Late again

“Where was it you said you were from again?” The young man asked me as I glanced around the shop my partner next to me dressed in a stuffy looking suit, fedora on top of his head.

“We’re librarians, we work for the British Library.” Christopher, my partner, was looking tired again, probably up reading all night. “We’re looking for a book” he continued.

“So you said, well there are plenty of books here for you to look at I suppose.” The young man pushed a pair of spectacles up the bridge of his nose.

“It’s not just any book, it’s old, very old,” I said with a sigh, tilting my head to look at the door ajar behind the man.  “The cover is somewhat leathery.”

“Well this is a small library we wouldn’t, however, have anything of that sort.” I watched the young man shift in his seat, a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead.

“Really? It has some rather unnerving pictures in it, and the paper, well wouldn’t seem like paper from a mill.” I had been up all night chasing leads around while Christopher had no doubt been relaxing at home.

“We mean skin,” Christopher announced in a blunt tone. The man’s eyes went wide and a bead of sweat ran from his temple down into his sideburns.

“Sheepskin of course, very old,” I said leaning to the side a bit to see if I couldn’t get a better view through the door.

“We have it on good advice it was here.” Christopher hammered again, today it seemed was not a day for tact. I had had to talk to some very unsavoury, er, people to get the information that led us here.

“W w wu” The man stuttered.

“W w W Where is the damn journal, Cultist!” I snapped at him.

The man sneered at us as the building began to shake.

“I think we’ve found the journal.” Christopher quipped.

“Oh drat.”

“And I think we’re late again.”

“Oh shut up.” I placed my bag on the man’s table, opened it and pulled out a double-barreled shotgun and a stick of dynamite, Christopher already had his trusty service pistol and had already taken a brief moment to knock the young cultist out cold.

“Ladies first.” Christopher gestured towards the door, behind which and likely down into some kind of basement unspeakable horrors once again awaited.

“I hate chivalry,” I said strolling past him