by D J Mcintosh
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.
As was customary with Interpol’s theft reports, the brief didn’t name the book’s rightful owner. Maybe no individual name was attached. Often enough these valuable items were assigned to a business for tax reasons. The owner’s name might prove difficult to unearth.
I sat back in my chair. Breakfast no longer interested me. The fact that four other volumes were listed as stolen by Interpol might help me. I could follow any of those leads if the man claiming to be Gian Alessio Abbattutis threatened the other buyers. And those buyers, I reasoned, might be able to supply useful information for finding Alessio. Visiting Amy at Sherrods had to be my first priority, though, to learn who assigned the book to the auction house in the first place.
After settling things over the phone with the car rental agency—which meant losing my entire damage deposit—I left a healthy housekeeping tip, checked out of the hotel, and found a bank nearby. I had to haggle with the teller and sign my life away before the man finally handed over the cash. This would furnish me with enough money to manage, whatever lay ahead.
I rented a safety deposit box and placed my gold coin, along with the cedar box that had contained the book, inside. Knowing Alessio could use my phone to find me, I put it in the safety deposit box as well. I bought a money belt and then went to a discount electronics store for an untraceable burner phone.
It felt good to walk in London’s crisp autumn air. The strange paralysis I’d experienced last night hadn’t returned. The more I thought about it, the more I believed it resulted from some form of hypnosis. I rubbed my fingers over my neck on the spot where Alessio’s cane had bitten into my skin. It was tender but the skin wasn’t broken. My neck was fine. My imagination was working overtime. My resolve deepened to chase down leads to the other volumes and prove they’d never been auctioned to me in the first place.
Sherrods was located on the same street as Christie’s—Old Brompton Road. I found my friend Amy Price, a petite transplanted Australian, in her office and able to spare a few minutes. We were on good terms. On my last visit to London we’d shared cocktails followed by a night out and one thing had led, very pleasantly, to another.
She got up from her desk and I gave her a hug that lingered long enough to be more than friendly. She shook her finger at me in mock disapproval. “Don’t be cheeky,” she said. “I’m at work.” Then her smile faded. “I know why you’re here. I’m so sorry. Very bad luck, John. The police contacted us last night after you reported the robbery. It must have been horrible.”
“Amy, listen. I hate to tell you this but the book I bought here yesterday was stolen.”
She looked at me with puzzlement. “I know. That’s what I meant. You’d have arranged for insurance, of course. Still, it must be upsetting.”
There was no way to break this gently, much as I wanted to spare Amy any trouble. “Don’t worry about me, Amy,” I said. “The auction house could be in some difficulty. Legally they’re obliged to return my client’s money because the title wasn’t cleared. Have you thought about what you’re going to do?”
“What do you mean? The theft happened after you left here. We’re not involved.” A hint of worry darkened her eyes. “What are you trying to say?”
“A claim’s been made the book was stolen before it went on the auction block. There’s an Interpol file on it.”
“No way. I checked that personally. It was completely clean.” She smoothed her brown hair in a nervous gesture.
I wanted to reassure her if I could. “Apparently, the Interpol alert came in right before the auction. You couldn’t have known.”
“Oh no—are you serious?” She bent over her laptop and frantically punched keys. I could see apprehension clouding her face as she found and digested the Interpol report. When she turned around her voice quavered. “I cleared that bloody thing.… They were about to offer me a permanent position. I’ll never get another job in this field.” She put her head in her hands and valiantly tried to hold back a sob.
“Not your fault, Amy. You couldn’t have known about the report. Besides, these things don’t always become public.”
She lost the battle with her emotions; when she looked up, I saw her lovely blue eyes brimming with tears. “You know what it’s like. The office gossips feed on stuff like this. One of the interns is a nephew of the owner and he’s thoroughly pissed he’s not getting the job. Wait until he hears.”
I touched her shoulder reassuringly. “I’m getting that book back, Amy, and nailing the asshole who stole it from me. I’ll do anything I can to help you. But you’ve got to tell me what you know. The thief said his name was Gian Alessio Abbattutis. He might be a nut job or maybe a descendant of the author. Or just got a kick out of using an alias. I have a feeling that book’s at the center of a family dispute. What can you tell me about the author? I’ve never heard of Abbattutis. It’s not exactly a household name.”
“John, that’s a pseudonym. The author’s real name is Giambattista Basile. A celebrated member of the Spanish court at Naples and later awarded a title—the Count of Torone. He had a great sense of humor and loved anagrams. If you check all the letters you’ll see Gian Alessio Abbattutis anagrams almost perfectly to the author’s actual name.”
So Alessio’s use of the name Abbattutis turned out to be a perverse kind of joke. “Why would the real author use a pseudonym?”
“It was pretty common to do so in those days and Basile’s writing contains some pointed satire directed toward powerful political figures. Maybe it was self-preservation. He was far ahead of his time because he wrote in the Neapolitan dialect—instead of classical Latin—horrifically hard to translate properly. That’s why the book remained obscure until the twentieth century. The anthology’s a collection of fairy and folk tales. It’s often compared to Boccaccio’s Decameron.”
“Well, that’s fitting. The guy who stole my copy looked like he walked right out of one of those old stories.”
Amy raised her eyebrows. “The entire book includes some of the earliest versions of fairy tales every kid knows,” she went on. “Like ‘Puss in Boots.’ Some of the stories are pretty violent and there’s tons of sexual innuendo, not kid stuff at all. The book’s structured with a wraparound story like the one in The Arabian Nights, explaining why the tales were told.”
I looked her squarely in the eye. “Did you know it included illustrations by José de Ribera?”
“No! That would have increased the book’s value astronomically.”
“Exactly,” I said ruefully. “An incredible find, really. My client stood to make a fortune. There’s something else. The book’s gold covers are really well executed, with Arabic-looking arabesque designs. Is that unusual for an Italian book? What do you think?”
She thought about what I asked for a moment and said, “I remember now. Except for the initials, the covers are almost a direct copy of a famous design done in 1537 by Hans Holbein the Younger for an English book.” Amy bent over her computer and searched for an image and then swiveled the screen for me to take a look.
Design for a metal book cover by Hans Holbein the Younger
“That’s it, exactly, except for the initials. Why is that ring on top?”
“To fasten the book to a cord or belt so it couldn’t be lost or stolen.”
“Nice. I’m curious why Sherrods’ catalog made no mention of the author’s real name or the fact it was a fairy-tale anthology. That would have made it highly collectible.”
“The consignor was very secretive and wanted to li
mit how much information we gave out. Since the owner was represented by someone I know and trust, I went along with it.”
“Didn’t the secrecy raise your suspicions?”
“Happens all the time. Some sellers can be pretty weird. They would have refused to let us auction it, otherwise. How are you thinking to get it back?”
“By finding the thief. Listen, can you put a hold on the money? If the book does turn out to be stolen your consignor had no right to sell it so he’s not entitled to the proceeds.”
“We wired the funds this morning—sorry.” She bit her lip. She was already thinking beyond the immediate theft and how to protect Sherrods’ reputation. “Our lawyers will have a go at it. The house may not be compromised.”
“The whole thing might turn out to be a nonissue. One family member accusing another of selling it without permission. It wouldn’t be the first time someone made a false accusation of theft.”
She brightened up for an instant but her face fell as quickly. “Interpol would have checked all that before issuing the alert.”
“Not necessarily. Depends on who made the accusation. If it’s from someone powerful, that would influence the police. Look, if I can retrieve it, I’ll make it clear you were instrumental in helping me get it back. That should help. Who’s the consignor? Where did it come from?”
“I’m right fucked anyway so you may as well know. It came from Ewan Fraser Associates.” She sighed as though she were carrying the weight of the whole world on her shoulders.
“Sounds Scottish. Is he from Edinburgh?”
“No, Naples. We’ve dealt with him in the past. Completely trustworthy source. He’s a rare book dealer in his off hours. It’s somewhere between a hobby and a real business for him. I met him on a trip once. A big blustery guy.”
“Why Naples?”
“He works at the national library there. Moved to the city because he’s always loved the Italian life. And it’s a lot warmer than Scotland.”
Her face clouded over. I saw she was thinking the same unpleasant thought I was.
“Surely he wouldn’t have taken it from the library and sent it here hoping no one would find out?”
“And used his own name? Doesn’t make sense. Not rightly.”
“Does your consignor still have the other four volumes, or were they sold too?”
“What are you talking about? We auctioned the complete book.”
“No, Sherrods didn’t, Amy. There’s no way. I found only one volume of the five inside the gold covers, the first one published in 1634.”
With an exasperated sigh, she fished among some papers on her desk, pulled out a sheet, and handed it to me. “Here’s the record of consignment.” She ran her finger underneath a sentence. “It clearly states all five volumes were offered.”
“I don’t give a damn what it says. Your ‘reliable’ consignor falsified the record then. I know there was only one volume. I checked.” I clicked on my phone and brought up the photo image of the frontispiece I’d taken. “Here, I took a photo.”
She backed away a few steps and crossed her arms. “John, that doesn’t prove anything. We’re good mates, you and I. But don’t try putting one over on me. This situation is bad enough without you … distorting it.”
I was on the verge of flinging back a retort when I remembered the tiny scratches I’d seen on the wooden box. “It’s customary for any house to check on an article before putting it up for sale, right?”
“Yes.”
“And did you in this case?”
“Stop giving me the third degree. Of course I did.”
“You just looked inside the wooden box though, correct? You didn’t actually open the covers.”
Amy wilted, her face falling for an instant; then she sidestepped my question. “This discussion is getting us nowhere.” She glanced at her watch. “In five minutes I’ve got to go on deck. I imagine you’ll want to see Ewan to sort this out?”
“Absolutely.”
“I’ll make sure he’ll be at the library tomorrow.”
“That’s good—thanks.”
“I’ll let you know, but I can’t talk to him directly until I’ve cleared everything with Sherrods’ solicitors. Now I’ve got to run. I don’t want to look a total wreck when I break the bad news to my boss. You’ll have to excuse me.”
She turned to leave, her shoulders slumped, and said despondently, “John, I’m shattered. And so sorry you’re in this position. But now that this is a legal issue it’s best we don’t talk more about it.”
I wasn’t happy with Amy’s dodging the question of whether or not I had a complete book but my heart went out to her all the same. She gave me a quick hug. “I’m on your side, Amy. Don’t forget, if it’s in my power to clear this whole thing up, I will.”
With a beleaguered smile she hurried out the door.
Six
The sun vanished behind a heavy bank of cloud, and London, one of the most beautiful cities in the world, felt desolate. Amy hadn’t actually seen the book itself, of that I was sure. Had she also been warned it was dangerous, or had she trusted Ewan Fraser too much? At this point it didn’t matter. It was my word against hers. Amy and I liked each other, but she was in a very junior position. The entire issue would swiftly move to the chief curator and Sherrods’ lawyers. If they could divert some of the blame by fingering me, they wouldn’t hesitate.
I had no real proof the theft in my hotel room even took place. If anyone had noticed a man lingering in front of the hotel, they’d hardly have paid him any heed. I could see the wheels churning at Sherrods right now. They’d claim that I’d stolen it myself with the intent to sell it on the black market. And worse, with the book gone, who was to say the copy they offered at auction was the same one listed by Interpol?
I had a prearranged appointment with Arthur Newhouse, the solicitor who originally wrote to me, to hand over the book, assuming I was the successful bidder. I hadn’t told him about the theft and fully intended to keep the appointment to learn the identity of my anonymous client and unravel this mystery.
En route to his office I stopped off at a couple of bookstores to see whether I could buy a translation but met with no success. At a printing shop I faxed my theft report to New Scotland Yard and did a quick check of my email. A well-intended message came in from a business friend in New York saying word had already leaked out about my involvement with Sherrods and a stolen book.
I swore under my breath. It had been only a couple of hours since I talked to Amy. Bad news travels faster than the speed of light.
My last experience dealing with a stolen relic from Iraq proved to me that once a rumor grabs hold, it’s hard to control it even when you’re close to the source. From this far away it would be impossible. My only hope lay in recovering the volume that had touched my hands so briefly and finding the other four.
I entered Lincoln’s Inn through a gatehouse, a handsome red-brick structure accented with white limestone and two turrets joined by a crenulated wall bearing the Lovell coat of arms.
The Newhouse chambers occupied a prestigious spot on the third floor of a posh bank of buildings at New Square. Framed by a double archway, a wide, formidable iron door buttressed with rivets and topped with sharp pikes formed the entrance. A handsome coach house–style lamp with a flickering gas flame hung overhead. Did all this fortification protect the lawyers from the screaming mobs or the disgruntled clients from their lawyers?
One of Newhouse’s clerks came out to greet me in the reception room. “I regret to tell you Mr. Newhouse has been delayed,” he said. “He’ll be back by 2 P.M.” He gestured toward the giant grandfather clock stationed beside an umbrella rack as if I wasn’t aware of the time.
“That’s fine. I’m happy to wait.”
“Glad you’re able to accommodate us, sir. Would you take a seat? Might I ask our Jennie to bring you some tea?” Our Jennie, a sharply attractive, narrow-faced young woman seated at the reception desk, looked up wit
hout smiling. She appeared to think pouring tea was about as enticing a proposition as doing overtime on Christmas Eve.
“I’m fine. Thanks anyway,” I said.
The fellow gave me a brief nod, excused himself, and disappeared down the hall. The only seat on offer was a rose damask settee so uncomfortable it felt as though it had been stuffed with cement. Jennie typed away on her desktop in silence. The grandfather clock chimed the half hour and ticked away the minutes. I wondered whether the police had already told Newhouse about the theft.
On my phone, I launched a browser and searched for the author under his real name. For his work to become a sensation in his lifetime was remarkable enough, but Basile had accomplished the near impossible—his words were still read and lauded centuries after his death. He was both a poet and court administrator, and also, most notably, one of the earliest Europeans to collect and transcribe oral folk tales.
Shunted from one patron to another, Basile was often treated miserably by his wealthy sponsors. He opined that “no life could be more unstable or fuller of anxiety,” and “you serve now, you serve later, you serve today, you serve tomorrow and then … suddenly it’s night for you. You’re told to turn yourself around and get out!”
I could relate to that. The more I read, the more I found myself intrigued by the man. He was the life of the party wherever he went. His poems and bawdy, comic stories were much sought after. One of his early translators described the anthology as being among the “oldest, richest, and most artistic of all books of popular tales.” Basile wrote literary versions of folk tales in the opulent, overblown Baroque tradition. But some of his fables were scurrilous and brutal, reminiscent of Swift’s dark, sharp-pronged satire.
“Mr. Madison?”
I’d become so engrossed in Basile’s life I hadn’t realized Arthur Newhouse stood before me. I clicked off my phone. We shook hands and he showed me to his office.
