Should he call the police? He thought better of it. There would be interviews, interrogations, police reports, news reports. Too risky. His best bet was to slip out of the country. Try to find out why someone would kill for the book then decide on a course of action. For that, he needed the help of an expert.
The taxi dropped Crow at his destination right in the heart of Boston just past eleven o’clock in the morning. He paid the cabbie, looked around, and entered the building where ‘Rothschild’s’ was engraved in stone above the entrance. The solemnity of the interior was a stark contrast to the bustling street just outside its doors much like walking into a library. Cooler. Quieter. He felt safe and calm in an odd sort of way. The soft scent of books met his nostrils. He loved that smell. That smell was one of the reasons he chose to be a writer. His steps reflected across the marble entrance to the receptionist’s desk.
“I’m here to see Dr. Sidney Rosenfeld,” he announced.
“And your name?” the receptionist asked.
“Benson Crow. I have an appointment.”
The receptionist reached for the phone. “Please have a seat. Someone will be with you in a moment.”
Crow sank into the overstuffed sofa and examined his surroundings. The tall pilasters leading to the interior of the business beyond the receptionist were in keeping with the federal style of early Boston. They looked old, but he couldn’t determine how old. Large tapestries hung on the walls to either side of the ornate center doorway that had been modernized over the years for security purposes. He was examining the intricate woodwork on the door itself when it opened. Through it stepped a striking woman with skin as smooth as silk, the color of caramel with a hint of cream. She looked across the room and spotted him.
“Mr. Crow?”
He rose from his seat. “Yes. I’m Benson Crow.”
“This way, please.”
She turned and walked back to the door. Her business suit told him she was more than Dr. Rosenfeld’s secretary. She moved with too much confidence and grace. Research assistant maybe? Lover? If the man should be so lucky. She held her keycard to the sensor and the door buzzed. Crow followed her down a long hallway. He observed a meeting full of people going on in a conference room. The other offices along the hallway were occupied with workers, some of whom had not tidied those offices in years. Papers were stacked high on desks. Books were arranged on shelves in peculiar order. Some were piled on floors. Most were of the thick variety about art and history. There was a quiet reverence to the place. They reached an office on the left at the end of the hallway. She opened the door and held it for him before closing it behind them. Only then did she extend a hand. Crow held it in his for a brief moment. It was soft, delicate.
“I’m Sidney Rosenfeld. It’s nice to meet you.”
Crow was stunned. “You’re Dr. Rosenfeld?”
Chapter Six
“Is there a problem?” Dr. Rosenfeld asked.
“I’m sorry, but you’re not quite what I expected,” Crow said.
She walked around her desk and took her place. “What were you expecting, Mr. Crow?”
“I was expecting someone a little more—”
“Male?”
“Well, I was going to say Jewish.”
“Jewish,” she repeated.
“And older.”
“Well, you’re full of preconceived notions, aren’t you?”
“It’s just that, well, let’s face it. You don’t look Jewish,” he joked.
“That’s because I’m not,” she said, “but neither is Whoopi Goldberg. And you don’t look Indian.”
Crow smiled. “Crow is Irish, actually.”
“You know, it’s dangerous to jump to conclusions. Things aren’t always as they appear. We’ve had to learn that the hard way in this business.”
“I do apologize, Dr. Rosenfeld.”
“It’s not a problem. You said in your e-mail you’d found an early printing of The Prophecies by Nostradamus. May I see it?”
“Sure.” Crow produced the velvet-covered book from his coat pocket.
Dr. Rosenfeld took the sleeve from him and set it atop a cloth pedestal on the desk. She then reached in a top drawer and pulled out two white gloves. She approached the task with the seriousness of a doctor suiting up for surgery. After sliding her slender hands into the gloves, she removed the book from its velvet sleeve. She pulled a swiveled magnifying glass between her and the book and examined its front cover. She then turned it over to examine the back. Crow looked around her office. There were leather-bound books stacked on a shelf behind her. Blue reference books occupied the entire row below them. A small white bust of George Washington held up one small cluster of books and a glass award with her name on it served as a bookend on the other side. An impressionist painting rested on an easel in the corner. In another corner was a wooden coat rack on which hung an umbrella, a plaid scarf, and a white lab coat. The gentle ticking of an antique clock on one of the shelves was the only sound in the room. She laid the book back down on the soft cloth and opened it. Using the magnifying glass, she scanned the page in silence then turned to another, then another. Satisfied, she pushed the glass aside and closed the book.
“What many people don’t realize is this is how the book was first printed,” she explained. “They hear about the works of Nostradamus and they expect a large leather-bound book. The Prophecies were meant for the common man. They were printed as little books that could fit in your pocket so you could easily pull them out while you were traveling.”
“Much like paperbacks today,” Crow said.
“Exactly. There were many editions of this book that were printed in the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries. Part of the problem in interpreting Nostradamus is the fact that so many different shops printed his books, and mistakes were made in type-setting for different words. This particular edition is from 1634. It’s in remarkably good shape. I would think it would fetch around $20,000. Of course, that’s just a ballpark estimate. We would need to do more research to get a more accurate asking price.”
“Twenty-thousand dollars,” Crow said.
“Give or take a few thousand. That’s minus the fifteen percent seller’s fee, of course. Would you like us to list it for you?”
Crow looked down at the book then back up at Sidney Rosenfeld. “I don’t know. I mean, that does sound very tempting. Is that enough to kill for?”
“Sorry?” Rosenfeld said.
“There’s a bit more to this particular copy. You got a minute?”
Rosenfeld leaned back in her chair and steepled her fingers over her stomach like someone who relished a good conversation. “Sure.”
Crow proceeded to tell her the whole tale. The creepy drifter who stalked him in Montreal. The encounter in the men’s room. Watching the two men force the old guy into the back of the car. The story on the news of the alleged murder. He left nothing out. Rosenfeld was intrigued.
“Very interesting, Mr. Crow. Sounds like a great idea for a novel to me.”
It took a second for her meaning to sink in. “Oh, now wait a minute. Are you suggesting I’m making all this up?”
“I’m familiar with your work, Mr. Crow.” She leaned forward. “It’s not unusual for clients to, let’s say, embellish stories surrounding items we sell. You know, to drive up the price?”
“Hold on a second. You can check with the Montreal police.”
“And I’m sure I’ll find a homeless man was found dead in the river this morning. Of course, it could be that someone stole the book from the homeless guy and dumped him in the river. That would be an interesting twist for your novel. Don’t you think?”
Crow stood up and held his hand out for the book. “I see I came to the wrong place.”
“Mr. Crow, I’m not accusing you of anything, but you have to see things from my side of the desk. I don’t know you from Adam’s house cat. You schedule a hurried meeting, then you tell me a man gave his life for this book.”
“It’s not me you’ll have to convince. I’m just telling you what to expect if you list this book. This is the kind of interrogation you’ll go through from my higher-ups. Do you know how many people walk through our door wanting to fence stolen goods?”
Crow eased back down to his seat. “Dr. Rosenfeld, I can assure you my motivation is not money. Certainly not twenty grand.”
“As if twenty thousand dollars is something to sneeze at.”
“Let’s just say I have bad allergies.”
She smiled slightly. “A man who will exaggerate the size of his bank account, Mr. Crow, will exaggerate the size of other things, too.”
Crow didn’t flinch. “I can assure you, it’s no exaggeration.”
“Which one?”
“Take your pick.”
She studied him for a moment then fixed her lower jaw forward tilting her head back. “What is your motivation?”
“Well, for starters,” Crow said, “I want to know why someone would kill for this book.”
“That’s not hard to figure out. Twenty thousand dollars is a lot of money. It may not be to you, but it’s a lot of money to most people.”
“Not to these people,” Crow said.
“I thought you didn’t know who killed him.”
“I don’t, but these were hired goons. I can’t imagine that someone who has that kind of muscle on retainer needs a measly twenty grand. I’m more interested in finding out why that man gave me this book. I mean, I’m the least likely person to know what to do with it.”
“I have no way of knowing,” Rosenfeld said.
“Well, there’s more than just the book.”
Rosenfeld gave him a curious look.
He pulled from his pocket the sheet of paper he found in the pages of the book. “This is what I’m intrigued by.” He handed her the paper. “I found it inside the book.”
Rosenfeld looked it over. “It’s written in quatrains like Nostradamus wrote,” she said, “but these are not his.”
“Quatrains?”
“Yes,” she looked up, “four-line stanzas. It’s how Nostradamus wrote his predictions. Heavily coded, most believe, so the Church wouldn’t directly accuse him of witchcraft or sorcery.”
“Any idea what any of this means? I have the translation.” He reached for his notation pad.
She ignored his offer and read the French verses to herself. “I’d only be guessing. Ordinarily, century of four would refer to the fourth century, but that would be before Nostradamus’ time. That really wouldn’t make any sense. It probably refers to Nostradamus’ centuries.”
“Nostradamus’ centuries?”
“Yes, he divided his quatrains into centuries, usually with one hundred quatrains per century.” She opened the book and held it up so he could see. “For example, in this book each chapter is called a century. Century of four probably means century four or chapter four. The age most likely refers to the quatrain. Seventy-one. That’s what that could mean but, like I said, I’d only be guessing.”
Crow finished writing in his note pad. “Any ideas on what the rest of it means?”
“I don’t.”
“Do you know anyone who might?”
She put the book back in its sleeve and hesitated before handing it back to him. “Mr. Crow, I’m not sure you’re ready for what you may have gotten yourself into.”
Crow took the book and looked at her with concern. “Well, you have to tell me now.”
“I don’t think I should.”
“Why?” He slid the velvet sleeve back into his coat pocket.
“Because this isn’t some game. I’m sure it sounds rather exciting to a novelist. A mysterious man gives you a mysterious book with a mysterious cryptic message. Like some childhood scavenger hunt.”
“I, uh—”
“This isn’t some riddle to be solved by a bored writer,” she continued. “The study of Nostradamus and his writings is very serious. The people who study him are very serious. Some have spent their entire lives trying to unravel the quatrains, trying to make sense of the odd references. They’ve dedicated their professions to understanding the man and his so-called prophecies. I would never want to insult them by subjecting them to an amateur sleuth who thinks he’s in some Hardy Boys mystery.”
“Dr. Rosenfeld, I can assure you that I take my profession very seriously as well. Yes, I’m a writer, but I’m a writer because of my insatiable curiosity. Do I love a good challenge? You bet I do, but I don’t go around accepting them just to give me something to do. This man in Montreal went out of his way to give me this book, to give me those…those quatrains, as you call them. I don’t know why he chose me, but he lost his life in the process. I owe him the courtesy of at least being curious enough to ask why.”
She stared at him until the sincerity of his words penetrated her skepticism. “OK,” she said, pulling off her white gloves. She jotted something down on the back of her business card then handed it to him along with the odd verses on the paper. “That’s the foremost Nostradamus expert in this country.” She pointed to the card.
“Dr. Benedict Grumbling,” he read aloud.
“He lives on an old plantation in Virginia not too far from D.C. You can’t call him. He doesn’t have a phone. You’ll just have to show up. That’s his address on the back of the card. On the front is my direct line. If you have any questions or any problem finding Dr. Grumbling, give me a call.”
“I appreciate that.” Crow took one of her business cards from the desk and wrote his phone number on the back. “If you think of anything that might help me, please give me a call.”
She took the card then extended her hand. Crow shook it.
“Good luck, Mr. Crow. Sorry if I offended you.”
“No problem,” Crow replied. “Just doing your job.”
Rosenfeld smiled. “Just doing my job.”
Chapter Seven
Crow took the noon non-stop to Reagan National. By half-past-two he was pulling up to an old plantation house, the tires of his rental crunching on the pea gravel drive. The stately old home looked as though it had been neglected for years. The smell of old hay cut through the humid summer afternoon. The yard was a mess. The rusticated exterior was beveled at the edges when first constructed and sand was thrown on the wet paint to make the yellow pine siding appear as stone. Now the paint peeled. The porch creaked.
He knocked on the large wooden door with the weathered brass knocker. He was about to knock again when the door opened and a woman appeared. She was slight of stature and dressed in a monochrome skirt and blouse of gunmetal grey. Crow took her for a servant, not a wife. Certainly not a lover.
“I’m here to see Dr. Benedict Grumbling,” he said. “I, uh, couldn’t call because…” His voice trailed off as the door opened wide.
The woman said nothing. She turned and walked. Crow followed. He glanced around the huge foyer. If she was the housekeeper she was a damn sorry one. Dust was everywhere. The windows were caked with dirt. No pleasant smell came from the kitchen. No sweet scent of potpourri. Just mustiness.
He was shown to a large library just off the foyer where he found an elderly man with a pipe hunched over an antique desk staring with great intent into a magnifying glass. Wisps of white and gray hair streaked his balding skull and became thicker at his temples. He sported a close-cropped salt-and-pepper vandyke. Smoke seeped from the corners of his mouth. He was studying a book that was taken from one of the tall shelves of the library that must have reached fourteen feet high.
“Dr. Grumbling?”
“Mr. Crow,” he answered without looking up. “I’ve been expecting you.”
Expecting me? How?
Grumbling anticipated the question before it was asked. “Word gets around, Mr. Crow,” he said looking up. “Especially when someone begins gnawing at their pant legs. Don’t look so surprised. When you paid a visit to Dr. Ro
senfeld it was inevitable you’d end up here.” Crow still looked uneasy by his prescience. He couldn’t quite place the accent. British maybe, but somewhat watered down. Definitely European. “What?” Grumbling feigned offense. “I do have friends who live in the twenty-first century, you know.” He rose from the desk and motioned to a sofa then grabbed a bottle of whisky from the bar. “Can I offer you a refreshment?”
“No, thank you.” Crow took a seat on the sofa.
Dr. Grumbling poured a drink as he puffed on his pipe then returned the bottle to its resting place. “In order for me to be of any assistance, I first need to know where you are in your journey.”
“My journey?”
“How much do you know about Michel de Nostredame?” Grumbling settle into the leather chair beside the sofa.
“I know just enough to be dangerous.”
“The only thing more dangerous than too little knowledge is a man who thinks he knows everything but knows nothing atall.” Grumbling took a sip of his whisky.
“I’ve never actually taken him seriously, but I know a little about his prophecies,” Crow said. “He supposedly predicted all sorts of world events including World War II. Even Hitler himself, although he called him ‘Hister,’” Crow stated authoritatively.
Grumbling toked on his pipe and chuckled. “Dangerous, indeed. Too many late night documentaries, my boy.” He adjusted himself in his chair. “Hister is not a misspelling of Hitler. It refers to the lower Danube River. It’s Latin. Michel de Nostredame, or Nostradamus as most people know him, rarely mentioned people by name. He was a prophet, but he didn’t have a crystal ball. The quatrains do speak of ‘a captain of Great Germany’ who ‘will come to deliver through false help’ and ‘his revolt will cause a great flow of blood.’ That would indicate he was talking about Hitler, but there was no specific reference. Anything else you know about the man?”
“I’m afraid not. I mean, I know he wrote in a sort of cryptic language. What do you make of this?” Crow handed him the strange verses he’d found inside the book.
The First Face of Janus Page 4
