Gritting his teeth against the pain, he leaned his weight on the desk, picked up the scissors, and cut through the tape on the package. He peeled the cardboard box open by brute force. Inside was what appeared to be a leather-bound quarto, the size sometimes referred to as a “coffee-table book,” still swathed in bubble wrap. Did they have bubble wrap in Egypt, now? Employing the scissors more carefully now, only on the corners, he managed to tear that away, as well.
The book was leather bound, and very old, the boards still attached, but barely. Bob’s breath was coming short, now. What if this book was actually what the Egyptian — he’d called himself Rashid — said it was? It had to be hidden, he couldn’t leave it lying here on the desk, but he sensed he had very little time. Either he’d been shot or it was the stroke or heart attack Doctor Mike kept warning him about. What was the old doctor joke? “How are your old, fat patients?” It was a joke because there were no old, fat patients.
No time now for the basement, no time to climb the stairs to Matthew’s currently unoccupied rooms, a climb he might not survive, anyway. A lot of good it would do anyone if he passed out on the stairs.
And then he knew where to hide this lost book so Matthew could find it, but no one else. He pushed himself away from the desk, started between the bookcases toward the back of the store. He grimaced at a new wave of pressure and pain in his chest, dropped again to one knee. For some reason one of his eyes wanted to stay closed, as well. What the hell was that about?
Outside two car doors slammed again and he heard at least one driver gun his engine and peel away. Which one? Had they both gone? Or were the gunmen even now climbing the front steps?
In his own vision, which seemed to have somehow intersected Chantal’s, Matthew watched as, on two knees and one hand, Robert crawled between the rows of bookcases, the precious leather volume still clutched to his breast with the other hand. That was the answer to an old riddle, wasn’t it? Three legs when it grows old, the third being a cane. Very funny. Why was his mind wandering? The leather-bound book smelled old. He sensed Bob was hiding it where no one but another bookseller would be likely to find it, but it was so dark back in the stacks, it was as though something was in his way, Matthew couldn’t see.
Now Bob was back near the front of the store, still on his knees, still carrying a book. But was that a different book? He didn’t appear to be bleeding, which would appear to clinch the disturbing diagnosis. Clenching his teeth, with another gargantuan effort he pulled his massive frame up onto one of the two desk chairs at the pair of front desks, grabbed the land line and dialed 9-1-1.
“Nature of my emergency?” Bob gave his name and address. “Shots fired in front of the store. One of my customers being robbed. But right now I myself am having a heart attack. A massive coronary. Need an ambulance right away.”
The bitch made him repeat it, then told him to stay on the line. Somewhere there were sirens. That seemed too soon. A coincidence, or had someone already called in the fight out front? He felt like he was falling into black space. He was probably going to pass out. They said if you could hang on till the ambulance crew reached you, you usually made it. But he’d lost a crucial minute or two hiding the book, of course. Not that there’d been any choice. What if it was real — not just some lost book, but the lost book? Now that would make a story. Maybe he’d be in for a footnote.
He set the book he now carried on the desk before him, fanned the pages open to see if they’d stay that way or whether the binding was firm enough to snap them closed. The pages flopped open. This was more common with the larger quartos, though technically a book couldn’t grade “fine” if the binding wasn’t tight enough to snap at least the text block closed. In a smaller volume, a “fine” or “as new” piece would even snap its boards closed, like a snapping turtle trying to grab your fingers.
The book repeatedly fell open to the same page, probably indicating a previous owner had used a weight to hold it open to that page at some point, while using it as a reference or copying out a passage, thus weakening the binding.
Bob slid the jacketless book under a small stack which rested against the wall at the side of the desk, pulled a pen from his shirt pocket and wrote on a Post-it note the words “Opens to Gallinules.” He then stuck the note on the computer screen. No one had yet tried to break down the door, so presumably the book thieves had fled, along with Rashid the Egyptian, unless of course Rashid was even now lying dead on the lawn. But the ambulance crew would find the door bolted. Robert forced himself upright a final time, cold sweat dripping from his forehead, staggered to the door, unbolted it, opened it.
The sidewalk and front walkway were empty. There were a few open doorways down the street, curious onlookers silhouetted in their yellow rectangles of domestic tranquility, peering out to locate the source either of the earlier gunshots or the approaching sirens. Then Robert lay himself down on his side on the floor before the open door, allowing the cool evening breeze to wash over him, and determined that he could enter his house justified. He had done all that he could do. The rest would be up to Matthew. Matthew would know what to do. And strangely enough, there was no longer any pain.
They were in the side yard. It felt cooler; the sun was almost down. Chantal was close to Matthew, propped on one elbow, watching him with concern. She reached out, tentatively, and brushed perspiration from his forehead, a tear from his cheek. “You OK, honey?”
“Saw Bob hiding the book. He should have called the ambulance sooner, but he wanted to be sure no one but us would find the book.”
“Yes.”
“You saw it, too?”
“Yes. Just now. Then it felt like you were struggling, I was worried about you.”
Matthew gazed into her eyes, pools of blue so large and dark he felt he could fall into them. He loved this woman. How lucky for him that she was so beautiful. But while he loved Chantal alone out of all women, curiously enough he now knew that, through her, he could love all women.
“The person you know who’s at risk of seizures is you, isn’t it?” she asked.
“It runs in my family, but I’m OK, I think. I’m back.”
“Is that common? For both of us to have the same vision?”
“I don’t think they can ever be exactly the same. But even for them to be related, to have similar visions at the same time? Very rare.”
“Well, we’re very rare, Matthew. I could have told you that.”
Little Serafina came trotting up now, very proud of herself, making the keening noise in her throat that meant she couldn’t open her jaws because she’d caught something. A mouse would have been an unusual catch in the daylight. Chantal hated it when they caught birds, though she understood it was in their nature. Sometimes you got lucky and you could pry the bird loose quickly enough and it would still fly away.
No bird this time, though. Serafina dropped it on the Navajo blanket in front of them, a shiny little 9mm brass cartridge case.
“Serafina! You found it!” Chantal praised and petted the black cat extensively. She purred and preened. “I assume we have no use for this thing, whatsoever?”
“None at all,” Matthew smiled. “It proves Clarence was right about the three shots, but I never doubted him. I still think that deserves a salmon treat, though, for diligence above and beyond the call of duty.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
THURSDAY EVENING
The cats lined up in the kitchen for their evening meal, everyone getting a couple dried salmon treats in honor of Serafina’s detective prowess. You always fed the livestock first. Then Matthew and Chantal retreated upstairs to brew tea and sit quietly indoors as the garden — she would always think of the side yard now as “the garden” — started to grow chilly in the twilight.
Neither Matthew nor Chantal had talked much. Finally Matthew broke out some hummus and pita bread; Chantal hadn’t thought she’d be hungry but once she started she realized she was ravenous, which for some reason started them giggling a l
ittle. It was actually nicer to have shared, since it meant neither of them seemed to feel the need to talk much. Finally Matthew did, though.
“Normally we should just eat a little and then sleep, but I have a feeling. They locked up and left, downstairs, a while ago. That’s where the book is.”
“I know.”
“You don’t have to come if you need to rest.”
“First dumb thing you’ve said all day.”
“You’ll find your muscles are tired, but I don’t think we can afford to wait.”
“Just give me a minute to pee, and I’m with you.”
The store was quiet, peaceful, it smelled like home. Had she never noticed that bookish smell, before? They could both picture Bob sitting in the chair at the front desk, struggling against his pain to manfully write his note about gallinules. Matthew turned on a few lights, not all of them, and walked around, checking to make sure the doors were locked and they were alone. Chantal sat down where Bob had sat, reached over and started sorting through the repair stack of books against the wall.
“Matthew?”
“Yes, babe.”
“The last book in the repair stack is Birds of the World, Del Hoyo, Volume Three, Hoatzin to Auks. Is that how you pronounce Hoatzin?”
“Possibly. I have no idea. I must have been playing hooky the day we were supposed to study Hoatzin.”
“Out doing drugs, probably.”
“Or making love in the green grass, behind the stadium with you.”
“Is that Jack Kerouac?”
“Van Morrison. Is the Del Hoyo Madrid or New York? No, wait, it would be Barcelona or New York.”
“Um . . . New York.”
“I think the true first is Barcelona. What about it?”
“It doesn’t appear to need fixing.”
“Hinges OK? No plates coming loose?”
“No. It does, however, open to Gallinules.”
“It does?”
“Falls open to the section page every time: Rails, Gallinules and Coots.”
Matthew had reached the desk. She demonstrated. “Someone must have held it open to this page with a weight or something.”
“‘Opens to gallinules.’ The book Bob wanted us to find.”
“I’d say.”
“But why? Any notes inside?”
“I already held it upside down and ran the pages. Nothing so far.”
“So we found the book, almost certainly the book in the note, set aside here on the desk. I think I saw him slide a book into that stack.”
“We both did.”
“But there’s no note inside, no map, nothing.”
“It has to mean something. Unless it’s an old note, a reminder to himself. But if he wrote it there at the end, he wouldn’t have had a lot of time to dream up fancy riddles.”
“But he would have had something to hide.” Matthew frowned, recalling the scene from their vision, or his version of their vision — there was no way to tell if they’d really been exactly identical. “He’s sitting here after hours, waiting for Rashid, who’s supposed to bring the book. Rashid has surprised him by arriving in town a day early, called from the airport to ask if he can stop by. Bob hears a ruckus outside, he rushes out to find one or more guys have waylaid Rashid on the sidewalk, there’s a fight, a tussle, a gun goes off.”
“I was shocked to see Bob rushing anywhere.”
“He paid the price. It’s clear Bob’s not shot, we don’t know if maybe Rashid was. Either Rashid was shot or they grabbed him. The remains of the cardboard package Marian and Skeezix found torn open here mean Bob almost certainly rushed inside and ended up with the book, which would also explain why we’ve had so many interesting visitors recently.”
“The gun goes off,” Chantal almost closed her eyes to picture it again, “doors start opening down the street, Rashid passes the book to Robert, who rushes back inside to put it someplace safe . . .”
“There would have been a crushing pain in his chest. Maybe at first he thought he had been shot. Either way, he rushes back inside to dial nine-one-one.”
“With somebody chasing him?” Chantal asked.
“Maybe not. They’re just hired to grab a package, the gun is for effect. They’re probably as shocked as anyone when the thing goes off. None of this is in the plans. They wouldn’t have orders to go inside and kill some bookseller in cold blood, especially not knowing whether he might have a gun in his desk. They’re from out of town, probably Rome, they assume all Americans have a cap-and-ball Colt ’51 Navy lying around, a snub-nose .38 in their pocket, like in the movies. They’re also afraid the police are coming, so they take off.”
“Without the book?”
“If they’d gotten the book this place wouldn’t look like Grand Central Station, this week. Figure Bob tears open that package and there’s the book, at least it looks like the real thing.”
“He wouldn’t want to leave it lying around if he’s figured out by then that he needs an ambulance.”
“He wants to hide it. But he doesn’t know how long he’s got, whether someone is going to be throwing their shoulder to the door in a minute.”
“Desk drawers?” she asked.
“We’ve been all through them.”
“Up high, on top of a bookcase?”
“Also obvious, and I’ve also checked.”
“Which would explain all the dust bunnies on the floor.”
“Did I fail a housekeeping inspection?”
“Upstairs? In the basements?”
“You could search this place for days. But they say a heart attack feels like someone’s pressing down on your chest with pavement blocks. So he’s called nine-one-one, he doesn’t want to go wandering around in the back of the building and lose consciousness where he won’t be found. If someone was out to steal this thing from Rashid, armed robbery, that tends to argue it’s the real thing, so it has to be hidden somewhere, but it has to be nearby.”
“Back to square one.”
“No. I thought I saw him on the floor, crawling back this way.”
“I did, too.”
“In ‘The Purloined Letter,’ they thought they’d looked everywhere, but they assumed the letter would be locked away, they never figured it’d be sitting out in plain sight with the rest of the week’s correspondence.”
“I thought I’d read all the Holmes stories.”
“‘The Purloined Letter’ is Poe.”
“Oh. Now I have to read all of Poe, don’t I?”
“No one said it was going to be easy, Grasshopper.”
“Birds of the World, Volume Three.”
“How’s that book priced?” Matthew asked.
Chantal checked the first blank page. “Two hundred dollars.”
“Sounds high. Did you run it?”
Chantal’s fingers rolled across the keyboard, something Matthew, a three-finger typist, had never been able to master. “OK, eight copies. Wow, two to four hundred apiece, so we’re actually at the low end.”
“We try to be. In a dust jacket?”
“Yes, looks like they all have dust jackets. Oh.”
“Yes. That price would be for a jacketed book.”
“So where’s the dust jacket for this one?” Chantal knew the quickest way to cut the value of a book in half was to throw away the dust jacket. In fact, some rare and fragile dust jackets from the ’20s or ’30s could be worth ten, 20 times the price of the jacketless book, if you didn’t get fooled by a modern photocopy. They were always having to explain to sellers that their jacketless books weren’t worth a fraction of what they thought, since they’d been looking up first editions in original jackets.
“Where’d this book come from?” Matthew asked, thinking out loud.
“Bob would already have had a pretty big book in his hand, a quarto like that one. They’re usually on the bottom shelves, ’cause of the weight. And we both saw him moving back in this direction.”
Chantal stood up to join Matthew as
he moved toward the back of the front room between the closest rows of bookcases, as Robert had.
“He’s in pain, not much time. He’s looking for a match in size, with a dust jacket. As soon as he spots a group of books the right size he stops here, in the animal section. That book he’ll carry back to the desk, slide under the repair stack where he knows we’ll find it eventually, leave us a note that no one else would be likely to understand. What he wants is to open up a piece of shelf space the right size . . .”
Chantal dropped to one knee, lowering her head sideways to read the titles on the bottom shelf. “But he’d leave the dust jacket. . .”
She reached out, there it was, a book wearing the jacket of Birds of the World, Volume 3. Sliding it out, she opened it, gingerly, across her knee.
“Yes?” asked Matthew, still standing, his own shadow partially blocking the light.
“I know this. This is papyrus. This is old. But it looks like Greek.” She handed the book up to him.
“If it’s a later copy, Greek would be. . . . No, look. Only the first page is Greek.”
“I saw the old monk start to write in Greek,” Chantal said.
“You did?”
“I did.”
“The rest is in Hebrew.”
“Is it missing the title page?”
“Little one, Hebrew . . .”
“OK, I’m an idiot; that’s the back. Turn to the front. I mean the other front.”
“Hard to read in this light.”
“Well let’s take it out where you can see, grandpa.”
He set the book carefully on the desk.
“Very old. And it’s a different Hebrew from what I know, which isn’t much. We’re going to have to give Richard a look at this, he’s the guy for your old scroll or codex. But the start is clear enough.” He traced the words with his finger, careful not to actually rub the browned and fragile paper. “‘This is the Testament of Ya’acov, called something-or-other, of the lines of King David and something-or-other Aaron, probably the high priest Aaron, brother of Yeshua Ben-Yosef; known to the Romans . . . I guess that would be . . . as Jesus, who opened the, something, who united us in the sacrament, who was . . . executed? Not sure I know the Hebrew for “crucified,” by . . . Pilate, probably, on Passover, no, make it on the day before Passover in the . . . can’t read the number . . . in the something-or-other year of the reign of the Emperor Tiberius, and . . .’”
The Testament of James (Case Files of Matthew Hunter and Chantal Stevens) Page 12
