Jeremy didn’t know what to say to that, so he settled for “Oh. Sorry.”
“It was quite an educational experience, actually,” Ware said. “And one of the things I learned was that this problem may not be solvable at a distance.” He rubbed his chin, still watching the fire. “I think my best course may be to hire a subcontractor.”
“Yeah, that might be best.” Jeremy had no idea what his master was talking about, and Ware knew it. “Go get some breakfast,” he said to Jeremy.
Over the next twenty minutes, Ware’s gaze remained on the fire, but his mind was elsewhere. Finally he nodded to himself, stood up, and went off to make some phone calls.
Twenty-Eight
QUINCEY MORRIS AND Libby Chastain sat in the back of a cab, both lost in thought. They’d left Robert Sutorius in his magic-proof house, still distraught but otherwise unharmed. Libby had offered to take him outside, where her magic worked, and cast a quick spell that would help him recover faster from the psychic damage he’d suffered. But Sutorius had said, “Haven’t you done enough, already? Just go. If you’re done with me, then just go.”
On the sidewalk in front of his house, Libby and Morris had thanked Ashley for her invaluable help in getting past Sutorius’s defenses. Each of them acknowledged, again, that they owed her a favor. It was understood that they would pay off the debt with anything that did not violate their own moral precepts, a stipulation that Ashley had found mildly amusing.
“It was fun, kids – let’s do it again sometime,” she’d said, and walked off to God knows where – although God might not have been the best person to ask.
At her condo, Libby made tea for both of them, adding to it a couple of herbs that, she said, “May be just what we need right now.” Morris wondered if witches ever dispensed Prozac, but kept the thought to himself.
Libby sipped some tea and said, “Another middle-man. That’s rather... disappointing.”
“But there’s no question that Sutorius was telling the truth,” he said.
She made a sour face. “No – no question at all.”
“Still, it would be good to know if this antiquarian book dealer has a web presence.” Morris knelt and retrieved his laptop from under Libby’s couch. He sat down, opened it, and began to search the web.
A few minutes later he said, “Here we go. Adelson’s Rare Books and Antiquities, Harvard Square, Cambridge Mass.”
“Does it show the store?” Libby asked.
“Yep.”
“Let me take a look, will you?”
Morris turned the computer so that Libby could see the screen. “Ground floor, facing the street,” she said, nodding. “That’s good.”
“Why ‘good?’” Morris asked her.
“Maybe I’m just being paranoid, but I was remembering the last time we visited Cambridge, a couple of years ago.”
“Sidney Prendergast,” Morris said flatly. “The Kingsbury Building.”
“Exactly. We were investigating a black magician then, too. Remember? She burned the building out from under us – or tried to.”
“I’m not likely to forget that occasion,” Morris said. “If you hadn’t whipped up something that let us defy gravity for a few seconds...” He shook his head.
“What’s that got to do with this job, Libby? Christine Abernathy’s dead, damn her soul.”
She put a gentle hand on his arm. “Don’t. Please.”
“Don’t what – talk about Christine Abernathy?”
“No, I mean, don’t say what you did about her soul. Maybe it’s because my training taught me to abhor curses – not foul language, you understand, I mean real curses – but that kind of talk makes me uncomfortable.”
“Okay, I’ll be more careful in future. But why are we talking about her, anyway?”
“I’m just glad we won’t have to go high up in any office buildings in Cambridge this time out. Call it a feeling.”
Morris looked at her closely. “You’re not getting paranoid in your old age, are you Libby?”
“Old age? I’m four years younger than you are, Quincey Morris.”
“You know what I mean. We don’t even know for sure that we’re going up against a black magician.”
“Maybe, but from what we know about the Corpus Hermeticum, can you think of anyone else who’d want it? I don’t imagine Mister Adelson is looking to sell the thing to some rich Harvard kid.”
“No, if he sent an occult burglar after it specifically, he must’ve had a buyer lined up. He wouldn’t have paid Sutorius so much money otherwise. Did you hear what that guy charges?”
Libby nodded somberly. “Yes, I heard every word he said. Every single one that we wrung out of him.”
Morris slowly closed the lid of his computer, put it on Libby’s coffee table, and leaned back on the couch. He seemed to find his cuticles to be of great interest.
“You’re feeling shitty because of what we did to Sutorius.”
“Yes, I am. How are you feeling about it?” she snapped.
Morris was silent for a bit. “Not happy, that’s for sure. I sure as shit didn’t enjoy it, like Ashley did.”
“If you had, you wouldn’t be sitting here now,” she said. “I wouldn’t associate with someone like that.”
“Not even Ashley?”
It was Libby’s turn for silence. “Ashley’s different,” she said at last. “She can’t help what she is – but we can, you and I. We made the free choice to terrify that man within an inch of his life, with Ashley’s help.”
“Yeah, I know,” Morris said. “We did it for the same reason that millions of people do bad things every day – not that it’s an excuse. We told ourselves that the end justified the means.”
“And did it? Justify the means?”
“We won’t know that until we find out who wants that fucking book, and why. It probably is a black magician – which is a good reason to find and stop him – or her. Whether that justifies – let alone excuses – what we did to Sutorius is something we’ll only know when it’s over. If then.”
They drank tea for a while. Then Libby said, “I’m pretty sure that black magic’s involved, and not just because it seems logical.”
Morris frowned at her. “What do you mean?”
“Something weird was going on while we were in that house – and I’m not talking about his anti-magic protection. This was something darker, more sinister. At one point, I felt something evil – not in the room with us, exactly, but close by, searching, trying to get at us. At the time, I thought it was just my conscience punishing me, but now I know better.”
“What changed your mind?”
“I was in such a blue funk on the way home, I didn’t even feel like telling you. But when we walked out of Sutorius’s house, Quincey, the air reeked of black magic. And I didn’t smell anything like it when we were going in.”
Morris thought about that. “You figure somebody made a move on us in Brooklyn, and the house stopped it?”
“That’s as good an explanation as any,” Libby said. “And I think we should prepare accordingly.”
“By doing what?”
“I think you should bring that knife of yours with you whenever you go out, and I’ll give you a couple of protective charms to carry.”
“Fine – thank you.”
“As for me, instead of my original plan for tonight, which involved consuming a large quantity of vodka, I’m going to spend some time putting together a few defensive spells that I can invoke very quickly, if I have to.”
“Sounds like a lot of trouble to go to.”
“It is, but worth the effort,” she said. “We had some good luck in Cambridge last time Quincey – that’s why we’re still alive. I’m not going to depend on luck anymore.”
Twenty-Nine
IN WARMER WEATHER, Harvard Square was a bustling place, full of strolling students, food vendors, street musicians, petition tables, and the best-educated panhandlers in North America. But in March, with the win
d blowing off the Charles River at twenty miles an hour with gusts up to thirty-five, there were still plenty of people about, but they were all bundled up and walking rapidly, hoping to get home, get to class, get to work, get laid, get anywhere that’s out of the damn wind.
Adelson’s Rare Books and Antiquities was located a few doors down from the intersection of Mt. Auburn and Kennedy streets. As a building it was long, rather than wide, with a storefront that measured twenty-two feet across. Adelson’s looked out on the Square through two small display windows, each of which featured a carefully lit display of books that, together, cost more than most mid-size cars.
The taxi dropped Morris and Chastain off in front of the store at about four thirty p.m., and they had to step carefully over a snow-covered curb to reach the red brick sidewalk. They did not linger over the window displays and instead walked rapidly to the heavy, wooden front door and slipped inside.
Neither of them had paid any attention to the coffee shop across the street, or to the man sitting at a window table who had gone through two sandwiches and six coffee refills waiting for their arrival. He was a large man with wide shoulders, a big jaw, and eyebrows so long and thick that they seemed to meet in the middle of his forehead. As Morris and Chastain went into Adelson’s, the big man stood up, his knees cracking. Dropping a couple of twenties on the table, he headed for the door. He did not walk particularly fast, but everyone in his path moved aside to let him pass. A few moments later, the man was standing at the curb, waiting for a break in the traffic that would let him cross the street without mortal injury.
Inside Adelson’s, the quiet was an almost palpable thing, in sharp contrast with the noisy street outside. But then, the rare book business tends not to attract a rowdy crowd. At this hour on a Thursday, it apparently had attracted no one at all; Morris and Chastain appeared to be the only customers.
Thirty feet or so from the front door there was a large antique desk. Behind it sat a small antique man with thick glasses and thin hair. Morris and Libby stood before the desk, with Morris feeling a bit like a tardy kid who has been sent to the principal’s office.
“Mr. Adelson?” Libby asked. She did not quite whisper.
“No, I’m afraid not,” the old man said. “My name is Schwartz, and I am the chief clerk. May I assist you?”
“We would really like to speak with Mister Adelson,” Morris said. “It’s a very important matter.” He handed the man a business card that read “Morris and Chastain Investigations” with contact information for both New York City and Austin, Texas.
If Mr. Schwartz was impressed, he concealed it very well. “Mister Adelson normally sees people only by appointment,” he said.
“He is in, then,” Libby said. “Excellent. May I?”
She took the card back, wrote on the blank side “Corpus Hermeticum?” and returned it to Mr. Schwartz.
“If you’ll show that to Mister Adelson, I think he’ll give us a few moments of his time,” she said, adding just a tiny bit of magical “push” to the words.
“Yes, of course,” Mr. Schwartz said. “Excuse me a moment.”
He was back within a minute. Seeming slightly surprised, he said, “Mr. Adelson will see you. If you would both follow me.”
He led them to a door that opened onto a corridor. There was a door labeled “Utilities,” another with a sign that said “Receiving,” and a third door that had nothing on it at all. That was the door Mr. Schwartz knocked on. Hearing a voice from within bellow, “Come in!” he opened the door and motioned the visitors through. To the man behind the desk he said, “These are the people I spoke about, Mr. Adelson.”
“Fine, Stanley, thank you.”
Schwartz left, and the man seated behind the large, cluttered desk rose to greet them. In a voice that was too loud for the size of the room, he said, “Hello, I’m David Adelson – but then you’ve probably determined that already.”
“I’m Quincey Morris, Mr. Adelson.” Morris leaned over to shake hands. “And this is Libby Chastain.”
“Yes,” Adelson said with a smile. “I had determined that already. Do sit down.”
The man from the coffee shop came into Adelson’s about then. Closing the big door, he rested his back against it for a moment, looking around the shop with questing eyes. He raised his head slightly, almost as he were sniffing the air.
As he approached Mr. Schwartz’s desk, the old man stared and asked “Can... can I help you sir?”
“Just looking,” the man growled, and kept on walking.
Quincey Morris, meanwhile, had just concluded that David Adelson didn’t look much like a man whose passion was rare books. He belonged on a safari in Africa or someplace, looking strong and manly as he shot something good and true and real. Adelson stood about 6’5”, with a barrel chest that was clearly the source for the booming voice. His styled hair was white, as was the closely-trimmed full beard. He wore an ivory rollneck sweater and a pair of old Levis. The eyeglasses that hung around his neck by a cord were the only concession to the book business that Morris could see.
They hung their coats on a nearby rack, but Libby hung on to her leather purse, which now rested in her lap.
Adelson studied their business card, or pretended to. “So you two are partners. Why kind of things do you investigate, exactly?
“Whatever our clients ask us to, Mr. Adelson,” Libby said.
“They come from all walks of life,” Morris said, “and some of them have problems that are... unusual, if not outright bizarre.”
“I see,” Adelson said, although he clearly didn’t. He turned the card over and looked at what Libby had written on the back. “Corpus Hermeticum,” he read aloud, pronouncing each syllable distinctly. “I assume this is the name of a book.”
“A very old one,” Morris said. “1471, or thereabouts. It’s the Latin translation of a book of occult knowledge. The original was written in Egyptian-Greek, but no copies of that are known to exist.”
As Morris was speaking, Libby Chastain had slipped a hand inside her purse, to grasp a small vial she had put there earlier.
“Occult knowledge,” Adelson said, tapping one corner of the card on his desk. “And you’re interested in having us locate this book for you?”
Morris nodded. “We’ve heard that a copy – or rather, a set, since it’s five volumes – has come onto the market recently.”
Adelson raised his bushy white eyebrows. “Indeed? I confess I’ve never heard of the work, and I like to think I’m pretty well plugged into all the rumors and gossip that are rampant in the profession.”
“This particular set was stolen recently,” Morris said, “from a supposedly secure repository in Montana. An expert, fella name of Robert Sutorius, was hired to break in and get it. He pulled it off, too.”
Adelson kept his face blank, but a pulsing vein suddenly appeared below his left ear.
After trying to stare Morris down without success, Adelson slammed one huge paw down on the desk with a sound like a gunshot. “If you’re implying that I would have anything to do with stolen property,” he said loudly, “you are sadly mistaken, sir. I’m afraid I must ask you both to–”
“Excuse me,” Libby said. She stood up, leaned over Adelson’s immense desk, and blew a small quantity of blue powder into his face.
“What the hell are you doing, woman? Is this–”
Libby sat down again and said the same three words of power that she had uttered in Robert Sutorius’s home. But the effect was very different this time.
Adelson immediately became calm. He sat there, blinking blue powder off his eyelashes, his face expressionless.
Libby had explained earlier that since she had cast the spell, she must be the one to ask the questions, although Morris could prompt her if needed.
“I’m going to ask you some things, Mr. Adelson, and your answers will be complete and utterly truthful. You will want to tell me the truth.
“Yes, of course.” Adelson seemed to slowly co
me out of his trance. He swiveled his chair to face Libby, crossed his legs, and folded his hands over his midsection. “Ask away.”
“Did you hire Robert Sutorius to steal the Corpus Hermeticum?”
“Yes, I did. I thought he did a marvelous job.”
“Why did you hire him?”
“I had a client who wanted the book. Actually, he was only interested in volume five.”
“Then why did Sutorius steal all of it?”
“He doesn’t read Latin, and thought the volume might possibly have been shelved out of order. So, to be sure he had the right one, he took the whole thing.”
“So he brought you all five volumes?”
“Yes. I increased his fee, since he had gone beyond the call of duty, as it were.” Adelson chuckled at his little joke.
“Could you tell which one was volume five?”
“Oh, certainly. I’m quite proficient at Latin – in this business, you have to be. It only took me a minute to identify the volume that my client wanted.”
“What did you do with the other four volumes?”
“I kept them. Even an incomplete set of a work that old is bound to fetch a good price, one of these days.”
“Where are they now?”
“In the basement – locked up in the vault we keep for ultra-valuable books.”
“What was your client’s name?”
“He called himself Theron Ware. I assumed that was an alias. As long as he wasn’t planning to pay by check, I didn’t give a damn.” Adelson chuckled again. He seemed to be having a great time.
I should try some of that powder myself one of these days, Morris thought. On the other hand, maybe not. I’ve got far too many secrets that need keeping.
“Describe Mister Ware for me, please,” Libby said.
“Tall – not as tall as me, maybe around 6’2”. Very thin. Skinny, even. Thirty-five to forty, I’d say. Had a thin beard like some of the younger men sport now. I think it looks stupid, frankly. He wore sunglasses and a hat when we talked, as if I gave a damn what he looked like.”
Play With Fire Page 11
