by D J Mcintosh
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
Furious 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.
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.
“He
athrow,” 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 d
oubt 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
It 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.
