Book of Stolen Tales (2 page)

—ALGERNON BLACKWOOD

One

November 17, 2003

London

M
y brother, Samuel, wrote in his journals religiously, and after he died I kept one of them with me to remember him by. On the long overnight flight from New York to take up a new commission in London, I read his journal again. Although the secrets it held were known to me now, seeing his thoughts and drawings inscribed in his own hand brought his memory close.

If only those first steps my brother had taken during the looting of the Baghdad museum could be undone. Because of his efforts a great Mesopotamian treasure was discovered and saved. But at what price? It was not worth his life or the consequences for the other people I cared about. I wished he'd never gone down that road. It was a fanciful thought, one that comforted me, if only a little. Even our most fervent desires cannot bring a loved one back from the grave.

People always expressed surprise, learning we were brothers, because we looked so different. Our ages contributed to this. I'm thirty-three and Samuel was in his seventies when he died. We had different mothers and I inherited the olive skin, dark hair and eyes of her Turkish forebears. Samuel could easily have been taken for a North European.

I closed his journal just before the plane set down. I'd brought walk-on luggage, so getting through the jungle at Heathrow proved easier this time. I opted to take the tube into the city and pick up a car rental at a place I knew that gave good deals. Despite the long ride on the Piccadilly line, I enjoyed the different faces of the city—farmers' fields in the outlying areas, banks of ivy and holly skirting the tracks, red tile and slate roofs, chimney stacks reminiscent of Dickens, the engaging names of stations as we flew past. Only in London would a station be named Cockfosters.

Once in my hotel room I cast away the sad memories of Samuel and looked forward to my new commission. The promise of a lucrative job had me feeling optimistic for the first time in many months and elated my business had taken such a positive turn.

In a few short hours, I would realize how fleeting this moment of satisfaction was. My good fortune wasn't destined to last long.

Later that night, cold air wafted in through the hotel room window, open for relief from the stifling heat and poor air circulation in the cramped room. Rain fell gently on the pavement outside. The ancient radiators rattled and hissed. I'd shut the lights offeven though dusk had fallen, hoping the man outside would give up his post and go away.

I kept out of his sightline, although I doubted he could see anything against the dim background of my room. Five floors down and across the street, the man lingered just outside the yellow arc of light cast by a street lamp. He hadn't moved for hours. Suddenly he looked toward the window as if sensing my presence. What sixth sense did he possess, knowing I watched him?

I'd brushed past him on my way back to the hotel earlier that evening, after acquiring the rare book I'd been hired to bid for at Sherrods auction house.

The man called out to me as I hurried past, “Mr. John Madison, isn't it?”

At first glance he appeared elderly; both of his hands rested atop an ebony cane. A rearing white horse had been expertly carved into the shaft. The horse's rippling withers and powerful legs were meticulously rendered; its flashing mane, arched neck, and head formed the curved handle. In an oddly formal gesture, he bowed and took a few steps toward me. His fluid movements and sure step belied the initial impression of frailty.

“Do I know you?”

“Not yet.” His accent was hard to place, but in his voice I detected the faint suggestion of a threat. “My name is Gian Alessio Abbattutis. Perhaps you have heard of me?”

“Haven't had the pleasure. I don't live in London.” I pulled my trench coat up to my ears. A light rain began to fall, stirring the dead leaves at my feet.

He indicated my case with the ferrule of his cane. “I think you have in there something that belongs to me.” He leaned in and lowered his voice. “Those tales were stolen. I want them back.”

“Excuse me?”

“As compensation for your trouble,” he added, “I will give you twice what you paid.” He dug into his coat pocket and produced a gold coin. It lay in his palm, which was creased with deep lines.

I moved closer. The coin looked familiar. “May I see that?”

He snatched it away, as a magician might. “When you agree to our transaction.”

I gripped my case harder and tried to keep the impatience from my voice. “It belongs to my client now. The sale was entirely legitimate. I couldn't sell it to you even if I wanted to. And I don't.”

It may have been a trick of the light, the street lamp playing strangely on his face, but his pupils narrowed to sharp, bright pinpoints. “I did not ask to buy it, sir! You'll wish you hadn't kept it. You'll regret this”—he paused—”deeply.”

“Good evening,” I said curtly and turned away, having had more than enough of his hostile manner. I hastened to the hotel lobby, feeling both a little unnerved at the exchange and annoyed at myself for caring.

The old brick hotel had seen better days. The travel agent neglected to mention shabby corridors, intermittent hot water, and constant gurgles and clangs from the radiators. Convenience won out over comfort because it was close to the Earl's Court tube station. In any event, my stay was for a week—at most—and the room came at a bargain rate.

I unlocked the door with an electronic key card and tossed my trench coat over a chair. Then I poured two fingers of scotch into a tumbler and put David Gray's “Babylon” on the CD player to take my mind off the menacing words of the strange man outside. The solicitor's letter originally proposing my commission was in my pocket. I fingered it, and thinking it might shed some light on the man I'd encountered, pulled it out and read it again.

The solicitor had a swanky Lincoln's Inn address. I made a few inquiries, checked Newhouse out, and agreed to take on the job. Twenty-five percent was very generous in my line of work so I jumped at the chance. After coming close to bankruptcy in recent months, I was in no position to turn down such a lucrative offer.

Other than the reference to the book's dark history and the secrecy surrounding my client's identity, there was no indication in the letter of why the man who'd accosted me would be interested in it. Nor could I recall seeing him at the auction. Not for the first time, I speculated about the repellent history of the book and wondered if it was like others I'd stumbled across. Mina Vanderlin's copy of the
Picatrix
, for example, a grimoire containing spells to summon demons. Or the
Necronomicon
by the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred, although that work existed only in the mind of its twentieth-century creator, H.P. Lovecraft. Newhouse's meaning remained obscure. I couldn't fathom why the old man outside wanted the book so much.

Most of my deals were conducted privately, in the sedate climate-controlled offices and homes of wealthy men and women, but I relished auctions. They had the same drama as casinos. Reading the auctioneer's expressions and gestures, watching whom he'd trade glances with and whom he avoided: the psychological art of the auction shared a lot of similarities with poker. A false showing of your hand, deadpan expressions as tension rose when sums reached astronomical levels, the barely perceptible intake of breath during the count for the winning bid—all were the stuff of legend.

Sherrods was a small auction house specializing in rare books and antiquities, located in the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea. The place was buzzing as a result of a number of spectacular items on the block—a dozen leaves from the Gutenberg Bible, known in the business as “Noble Fragments”; a gorgeous Abbotsford edition of Sir Walter Scott's twelve Waverley novels, including 2500 steel and wood engravings; and ten steatite Mesopotamian cylinder seals circa 800
B.C
.

Sleek, well-dressed men and women milled about the Gutenberg display and the Waverley set, catalogs in hand. Some jotted notes in the margins of the item entries; others whispered into their cellphones. In contrast, the object of my attention, ticket 164, garnered little interest. It sat in lonely splendor in its little cedar box adorned with a red shield and white cross.

The catalog details were sparse and their presentation decidedly understated. The entry referred only to a book in good condition printed in the mid-seventeenth century. For that, I was pleased. With fewer bidders I'd have an easier time. I wondered, though, what additional information my client possessed to be willing to pay a high price for such a book.

The more popular items were scheduled to be auctioned at the end of the night to ensure a good audience throughout the evening, so there was still a sizable crowd when my item went on the block. Thanks to my friend Amy, who worked at Sherrods, I'd identified my competitors. A man with a mop of shocking red hair, wearing a navy pinstripe suit, lingered in front of the little wooden box for just a second more than I would have liked. Amy told me auctions were his preferred form of entertainment. Some people took in the opera, others liked the bar scene. He attended auctions. He was notorious for bidding an object up and pulling out before laying any money on the line. Amy smiled at me suggestively when she told me that last detail.

Another agent, Marlee Scott, who often represented rare book dealers in the U.S. and on the continent, was also chasing the book. She would be my major adversary. I caught a glimpse of her in pearls and classic black Dior.