Book of Stolen Tales (4 page)

“Again. What makes you an expert on old coins?”

“Let's just say I have an appreciation for history so deep that at times I almost feel as though I'm living it.”

From the moment he'd come through the door I'd felt a kind of sluggishness, as if my blood had suddenly turned to lead. Now my heart beat much harder, laboring strenuously to push the blood through my veins. Although the sensation unnerved me, I shrugged it off and moved away from him to the mantel above the electric fire. I leaned against it to brace myself.

His smile lacked friendliness. “What is the oldest currency in the world?”

“The Lydian stater. Handmade from electrum. Stamped with an image of a lion's head.”

“Quite right. Staters are very old but not scarce, so they don't command a high price. Your coins came from a remote corner at the intersection of Turkey and Persia, predating staters by at least two hundred years. Your coins may be the only examples left in the world. Very rare and probably priceless.”

For some reason he was trying to ingratiate himself with me, to what end, I had no idea. Nothing would be gained by debating currency. “Evelyn would never have let you take them. I'm asking you again. Have you harmed her?”

My remark was greeted with strange, shuddering laughter. “The coins were removed when she was out. I imagine she doesn't even know they are gone. Do not forget. You have stolen my book from me. So we are equal, are we not?”

Once again the bizarre sensation overwhelmed me, strongly enough this time to affect my speech. I gave myself a shake and that seemed to dispel it. “I won the book at an auction legitimately. If you have an issue about ownership it's a problem for Sherrods, not me.”

“No, it is a problem for you,” he said in a menacing tone.

“What's that supposed to mean?”

He crossed his legs and rested his right hand on top of his cane. “Your brother, Samuel, is dead, I am told. And now the only family you have is the lady you mentioned, your old housekeeper Evelyn, who raised you—is that not so? She is in a wheelchair most of the time. Quite fragile, I understand, suffering greatly from soreness of the joints.”

I went to grab the lapels of his coat and shake the truth out of him but felt the sudden assault of another bout of weakness. My actions had no impact and he pushed me away easily. He appeared to be on some kind of mission, determined to have his say. He was well spoken enough although a pedantic quality affected his speech, as if he'd memorized the lines beforehand. “If you care for this lady you will hear me out.”

“Go ahead,” I said, still trying to get my breath back. “You're not getting out of here.”

He scowled at me. “I know her days are spent in predictable ways. She arises early. Goes in her wheelchair across the street to the café. Only she doesn't like coffee; it keeps her awake at night. So she takes her special mint tea with her and they give her hot water for it. She could make it at home but she is stuck in her little apartment too much as it is. She buys a muffin or a roll to go with it. She likes to get out, talk to people. At around four in the afternoon she visits her neighbor, an immigrant like herself, who lives a few floors down. They drink tea together and play poker. They bet only pennies because neither has much money. Friendly games, not serious. Her hands hurt so much she can't shuffle the cards anymore. But she trusts her companion to do it.”

I listened with lurching panic. He knew every detail about her life and the implications were obvious. He'd hurt her if I didn't hand over the book. I tried to reach for my phone but found my hand had frozen. A shadow around the man appeared to darken—or was it my own vision blurring? Something was terribly wrong with me. I could utter only incomprehensible sounds.

As if completely unaware of the physical crisis overtaking me, he pulled a round timepiece from his pocket, checked it, swept his hat off the floor and placed it on his head. Then he advanced toward me, locking his penetrating gaze on me as if he could direct the full force of his will through his eyes.

I summoned every ounce of my own energy and failed to move even my baby finger.

He raised his cane and pressed the tip into my neck. He was a slight man but it felt as though the weight of a bull bore down upon me. I felt my skin split and the wooden stock puncture my throat as easily as a stiletto spearing jello.

Then, in one swift motion he flipped the cane back and spun on his heel. He pulled out the coffee table drawer and removed the book in its golden covers. He paused before the door and said accusingly, “You've opened the book. That was a grave error. Have nothing more to do with it. Go back to your homeland or suffer the consequences.”

The minute the door clicked shut my breathing and heart rate slowed and my sight cleared. The awful paralysis subsided. I clamped my hand to my neck but could feel no injury. I swallowed, incredulous, expecting my throat to be sticky with blood. My hand was clear. I scrambled to my feet and chased after him.

The lobby door swung shut just as I made it down the back stairs. I pushed it open a crack. The night was misty and gray although the rain had lessened. Directly across from me a short, stocky man hurried down the street, dwarfed by an umbrella so large it hid his head and much of his torso. He looked like an umbrella with legs. The fog was so low I could barely make out the phone box at the next intersection.

I spotted Alessio walking quickly down the sidewalk, one arm holding the golden covers tightly, the other swinging his cane. I stuck as close as possible to the buildings and followed him. As I gained on him, my view of his figure was partially blocked by the angle of the red phone box.

I heard the door creak open. I took a chance and inched toward it. Through the small panes of glass I could see him pluck the receiver from its cradle and push the buttons to make the call. He spoke. I prayed he was contacting whoever was waiting in New York to do Evelyn harm and calling him off.

He hung up. The red door cracked open and he stepped out. I stayed behind the phone box out of his direct line of sight. Cars whizzed past, spraying muddy water onto the sidewalk. He pulled his hat lower and after glancing around the street walked briskly away. I let him get about sixty feet distant before I began to follow him again and reached inside my jacket for my phone to hit 999 for the police.

A car revved its engine behind me. As I turned around, its headlights momentarily blinded me. It mounted the curb. In one horrifying second, I saw it aiming straight for me. I threw myself against a door recessed into an alcove. The car flashed past and braked to a stop beside the old man. He got in and with a screech the car sped off. He was gone and the book with him.

Three

F
urious about the attack and still worried about Evelyn, I ran down the misty street to my hotel room. I threw back a healthy dose of Macallan to quell my shaking hands and got on the phone to report the theft to the police. Gian Alessio Abbattutis—I was already calling him Alessio in my mind—would be lost by now in the labyrinth of London streets. There was little hope they'd find him but I gave them a detailed description anyway. A twisted version. How could I explain letting him into my room and the strange paralysis that afflicted me? They'd never believe it. I told them he'd accosted me on the street. They said they'd log it in and instructed me to fax them a report. I'd have to show up in person at New Scotland Yard for an interview.

Evelyn didn't have voice mail. She complained she only got messages from what she called “the spam people,” so when I called her again the phone rang and rang. I cursed myself for not thinking to get a neighbor's number in case of an emergency and tried to stave off the image of her lying on the floor, hurt and alone. The memory of the car accident last June and my brother's death only months ago still haunted every one of my days. To think I might also lose Evelyn plunged me into despair.

Chances were I was letting my fears get in the way of common sense. Alessio got what he came for. Nothing would be served by orchestrating an assault three thousand miles away. Still, I needed to make sure. My next call was to Corinne Carter, my only New York friend certain to be home. Except to attend to basic necessities, she rarely left her place.

“Johnnie! Thought you were supposed to be in the U.K. Fantastic to hear from you, babe.”

“I am in London, Corrie. I'm worried about Evelyn because I can't reach her. Is there any way you could go over to her place and make sure she's okay?”

She paused. “Sure, I guess that's all right. Do you have any particular reason to worry?”

“I've run into a complication over here, that's all, and I want to be sure nothing's wrong.”

“What complication? John, didn't I tell you it was a mistake to accept that job when the client wouldn't give you his name?”

When she dropped the endearments and called me John, I knew her patience was wearing thin. “I needed the money too much, Corrie. You know how far I was stretched. That's water under the bridge right now. I'd really appreciate it if you could check on her.” I gave her Evelyn's address and apartment number.

“Of course. Don't think another minute about it. For heaven's sake, keep safe yourself.”

“Thanks. What would I do without you? Like I said, I haven't been able to get a hold of her yet, so please call me back as soon as you find her.”

I wandered over to the bed and sat down, hoping I'd hear from her soon with good news. I looked at the open, empty drawer. At least I'd had the presence of mind to make sure the book was insured for the gap of time between the auction and its delivery to the solicitor. Toller Art Insurance in Manhattan maintained a twenty-four-hour line. Predictably, when I contacted them a standard recording came on.

I lay down and stared at the old vermiculite ceiling. When my cell rang I bolted up with a start.

It wasn't Evelyn. I didn't recognize the number.

“Am I speaking to John Madison?”

“You are.”

“This is Detective Eleanor O'Neil with the New York Police. I believe you're listed as the primary contact for an Evelyn Farhad in case of an emergency?”

My pulse raced. “Yes I am. What's wrong?”

“Sorry to tell you this, sir, she was found by another officer after a resident of her building called in a disturbance. She'd been assaulted and was critical when he got to her. She passed away in the ambulance en route to the hospital.”

Four

O
'Neil paused. “Sir, are you still there? Did you hear what I said?”

When I didn't reply she waited. She could have waited forever and I'm not sure I could have responded. I was only vaguely aware of more words echoing through the phone before I let it drop.

Time stretched on. The bottle of scotch was empty. I had no memory of finishing it. There was a strange buzzing in my room. A green light flashed on my bed. My cell with an incoming text. The insurance people probably. I didn't give a shit.

It began to rain hard again and gusts of bitter wind hammered the drops in through the open window. Part of the carpet and the back of a chair were already wet. I left it like that.

In the bathroom I threw freezing water on my face, ran my fingers through my hair. My eyes were bloodshot. A vicious, throbbing pain punched away at my head. After throwing back a couple of Tylenol and washing them down with a drink straight from the faucet, I tossed my clothes and sundries into my bag and snapped it shut. The clock on the night table showed almost one thirty in the morning. My plan, as far as I was able to make one, was to head straight for Heathrow and take the next available flight home.

I slammed the window shut, producing a hairline crack in the glass. The door lock clicked on my way out. I left the key card with the concierge and made my way to the underground parking lot to find my rental, getting drenched in the process but beyond caring.

Stepping into the garish fluorescence of the car park, I'd lost my focus so much I couldn't remember where I'd left the car. The place was completely deserted, the cars ranked like silent rows of sentries. Shadows loomed across my path every time I passed a pillar.