The Book of the Lion

by Elizabeth Daly

  “But she didn’t,” objected Gamadge.

  Iverson looked at Vera and laughed. “I’m getting a little ahead of myself. Can you see her even telling Bradlock that she’d falsely declared non-existent assets? No. He’d be very touchy about that. And as for his doing so much for her—well, let’s be frank in all things at last. I was fond of Paul Bradlock, Gamadge, I knew him in drama circles in his playwriting days. But when I got to know him at home and met his wife—let me tell you what she’s done for the Bradlocks, and then perhaps you’ll see where my loyalty shifted to.”

  “No, Hill,” said Vera. “Don’t.”

  “Sorry, Vera, we’d better be frank with our criminologist. For fifteen years she had the whole care and responsibility, Gamadge, in the matter of Paul Bradlock: a hopeless, evil-tempered drunkard. Do you know at all what that means? She was the one who sat up at night, searched the dives, paid the fines, stood between the house next door and publicity. Half the time nobody realized that there was any connection between Paul Bradlock and his respectable brother. Avery paid their living expenses and gave them a roof; who’s in debt now to whom?”

  “I told Mrs. Paul Bradlock last night,” said Gamadge, “before I knew any details, that I didn’t think she owed her brother-in-law anything.”

  “No. But”—Iverson leaned forward, pointing at Gamadge with his cigarette—“suppose she had secretly sold unlisted assets? And put the proceeds into an annuity? And was only waiting for a good business opportunity, and an improvement in the housing situation, to leave this place forever?”

  Gamadge said after a moment: “I don’t suppose in that case that Bradlock would expect reimbursement.”

  “But how about the Bradlocks’ goodwill? People like the Avery Bradlocks can make it very unpleasant for people like Vera Bradlock, who has no background, no friends in this part of the world—thanks to Paul—and no business references except Avery. Her side of it could be made to look black—I’m not denying it. Legally she’s all right; otherwise…” He shook his head. “I’ve been trying to show you both sides. People will say she was evading her just debts. I say—I said so to her at the time—that she had no debts where the Bradlocks were concerned. The money she realized wasn’t more than enough to keep her comfortably.”

  “At her age,” agreed Gamadge, “annuity rates wouldn’t be high. But—excuse me—I think it might have been safe to tell Avery Bradlock all about it in the first place. Why not?”

  “Ah, now we’re coming to it.” Iverson sat back and smiled. “She couldn’t.”

  “Couldn’t?” Gamadge looked mildly inquiring.

  “Couldn’t.”

  Vera said: “Tell him, Hill.”

  Iverson, his gaze fixed on Gamadge’s face, put his hand into an inner breast pocket and brought it out holding a folded paper. “You’d better hold on to your chair, Gamadge.”

  “I’m prepared for anything.”

  “Not for this.” The other, his eyes still holding Gamadge’s, asked: “Did you ever hear of The Book of the Lion?”

  Gamadge, his cigarette half-way to his mouth, asked after a pause: “The what?”

  “I see you have,” said Vera in her small voice.

  “I’ve heard of a Book of the Lion,” said Gamadge, staring at her, “yes.”

  “So far as I know,” said Iverson, chuckling, “there has only been one.”

  “Are you referring by any chance,” asked Gamadge, “to one of the lost books of Chaucer?”

  “I am.”

  “What about it?”

  Iverson turned his head to look at Vera Bradlock. He said: “You know, Vera, I think we’ve really got him going. Why don’t you take it up here? Then I’ll cut in with the technicalities.”

  She threw her cigarette into the fire; a long, accurate arc. “Paul had no safe-deposit box, Mr. Gamadge, naturally; he had nothing of value to put in one, so far as he knew. Please remember that; it’s important to remember that for Paul’s sake.”

  Gamadge nodded.

  “But he had one of those flat tin cashboxes,” she went on, “an old-fashioned thing that he had in Paris from the time I first knew him. You know in France people liked to keep masses of paper money lying around—in desk drawers, bureaux, everywhere. Paul kept his franc notes in this box.

  “When there were no more franc notes, he kept odds and ends in it—receipts, scraps of manuscript, antique coins of small value, papers relating to literary controversy, newspaper clippings. After he was dead, when I was looking for material for my book, I hunted up that box. It was in the attic.”

  Gamadge looked behind him and up to the trap in the ceiling.

  “Much easier than you’d think,” said Vera, following his thought. “The trap-door works mechanically—what do you call it? Counterweight or something? You just push and it stays up as far as you like. I got the box, and the key was lost. I had to pry it open. I found all the old stuff, or I suppose it was the stuff I remembered, but I also found a dog’s-eared torn old roll of manuscript. Even I could see that it was old, partly on vellum, too; but it had no title. I thought it was something Paul had picked up in one of the rummage sales he was always going to in the back streets in Paris. Once he found quite a good portfolio of old drawings and sold them.”

  She took another cigarette out of the box on the coffee table, and Gamadge leaned forward to light it for her. She smoked for a few moments in silence. Then she went on:

  “I showed it to Hill Iverson. He found the last page, and the author’s name, in the middle of the roll. He sorted the pages out, and after we’d more or less realized what it was, or seemed to be—we had to do a little research in the libraries—Hill took the thing to a collector who happened to be here in New York; a well-known collector, an expert in such things. He”—she glanced at the paper in Iverson’s fingers—“typed a description.”

  “And here,” said Iverson, handing Gamadge the folded sheet, “here it is, or rather a copy of it.”

  Gamadge unfolded the paper. He sat back to catch the last of the daylight, and read as follows:

  Paper and vellum manuscript, measuring eight and one half by five and one half inches. Two quires. In each quire, leaves 1, 6, 7, and 12 are of vellum, the rest paper. Ruled margins enclose a space five and one half by three and one quarter inches. The manuscript is neatly written in one hand of the middle of the fifteenth century. There is no title, but at the end of the last page, which was the end of the work, on folio 72 recto, is found the following colophon (corner lost):

  Heere is endid the boke of the Leoun by Geffrey Chaucier of whose soule Jhesu Crist have mer

  The work itself, a dream-vision allegory in octosyllabic couplets, meets all the established linguistic tests as a genuine poem by Chaucer, and there is no doubt that it is the hitherto lost work, entitled THE BOOK OF THE LION, named by Chaucer himself in the list of his writings in the “Retraction” at the end of the Canterbury Tales.

  Gamadge finished reading. He sat looking at the paper, silent, while Iverson and Mrs. Bradlock looked at him. They were very still.

  At last Gamadge looked up at Iverson. He pointed to the typed page. “Your expert wrote that?”

  “He let me copy it. That’s my copy.”

  “It’s an excellent piece of work. It meets all the requirements”—Gamadge smiled—“too.”

  “Oh, our man was a scholar.”

  “Evidently.” Gamadge knitted his brows. “Was?”

  “I’m coming to that. He explained that of course there are no Chaucer manuscripts in existence—nothing in Chaucer’s own hand, you know; poor Vera and I had to be told so! He was quite shocked at our ignorance. He explained, as I say, that this beast fable (a fashion of the times) had been copied from the original by a fifteenth-century scribe. And he said that this Lion thing had been so utterly lost that nobody even knew there had ever been a copy made.”

  “That’s so.”

  “Our man was knocked flat by the manuscript—by the whole thing.”r />
  “Naturally. I feel limp myself, and I’m no Chaucerian.”

  “To him it was almost like a miracle. He checked up, as you see from his description, but very discreetly, and we—er—sold it to him.”

  “I hope,” said Gamadge in a faint voice, “that you got your price?”

  “Oh, we had to let him fix it; but we could depend on him. One hundred thousand dollars. He said that would be an approximately fair market price. What do you say, Gamadge?”

  “At a guess, that would be about it.”

  “He stipulated absolute secrecy until he decided just what to do; of course he meant to keep it, but he wanted to build it up for the world. Handle the publicity right. We left it all to him—when I tell you who it was, you’ll see why. I could help Vera there. I knew you could trust Eigenstern.”

  “Eigenstern!”

  “Yes,” said Iverson gently, “that’s the catch. Eigenstern. That’s why you’ve heard nothing about this great literary discovery, Gamadge, and never will hear anything. Eigenstern took The Book of the Lion back with him by plane to California, where he lived; took it back as a top secret. You know what happened.”

  “I know what happened.” Gamadge relaxed for the first time. He leaned back, smoking and looking at the fire.

  “The plane went down. Eigenstern, and The Book of the Lion, and every other person and thing on board, were burned up in that mountain ravine. The Lion is lost again—forever.”

  “How lucky that Mrs. Bradlock got her money.”

  “Wasn’t it? Eigenstern—for greater secrecy—paid it over in hard cash. Or shall we say”—he laughed—“folding money?”

  “You didn’t take a copy of the manuscript?”

  “My dear man, do you think Eigenstern would have allowed that? Oh, I know what a tragedy it is, and must seem to a man like you. It did to me. But Vera had her money, and we’ve had nearly two years to get over the shock. You can see, I suppose, why we can’t even tell the story?”

  Gamadge said after a pause: “No proof except this typed page.”

  “Would you call it proof, if somebody came to you with it and with nothing more?”

  “No. It’s no good as evidence that The Book of the Lion ever was discovered.”

  “But you do see”—Mrs. Bradlock spoke in a low voice—“why we couldn’t talk about it, apart from lack of evidence?”

  “To Avery Bradlock, you mean?” He glanced at her.

  “To anybody!”

  “Didn’t Eigenstern ask where it had come from?”

  Iverson sighed heavily. “What could we tell him? What did we know? And how could we object if Eigenstern swore us to secrecy while he checked up? He took his time about it, I can tell you. Vera didn’t get a penny until he’d pretty well satisfied himself that no such treasure had been lost out of any collection abroad. Nice if he’d paid a hundred thousand, and then some old spider in France or England had laid claim to it! But we could tell him that Paul haunted the sales and the old back rooms of shops. You remember that the last page was hidden in those acres of fifteenth-century manuscript; and thank God I didn’t have to copy them!”

  “What was Eigenstern going to say about that?”

  “About where the manuscript came from?”

  “Well, yes; the Chaucerians would have liked to know.”

  Vera said suddenly and angrily: “Anybody could see that Paul never knew what it was! Wouldn’t he have sold it if he’d known?”

  “Er—not if he couldn’t account satisfactorily…”

  Vera stirred in her corner. “We’ve told you!”

  “But he did keep it, you know; in his tin box.”

  Iverson said amicably: “Face it, Vera; it’s only what Eigenstern said. It’s what anybody would say. Face it. We knew Paul. Whatever his faults, he wasn’t a thief. Say he was in exactly our position; couldn’t be sure it wasn’t stolen property, couldn’t bring it out into the open without giving someone away. One thing we do know, he was damned loyal. Here’s what Eigenstern proposed, Gamadge: the thing was genuine on its merits. He’d exhibit it on its merits, and say it had been bought by a dead friend among old papers—perfectly credible, just what happened, so far as we know. Then if he were pressed too hard he would give them Paul’s name, and tell them the circumstances of the discovery; but by that time Vera would have been out of this rathole and far away, where she wouldn’t have to see Avery at all. It’s his feelings she’s thinking of.”

  Gamadge handed Iverson the description of the lost Lion. He said pleasantly: “And now we have only one more question to dispose of, haven’t we?”

  “A dozen if you like.” Iverson laughed and drained his highball. “But I think we’ve covered it.”

  “I only want to know why you told the story to me.”

  “My dear man, you ask us that?”

  “I ask you that. You and Mrs. Bradlock explained the comedy of the non-existent papers; why explain the tragedy of the Lion, which was entirely beside the question of the papers? I knew nothing about it at all.”

  Vera said with gentle sarcasm: “But you’d wanted to know so much!”

  “We’ve had a taste of your quality,” agreed Iverson. “Suppose you took it into your head later on to inquire into the source of poor Vera’s income? We don’t know what facilities you have in those directions. How much better for us to tell you ourselves; now you may not feel that you have to discuss the matter with Avery Bradlock.”

  “That’s why we told you the rest of it,” said Vera. “Somehow, I thought you might be willing to keep the whole thing from Avery—the papers, and the Lion, and everything—since there were no papers, and the Lion is lost.”

  “You were right, Mrs. Bradlock,” Gamadge rose. “I shouldn’t dream of repeating your story about the papers, or about The Book of the Lion, to your brother-in-law.”

  “It’s rather a tempting story,” she said wistfully.

  “Count on me, I’ll never tell that story to Avery Bradlock.” Iverson, on his feet and facing Gamadge, said comfortably: “I did rather think that your interest was academic.”

  “Oh, it was. I’m afraid it shows me up in a poor light, too.”

  “Perfectly right to take all knowledge for your province.” Iverson addressed Mrs. Bradlock without turning to look at her: “Shall we forgive him, Vera?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Gamadge smiled down at her. “I ought to thank you for that tantalizing glimpse—the description.”

  “We thought you’d probably enjoy it.”

  “It’s proof that you got the opinion of an expert. It would stand up under the most pedantic scrutiny.”

  Iverson showed him to the door. “Tell Mr. Malcolm,” he said, looking arch, “that if he does me the honour of calling again, I’ll be more hospitable next time. Charming fellow. Did you really find out who murdered his stepmother?”

  “I did, I’m sorry to say.”

  “Glad you have compunctions.”

  Iverson closed the door after him. Gamadge walked down the path, past the blank wall across the alley on his right, past the Bradlocks’ bow window on his left, to the street. It was less than a quarter to six. He did not hail a cab or take a bus, but walked straight over to Lexington Avenue and down. By six o’clock he was climbing the stairs to Mrs. Wakes’s apartment.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Return

  THE BELL HAD A LOUD, harsh, strident note like one of those old-fashioned gongs that used to be attached to the very door itself. New wiring for the new room-and-bath apartment. Gamadge rang, waited and rang again.

  She must be out, he thought; she couldn’t be as fast asleep as all that, not after one shot of neat brandy—for he was more and more convinced, as he remembered the earlier visit, that she had been cold sober when he came. He was pretty sure that sudden drowsiness had been a perfectly unanswerable way of getting rid of him. Or had she gone back to her solitary bottle after he left, and quietly drunk herself into oblivion by six in the afterno
on?

  That bell ought to wake the dead. He tried it again, as steps sounded on the wooden stairs.

  An elderly man, narrow of jaw and thin in the chest, came as far as the landing. He had a couple of tools in his hand—a wrench and a screwdriver. He asked: “Ain’t she there?”

  “She doesn’t seem to be.”

  “She wanted me to come up before I left, fix a pipe.” The man had a sour look, he was probably not well tipped. “Old place is falling to pieces, and the landlord won’t do nothing while the rent’s froze.” He came and stood beside Gamadge, looking at the door. “She was going to be in.”

  “You’re the superintendent?”

  “That’s who.”

  “You have short hours for such a big place.”

  “Catch the owners giving them a resident, with the rents—”

  “I know.”

  “They’re glad to be here at these prices, don’t let me give you the wrong impression. Nice big rooms. These people”—he glanced about him as if the tenants were cringing under his eye—“they’re mostly retired professional people, lots of women. I don’t know where they’ll go to when the rents go up.”

  “Perhaps all the apartments will be cut down, like Mrs.—Weekes’s.”

  “Wouldn’t be surprised. Well, it’s funny, she said she’d be here. I got to go in, I’m overdue home. If it ain’t the right pipe—that’s up to her.”

  “I’d like to leave a note myself. Mrs. Weekes doesn’t seem to be in the telephone book…” Gamadge thought he could venture on that hypothesis. “I don’t think she has a telephone. I didn’t see one when I was here before.”

  “No, she hasn’t got one.”

  The superintendent rang twice, loud and long. Then, with a side glance of disgust at his unwilling confidant, he took out his pass key and fitted it into the lock. He put his knee against the door and pushed. “Every lock in the building sticks,” he said.