"I have never heard of him. I have seen Charles Dickens on television and Jane Austen. Oh, I like Jane Austen very much. But the television broke down and could not be repaired, and of course I could not afford.... The Bible says we take nothing out of this world. I shall soon have nothing even though I am still in it."
"So you have never heard of Lever?"
"Never in my life. I know my grandfathers and my great-grandfathers. I assure you there were no English novelists among them. One fought for a time in Garibaldi's red-shirted army, but that is as near to fame as we have ever got."
"And your husband? You never heard him talk of a writer in his family tree?"
She laughed, almost merrily.
"Never! Not a chance of it. My Aldo, he fought the Germans all the way up Italy, and was wounded in Pisa. Perhaps one day those brave Italians will be as famous as Garibaldi's men. But he and his family were shopkeepers, men of commerce. There was not a literary person among them."
"So you have no copy of Malcolm Merrivale, no first edition?"
"No, alas. I have never heard of it, yet it must be famous for you to come all this way in search of it."
"Not famous at all. Almost unknown, even to specialists in Irish literature. But we collectors—we must have our holding complete: a first of every title.” He saw incomprehension in her gaze. “I am wasting your time."
"What else can I do with my time but waste it?"
Terry stood up and fumbled in the back pocket of his jeans.
"I must pay you for it nevertheless,” he added hurriedly, in case she was insulted: “Please regard this like any other commercial transaction, like selling a pair of gloves."
But she was not insulted, and sat fingering and looking at the note.
"Oh, it's the new stuff. So shoddy-looking...."
"But much the best stuff for buying things: food, coffee, medicines."
"Oh, I know that. But the old stuff was so much more like real money, and the price looked so good on a pair of gloves in the window—so many lovely noughts in it, you felt like a millionaire if you sold anything."
Terry escaped from the room, feeling as if he had escaped from a very classy sort of madhouse.
* * * *
Declan Donnelly got out of bed, after two eventful hours. Every part of him seemed exhausted, and his legs seemed to have gone off on a separate existence. He pulled on his trousers and then put on his shirt, buttoning down the front in the wrong buttonholes. He tried to tie his tie, failed, and threw it down on the floor in disgust. He grabbed his coat and pulled it on. He was aware of a movement from the bed.
"You want to see the library?"
"Delightful and exciting though the last few hours have been,” he said in his suavest voice, “the library was part of our deal, as I'm sure you remember."
"It is very good. You like,” said Signora di Spagna, jumping to the floor and leading him from the bedroom. They went back to the sitting room, the signora fetching a key from the mantelpiece and throwing open a door in the corner of the room and switching on a light.
Declan found himself looking into something between a large cupboard and a small room. It was packed with books, almost all paperbacks. The first title that met Declan's eye was Kane and Abel. Then he saw a whole shelf-ful of Wilbur Smith. Then Riders, Joanna Trollope, Andy McNab. Another shelf-ful, this time of Barbara Cartland. Gaudy Night, which Declan had often thought the dullest book he had ever read. Goldfinger and Casino Royale. Several James Hiltons and The Blue Lagoon.
Declan Donnelly turned to his hostess.
"I ought to recommend you to take up reading,” he said. “There is a lifetime of experience awaiting you here. However, I am loath to direct you away from the activity which clearly you do best."
And he turned tail and fled the flat.
* * * *
There were many small bars between the Via Dante and the railway station. Terry went into several of them, and began to lose sight of which direction the railway station lay in. It was as he was coming out of the bar in the Via Rossi that he saw a familiar face.
"Scellerato! Ladro! Traditore!"
"Nothing of the sort,” said Declan, putting out a hand to steady Terry's wavering body (though the hand itself shook). “Perfectly normal behaviour between competing collectors."
"I saw you talking to that bloody Finn."
"Why shouldn't I talk to a Finn? Particularly one with information for a Leverite."
"Ha! Information! Well, I can save you a bit of time if you're on your way to talk to Signora Spagnoli."
"To who? Never heard of her. I've been talking to Signora di Spagna. I can save you a bit of time if you're on your way to talk to her."
"I'm not.” They looked at each other. “That bloody Finn,” said Terry. “He couldn't even remember her name, he was so drunk."
"Finns are always drunk,” said Declan. “I wouldn't mind betting there's no descendent of Lever here, legit or illegit.... Here's a bar. Have another drink. Then we'll get a taxi and take the last train home."
So they had a last drink, swore eternal friendship, swore the finding of a first edition of Malcolm Merrivale was a game not worth the candle, and they'd give it up pronto. Then they went back out into the street, hailed lots of taxis, none of whose drivers wanted to pick up two drunken Brits (for they were both, in their different ways, respectable and casual, very recognisable) then began to make their way on foot to the station.
By chance, as they made their way like silent-film drunks, they walked along Via d'Orti, where at number forty-six, in a neat little upstairs flat, Valentina della Spanna was eating from a large box of chocolates, drinking from a bottle of finer wine than she had drunk for years, and contemplating a small gap in the dusty books on a high shelf in a dim part of the room—books written by some old geezer who somehow or other was connected with her, and which the slightly tipsy man from a country she had barely heard of had bought from her for a price (for he was a fair-minded man, this Finn, drunk or sober) which was a bargain for him and a prodigious windfall for her. He was a nice man, she thought, as she took another soft centre. And he had a lovely sense of humour.
©2008 by Robert Barnard
* * * *
AUTHOR'S NOTE: It should be emphasized that there is no resemblance in the characters or events in this story to the characters or events at the International Conference on Charles Lever in Pisa in September 2006, which the author attended.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Novelette: THE CHRISTMAS EGG by Edward D. Hoch
Simon Ark was the first of Edward D. Hoch's series characters, appearing in his first published story in 1955. In those early cases, Ark was pre-sented as a Coptic priest who'd been on the scene, so to speak, for two millennia. Much less was made of the occult aspects of the Ark character when his cases started appearing in EQMM in the 1970s. The following is the final Ark story completed by the great short story writer; it was originally a small-print-run holiday gift pamphlet for customers of Crippen & Landru Publishers.
It had been many months since I'd seen Simon Ark. With Christmas approaching, my wife Shelly was in such a mellow mood that she suggested we invite him for dinner over the holidays. “I never thought I'd hear that from you,” I told her.
"I only object when he drags you halfway around the world on one of his excursions,” she answered, busy opening the day's Christmas cards at her desk. “I'll admit he always has interesting stories to tell."
That he did, and I happened to know he was in New York at the moment, attracted by an exhibit of newly discovered treasures from an Egyptian tomb. Simon liked to claim he'd once been a Coptic priest, and all things Egyptian held a special fascination for him.
So at Shelly's urging I phoned him at the 14th Street address where he often stayed when in the city. It was a former convent converted to a sort of bed-and-breakfast and there was something about the serenity of the place that appealed to him. “Christmas day for dinner,” I told him
after we'd conversed a bit. “Shelly insists you must come."
"It would be a pleasure to see you both,” he admitted. “It's been a long time."
"I'll meet the two o'clock train."
We were in Westchester, just a short distance from the city, and Simon surprised me by appearing with a bottle of wine. “The liquor store closed for Christmas,” he explained, “so I borrowed this from the convent's chapel."
"Stealing sacramental wine, Simon?"
When he smiled, his aging face crinkled into a pattern of well-worn wrinkles. “Don't tell Shelly. I'll replace it in the morning. They only keep it for rare occasions when a priest stays overnight and wishes to celebrate Mass."
Shelly greeted him graciously and accepted the wine with some surprise. “How nice of you, Simon. Let me take your coat."
We settled down around the Christmas tree while Shelly served cocktails before dinner. We have no children and our Christmas visitors consisted mainly of a few neighbors and friends. This year even Shelly's sister from the West Coast hadn't been well enough to make the trip east. Still, the tree was a long-standing tradition and we stuck with it.
"I haven't seen you in months,” I said. “What have you been doing lately?"
"Nothing really startling,” he replied after a moment's thought. “But I was hired to solve a crime two days ago. I have to fly out to Pittsburgh tomorrow."
"The day after Christmas?"
"I know. It reminds me of the old days, when for a brief period I took such assignments the way a private detective might."
"Who hired you, Simon?” Shelly asked with a smile. “Was it a wandering-daughter job?"
He grinned a bit at her teasing and I was pleased to see them getting along so well. “No, but I suppose you might call it a wandering-egg job."
"Egg?"
"Egg. I've been hired by Barker & Brothers, the Northeast's largest egg supplier to supermarkets and restaurants. Their headquarters is in a building just outside of Pittsburgh. And what better way to celebrate the firm's fiftieth anniversary than with a contest with a golden egg as first prize? There are eggs for Easter, why not an egg for Christmas, to celebrate the birth of Christ?"
"Made of real gold?” I asked. I remembered a small item in the paper earlier in the week but hadn't paid much attention to it.
Simon nodded, accepting a second cocktail from Shelly. “Solid gold and weighing about three pounds, larger than an ordinary chicken's egg. Its value was immensely increased by an inset of small diamonds forming the company's logo, B & B, which is imprinted on all its eggs. They placed it on display in a locked glass case in the building's entrance lobby. The lobby is kept lighted all night, with an alarm system and a television monitor."
"And what happened to the golden egg?"
"It disappeared Friday morning and then reappeared under very strange circumstances. That's when Barker & Brothers called on me."
"Barker or the Brothers?” Shelly asked, making conversation as she finished her drink and herded us toward the dining-room table.
"Barker. Lenore Barker, to be exact. She's the eldest child and inherited majority control of the business after her parents died. Her brothers Pete and Wayne became just that—Brothers. But she's in charge. In this instance you might say she was quite literally the keeper of the key. She's unmarried and has an apartment right in the Barker building. There was only one key to the display case containing the golden egg, and she wore it on a chain around her neck. She even slept with it on."
"Her brothers resented her position and one of them stole the egg,” Shelly suggested, seating us and starting to serve her fancy holiday salad.
"That seemed likely,” Simon admitted, “but they weren't the only suspects. An animal-rights group claimed Barker & Brothers was mistreating the chickens on its egg farms. The group's leader, a woman named Melissa Frank, had led a midnight raid on one farm and promised others. When the golden egg vanished from its nesting display case, she announced that she'd been granted supernatural powers to free the egg from the greedy control of Barker & Brothers."
Shelly passed around pepper for the salad. “Certainly no one believed that!"
"Not at first, but then she called a local television reporter and allowed him to film a video of her holding the egg, As you might imagine, Lenore Barker was furious. The police simply shrugged. The egg was no longer missing. Melissa Frank had it and was arranging to return it to its rightful owner. They considered the entire matter to be some sort of publicity stunt. That's when Lenore Barker contacted me. She called Melissa an eco-terrorist and wanted me to explain how she stole the egg."
I munched away at my salad, trying not to speak with my mouth full. Shelly had produced a bottle of Cabernet and was filling our glasses. “We're having roast beef, Simon,” she announced. “I hope that's satisfactory."
He smiled again. “I was expecting a Christmas goose."
"Not in this house, you weren't! Go on with your story."
"The facts in the case are relatively simple. The large golden egg was placed on a pile of straw by Lenore Barker herself, while the TV cameras recorded it. Then the lid of the display case was closed and locked. Outside the building, Melissa Frank and her people were picketing from time to time. On Friday morning the golden egg was gone from the display case."
Shelly cleared away the salad plates. “Can I ask what Lenore and her brothers planned to do with that egg?"
"It was to be part of a massive television advertising campaign. The gold-andjeweled egg would break open, thanks to animation, and spew out the rules of a contest marking the company's anniversary, with the egg as first prize. While the egg itself was insured, its theft by Melissa Frank effectively canceled the anniversary contest and cost the company in both money and prestige."
I passed the wine bottle to Simon while Shelly served the roast beef and potatoes. “You're spoiling me,” he told her.
"Go on with your story."
"There's really no more to tell at the moment. I'm flying out tomorrow to view the scene first-hand.” He turned to me. “Would you like to come along?"
I took a bite of beef and glanced across the table at Shelly. “What do you think?"
"We've got a New Year's Eve party on Sunday."
"Tomorrow's just Tuesday. I'd be home long before Sunday."
She was silent for a time while we enjoyed our meal. Finally as she picked up the plates and served us blueberry pie with coffee, she sighed and said, “Go! Just make sure you're back in time."
* * * *
Pittsburgh on the morning after Christmas was cold and bleak, with patches of dirty snow the only reminder of how close the city'd come to having a white Christmas. I suspected I'd been invited along not just for companionship but to serve as driver of a rental car, but my suspicion was groundless. A bulky young man in a black topcoat was waiting for us, holding up a sign that said simply “Ark."
"Simon Ark?” he asked as we approached him. “I'm Wayne Barker. My sister sent me to meet your plane."
Simon introduced me and we followed him out to a waiting limousine. Barker & Brothers’ egg empire was about ten miles north of the city, near the Fox Chapel area. It was an impressive building with an oval driveway leading to the main entrance. “This is the place,” Wayne explained as we entered the reception area. A darkened display case stood forlornly awaiting viewers, holding only a bedding of straw at the moment. “I'll leave it to my sister to fill in the details. She likes to be in charge."
We took the elevator to the top floor of the eight-story building. Lenore Barker's spacious office shared the space with her living quarters. She was a hard-looking woman with jet-black hair and piercing dark eyes that seemed to zero in on you when she spoke. “You're Ark,” she said, standing to greet us and extending a hand. “I was expecting a younger man."
"I've had more experience than the younger ones,” he told her with the hint of a smile.
"This is your what?” she asked, indicating me. “Your bo
dyguard, chauffeur, Watson?"
"All of that,” I told her. “And his editor, too, before I retired from Neptune Books."
"Well, if he can help you solve this theft, I'll be indebted to him, Mr. Ark. I told you the bare facts on the phone last Friday."
"Perhaps you should go over them again in greater detail,” he suggested.
"I believe the golden egg was Wayne's idea, to celebrate our anniversary, and my other brother, Pete, suggested adding the diamonds to enhance its value.” She turned to Wayne. “Pete should be here, too. Ring him on your cell."
"I understand there were protesters out front,” Simon remarked. “We saw none when we drove up."
"They're still celebrating Christmas. They'll be back."
"It doesn't look like you had much snow for the holiday,” I said.
"It came last week and melted away."
Wayne Barker had managed to reach his brother by cell phone and a few moments later Pete appeared. He seemed a few years younger than Wayne, with curly blond hair and a frat boy's self-assurance. “What's up, Sis?” he asked, ignoring Simon and me.
Lenore gave him a look bordering on contempt. “This is Simon Ark and his companion. I've hired him to investigate our stolen egg."
"It's not stolen anymore. That babe Melissa has it."
"And how did she get it?” Lenore wanted to know. Neither of her brothers had an answer for that.
"You said there was an alarm system and a security camera,” Simon reminded her. “Tell me more about them."
It was Wayne who answered. “The alarm goes off if the glass is broken or if anyone tries to force the lock without a key. There's also a security camera like they have in banks. It takes a still photograph of the egg every fifteen seconds."
"And the key?"
"There is only one,” Lenore told us. “I wore it all the time, even when I slept. It's one of those fancy new security jobs that can't be copied. I had the new display case and lock installed a few weeks ago so we could put the anniversary egg on display for the holidays. Pete still has the key from when he opened the case."
EQMM, January 2009 Page 18
