It was at the end of a seldom used side street. Just an alley really. Cars rarely drove the street and there was never any foot traffic. But the bookshop was there and had always been there. Always available to those that needed it. Accessible to the ones that sought it out. Open to the public twenty four hours a day.
There was no welcome sign on the door, nor was there a lock. The little bell that rang when the door opened had no clapper. It only made a noise because it knew it was supposed to. And no matter how much dust was shaken off when it rang it never became less dusty than it already was. Besides, the yellowed glass of the door wouldn't allow enough light through to illuminate the dust as if fell. There was no shaft of sunlight for the particles to dance and float and play within like in some melancholy poem.
Just inside the door was a coat rack with an old canvas duster hanging on the one unbroken hook. Beside it was a ancient brass planter pressed into service as an umbrella stand. It was empty accept for a few chewing gum wrappers throw into the bottom. From there on, all the way to the back of the shop some hundred odd feet away were books. The two walls were lined floor to ceiling with shelves and the fifteen feet of floor space that separated them was split down the middle by a makeshift wall of volumes. It averaged about four feet high and was broken only in two places to allow a person to cross from one side to the other.
Then, in the very back of the shop was a small table. It held only four items: a cash box, locked even though it was empty; a magnifying glass with an ivory handle; a small desk lamp with a Tiffany shade; and a pocket watch with no chain. The old office chair behind the table was upholstered in green Naugahyde which had been patched repeatedly with duct tape. And in the chair sat Maxwell, quite dead.
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