Book of Stolen Tales (5 page)

I located it on the third level, a steel-gray Toyota Corolla. About ten yards away I hit the button to open the doors but stopped dead at the sight of the destruction. The dash panel had been pried loose and dumped on the front seats. Sticking out from the exposed underside were criss-crossed wires, neatly severed. “Fuck.”

The radio and CD player hung by one intact wire. Random violence from kids with nothing better to do? Hardly. Alessio wanted to scare me into submission and stop me from pursuing him.

Back out in the deluge, the gutters rushed with water, the waste of a busy London day carried along like little boats on the tide. Plastic water bottles, a half-eaten piece of pizza, and a chip bag floated along beside me to form a little dam at the storm drain. Rare for London, the city was so pristine. Every time I lifted my head to glimpse a street sign, rain stabbed mercilessly at my eyes. A car slowed down behind me and as I glanced around in the hope it might be a taxi, it sped up and turned a corner.

Thoughts of Evelyn pummeled my brain. Not of her brutal end but how, though she hated winter, she took delight in the rain. The one time I remember her mentioning her homeland she described the end of winter. “When the rains in spring came to my village our world turned green again. So beautiful, you didn't care about getting wet. You wanted to stay outside and dance.” I began to weep then, and let the downpour wash away my tears.

A while later I spotted a cab. By some miracle his for-hire sign was lit up. I waved and he pulled up alongside me. “Where to?” he said when I got in.

“Heathrow,” I mumbled.

He slid back the divider window and handed me a paper towel. “Think you might need this, mate,” he said.

My cell chirped. When I checked the sender and saw Evelyn's number, I stared at the screen, almost missing the call out of sheer astonishment.

“Hello,” I said tentatively.

“John, you keep calling me. Is something wrong?”

The sound of her voice spun me into a delirium of joy and it took me a minute or so to calm down enough to speak. “Evie? Have the police been in touch with you?”

“No. I was next door and when I got back, your friend Corinne was waiting for me. She's here now. Why did you want her to come?”

I didn't want to alarm her so I told her only half the story. “Those coins I left with you were stolen.”

She gasped on the other end of the phone. “John! I have not touched them since you gave them to me. I should have hidden those things away.”

“It's all right. There's nothing you could have done. Listen, Evie, if Corinne's willing, I'd like you to stay with her for a while—until I can get back to New York. The robbery concerns me. I want to make sure you're safe.”

“Oh, I don't know.” She paused and I knew she was fretting. It would be a major disruption in her life and Evelyn wasn't adventurous.

“Corinne loves poker,” I added. “And I'm sure she'd like the company. Can you put her on the line for a sec?”

A minute or so of silence and then Corinne's voice sailed through the line. “Everything's fine here, John. No worries.”

“Thanks for going over, Corrie. I have another favor to ask. Some rare coins were stolen from Evelyn's apartment. She wasn't home at the time, but if there's another attempt I'm concerned about what might happen to her. I know it's a lot to ask, but is there any way she could stay with you?”

A moment passed and then she said, “How long for?”

“A couple of days. Until I can get back there.”

“Sure I guess, but only on one condition.”

“What's that?”

She raised her voice so Evelyn could overhear. “She has to make her great baklava for me.”

I laughed. “I owe you hugely. Really—thanks.” I got back on the line with Evelyn and managed to persuade her to go to Corinne's.

“Love you, Evie. Goodnight.”

In spite of the relief, knowing Evelyn was safe, my anger boiled over again at Alessio's cruelty. Why did he want the book so badly he was willing to hurt an innocent old woman? It wasn't priceless. I wondered again about the book's evil history and the type of man who might want to collect such a thing. And how could tales from over three hundred years ago matter that much to anyone now?

Clearly, Alessio wasn't working alone. He'd arranged the false police call, and the woman he used to play cop was either a New Yorker or a damned good actor.

I tried to let the passions subside and think rationally. When I set out to find the missing engraving in Iraq, I'd done so blindly, stumbling into a situation not of my own making. I'd turned it into a cause and paid dearly for it. Had I the choice again, it would have been far more prudent to leave well enough alone. But the experience taught me that when the stakes are high enough, people will stop at nothing to get what they want. And that's where my problem lay. Slinking home with my tail between my legs didn't guarantee things would end there. If Alessio threatened Evelyn once, he was quite capable of doing so again. Past experience showed me that waiting for some authority to act was a waste of time. And this theft would be only one small item on Scotland Yard's very long case load.

Signs on the M4 glowed with neon brilliance in the night. I tapped on the divider and the cabbie eyed me in the rearview mirror. “Change of plan. I'm not going to Heathrow after all. Can you take me to the Savoy?”

He glanced at the meter. “Got to add on twenty quid to do that, or nearabouts.”

“That's fine.”

The driver let me out at a bank machine near the Savoy Hotel. I pressed damp pound notes into his palm. The rain had stopped but a cold fog hung in the air. I feared my bank accounts had been hacked too until the machine began spitting out bills. I withdrew my daily limit from the generous advance paid by the solicitor.

I'd been to the Savoy for other art events and dinners with clients and was familiar with its history. Its name came from a deed of land King Henry VIII granted to a count of the Italian royal House of Savoy. I thought of the Savoy insignia on the cedar box that had contained the book, the white cross on a red shield. That emblem still symbolized the pinnacle of power and wealth.

So many celebrities and aristocrats had crossed the threshold, the hotel might as well have a permanent red carpet. And yet for all its storied past it was still centuries younger than the book Alessio stole. With some of the priciest rooms in the city, it was ideal for my purposes.

I crossed the elegant lobby with its imposing pillars, coffered ceiling, and exquisite carpets. At the registration desk the clerk gave me a measured glance, groping for a way, I imagined, to point out the Savoy didn't accept guests who looked like drowned rats. He asked how he could assist me.

“I'd like to reserve a suite for tonight, departing in two weeks' time. Do you have anything overlooking the Thames?” I thrust out my Amex.

He gave me a tepid smile. “I'll just check then, shall I?” His fingers fluttered over the keyboard and he looked up. “We have a suite available. Eight hundred and seventy pounds per night. Will that suit?” He clearly doubted my ability to pay.

“Marvelous.”

He seemed more affable once my credit was approved. We concluded our business and he handed me the door card. “Would you like me to call for a valet to take care of your wet things?”

“Great. Thanks.” I headed for the elevators. I had not chosen one of London's most expensive hotels out of mere indulgence. Alessio and whomever he worked with had already shown a penchant for vile tricks. They were fully capable of hacking into and freezing my credit cards too. But I counted on the hotel putting a hold on the amount needed for a two-week stay. Loading one of my credit cards to the gills would stop them from getting a good portion of my money. It was only a temporary solution. I'd stay for one night and in the morning tell the hotel I'd changed plans. Then I'd head straight to the bank and withdraw every cent before anyone could get his hands on it.

When I entered the suite the bedside clock glowed 4 A.M. The valet arrived minutes later for my wet crumpled clothing. A long hot shower dispelled my chills and I fell into bed.

Bright mid-morning sunshine poured through the windows. After a message from Corinne that Evelyn was in remarkably good spirits, I could pretend, for a few moments at least, that all was well.

No nation on earth can trump a full English breakfast. The meal arrived with a discreet knock on my door: soft eggs, half a grilled tomato with parmesan, Canadian back bacon, crumpets perfectly browned and dripping with butter, orange bitter marmalade, and a pot of steaming coffee. Just as the valet reappeared to deliver my clothes, fresh and expertly ironed, my phone chirped.

“Mr. Madison,” the insurance agent said after he introduced himself, “I'm sorry to tell you this but you're not covered. We can reimburse you for your coins. Not the book.”

“There's got to be some mistake then. The policy's watertight. I've used the same one many times before.”

“If there had been damage to the property, or accidental loss, yes. But you're not covered for theft.”

“That's impossible. Why bother taking out insurance otherwise? I bought the policy from Jack Edison. Can you transfer me so I can clear this up?”

“He's on holidays.”

“In November? When's he back?”

“Gone to Australia. Won't be in the office until next month.” My temper rose with each punctilious syllable he uttered. I made one last effort to be civil. “Please check it again. No doubt you'll find there's been a … misreading or something.”

“I have. And there isn't.” He cleared his throat. “You're claiming for a rare manuscript I believe.”

“It's a codex. A bound book, not a manuscript.”

“My apologies.” He repeated the description I'd given last night. “We can't accept your claim because it's stolen property.”

“Of course it is!” I shouted in exasperation. “That's why I reported it.”

“You misunderstand me, Mr. Madison. The book you described was listed as stolen property
before
it went to auction. We don't cover illegally acquired items.”

I set my coffee cup down carefully. “You're telling me Sherrods auctioned a stolen book? It is a highly respected firm. They check and double-check stuff like that.”

“The theft was registered with Interpol quite recently.” “How recently?”

“Yesterday afternoon.”

Five

November 18, 2003

London

I
t was entirely possible Sherrods had missed a theft report only hours before the actual auction. After getting the details from the insurance agent, I ended our call. With no clear title, the onus was on the auction house to return my client's money. But if they chose to put up a fight, it could get sticky. Maybe a good lawyer could rescue me; that would cost an arm and a leg. In the meantime, I was on the hook for a small fortune.

At first I found the Interpol description confusing. Not because of the detail—their theft alerts were usually quite brief and accompanied by photos of the item in question. As I read the report a second time, I realized not one, but five volumes had been reported stolen, all listed as authored by Gian Alessio Abbattutis. These five separate volumes, each with different stories, made up the complete book. Now I knew why the golden covers seemed much too large for the one volume I had. Four more of them, roughly the same size, would fill the gilded covers nicely.

Each volume had been published separately and assembled as a complete anthology at a later period. I recognized the frontis-piece of the one I'd won at auction. It was listed as a first edition, the first volume of the five, published by the Neapolitan printer Beltrano in 1634. The second and last volumes were also published by Beltrano in 1634 and 1636, respectively. The middle two had a different publisher—Scorrigio—in 1634 and 1635. That seemed odd. I wondered why two different publishers were used.