s porch. Now he would have no reason to steal books from the library. And Rock Tuff could continue sleuthing.
All’s well that ends well.
