Book of Stolen Tales (27 page)

A brass bell sat on a wooden table inlaid with ivory in Arabic designs. Dina shook the bell. Its ring echoed through the corridors. When no one came, I called out. We waited for ages and tried the bell several more times. Stillness reigned. The absence of sound in such a large place felt ominous and I wondered whether we'd escaped from our adversaries outside only to encounter more dangers in here.

“It's so late,” Dina said. “They must all be asleep. He'll probably throw us out for barging in like this when he wakes up.”

“Then he'll have a fight on his hands. Nothing could get me outside again.” I looked around. “You don't run an establishment like this without staff. Where are they?”

“I don't feel like camping out in this hall; I'm still hurting all over and there's not even a chair to sit in. Let's see what's in here.” She tried the nearest door. It swung open.

The drawing room, for that's what it appeared to be, was someone's idea of a Middle Eastern fantasy. A giant hearth with a brightly burning log fire was enclosed by a massive mantel finished with Persian mosaics. Genie lamps placed around the room looked as if they'd come out of a page of “Aladdin”; gas flames shot from their spouts. Kayseri floss carpets adorned the tile floor. The walls sported woven textiles and a faint scent of incense hung over the room. Several low divans had been placed close to the fireplace. Dina winced as she lowered herself onto one of them.

“You should get out of those wet clothes,” I said.

“Into what? Our packs disappeared with the horses.”

I found a throw warmed by the firelight hanging on a screen and handed it to her. She went behind the screen to strip off her outerwear. Emerging with the throw wrapped around her like a hijab, she lay back down on the divan.

“I'm staying right here,” she said, “and not moving ever again.”

A crystal decanter containing amber liquid sat on a side table covered with a burgundy cloth. A stopper lay beside it with two cognac glasses. I sniffed the golden liquor and drew in the aroma of fine Courvoisier. I dribbled some into the glasses and handed one to her.

Dina sipped it slowly and when she'd finished pressed her hand to her throat. “Ah, that burned like a fury. It tastes wonderful.” She sank back onto the sofa and shut her eyes.

I ambled over to look at several large books displayed on a banquette. They were in French and illustrated. One appeared to be a book of magic spells; it had a handsome black leather cover with an eight-sided star and crescent moons embossed in silver. The other two were atlases, their pages opened to sections on Arabia and Turkey.

Dina was half asleep already on the divan. The cut on her shoulder hadn't been as bad as I thought, but with all the trauma of our day her pale skin looked as white as the forest snow and the damp had turned her dark hair to ebony. Only her lips retained some color.

I left her to rest and exited the drawing room by another door near the fireplace. The kitchen I found myself in had an antiquated feel, with copper pots hanging from a ceiling rack, an enamel sink, a huge trestle table, and a large cooking stove. I retraced my steps to the entrance hall and climbed the main staircase.

Determined to find either the book that brought us here in the first place or our host, I ventured down the hall. Gas wall lights sprang on and I surmised they'd been set to some kind of motion detector. Many bedchambers led off the gallery; the beds, freshly made up, smelled of lavender. Each room had been beautifully decorated with French landscapes. In one room decked out with teal Regency wallpaper and containing a grand four-poster bed, a Poussin hung in a delicate golden frame.

I found a bathroom with a huge clawfoot iron tub with golden faucets. Despite the warmth of the house and the cognac, I was still cold. I always took showers but the temptation to plunge into steaming water was irresistible. Plump, clean towels hung on the rack and a long robe was suspended from a hook on the door. At that moment it dawned on me what must have happened. The entire house felt as if it had been prepared for guests. Hanzi must have found a way to send word to the merchant of our intention to visit. Renard would have known we couldn't make the journey back at night and had his people prepare the house for us. It was clear he intended us to stay. I didn't waste another minute before filling the tub with hot water and sliding into its welcoming depths.

Reluctantly I got out and dried off. Dressed in the robe, my sopping clothes in hand, I walked down the hall and found a little room with a cheery fire burning in the grate. I hung the garments over the fire screen and lay on the couch, intending to take a quick nap until they dried.

The sun's glare dazzled my eyes and I woke to the sound of a bell tinkling somewhere in the hall outside the room. The sweet, clear light of Provence shone in full splendor on the garden outside the window. I felt dazed at first; I couldn't remember where I was. Then I recalled our perilous journey up the cliff side and the attack dogs in the forest. My peace of mind returned, knowing we were safe. Beside the couch, someone had placed a little table covered with a fine cloth. On it was a plate of sweet cakes and a bowl of grapes and oranges. I sighed with relief. This confirmed my impression of last night that our host intended to make us feel welcome and for some reason, perhaps to give us privacy, didn't wish to disturb us by introducing himself. I fell upon the food like a starving man, which, in fact, I qualified as at that point. I hurriedly dressed.

Downstairs, our backpacks sat in the drawing room. Dina was nowhere to be seen. Had she found the horses? I searched for her outside, taking the opposite route from the way we'd come last night, and soon happened upon the stables. Five Camargue horses grazed within a fenced enclosure. I was glad to see our mare among them but wondered about the fate of the stallion. He turned up in one of the stable stalls, a warm blanket over his back, chewing happily on hay. His hock had been carefully bound with white cloth.

When I returned to the house to find our host, I called out in the foyer but no one answered. I grew tired of waiting and decided to look for the library. Surely, I reasoned, my host's hospitality would extend to his book collection. I hadn't seen a library on my perambulations last night, but Renard was a noted rare book collector, and I hoped to find the volume of Basile's book there. It turned out to be opposite the drawing room. Bookshelves lined the library's interior walls, a moving ladder on runners providing access to the highest ones. Beside each window, niches held classical sculptures—Hermes with his staff, Poseidon with a trident, Zeus holding a thunderbolt. On the ceiling, a painting of medieval scholars reading scrolls surrounded a prancing white horse. Several comfortable chairs and a reading table had been set close to a blazing fire.

I suspected Renard would keep his most precious volumes under lock and key but it was worth a search. If I could find the book and photograph it, Dina and I could be on our way. I'd promised her that I'd prevent Mancini from reassembling the volumes, but clearing my name and proving the missing volumes' current whereabouts and ownership were more important to me at the moment. I spotted a familiar set of twelve books, each a different color: fine early editions of Andrew Lang's Fairy Books.

I began a methodical search starting with the literary titles grouped on the east wall alphabetically, by author name. Most were in handsome covers of leather or pasteboard in burgundy, black, or green, with gold-leaf lettering. They'd been kept in perfect condition, not a hint of foxing. The majority were in French, although I found a number in English and Italian.

I came across a beautifully illustrated edition of Hans Christian Andersen and Balzac's
La Comédie humaine
series. When I reached Baudelaire I ran my fingers back over the titles and found several versions of Basile's
The Tale of Tales
. First was Richard Burton's famous English edition of 1893. An article I came across on the Web claimed Burton's translation was poor. He'd embellished the stories and even added many new words that never appeared in Basile's original. Another edition, published in 1846 and translated by Felix Liebrecht, had an introduction by none other than Jacob Grimm. It sat beside the Burton. And next to that were the two volumes of the English translation like the ones Tye Norris lent me. That was all; not the volume I hoped to find. I cast another look around the room. Renard had thousands of books. It would take days to search through all of them.

Leafing through the English translation, I found “The Young Slave” among the ten stories of the second day. My eyes had just landed on the sentence “There she saw the young girl, clearly visible through the crystal caskets, so she opened them one by one and found that she seemed to be asleep” when a voice boomed behind me.

“I see you admire my library.”

I almost dropped the book as I whipped around to see a rough-looking man dressed in a leather shirt and pants. He was tall; he had a few inches on my six feet. A wild mane of chestnut hair fell to his shoulders. His skin was heavily scarred as if it had once been scalded. His brow ridge was greatly pronounced, a cliff of flesh that overhung his eyes; his nose was unpleasantly twisted above full lips.

After tucking the book back in its place I walked over to him. He gave me a curt nod.

“I'm John Madison,” I said, holding out my hand. “Not many people would extend their home to complete strangers the way you have. Thanks very much for your hospitality. We were in sore need of it.”

He took my hand and shook it firmly. “It's my pleasure. Alphonse Renard.” Plainly this was simply a polite, not heartfelt, response.

“Your home is remarkable, M. Renard. I've been admiring your library. The sculptures and ceiling fresco are especially fine.”

I caught a glimpse of pride in his expression. “You see Poseidon over there”—he indicated the statue—”who fashioned white horses from surf. A splendid notion, don't you think? Recalls the legends of the mythical ones, Pegasus and the unicorn. White horses were sacred to the Persians, too. Magical symbols, beings who crossed over from other dimensions to our own, from worlds beyond our immediate senses. I make a study of that realm. ‘Behold a pale horse'—isn't that the saying?” He looked me steadily in the eye. “But you didn't come here to learn about the ethereal. The book you seek is not in the library here.”

“How do you know what I'm looking for?”

“I told him.” Dina eased herself into the room and stood beside him. She'd done up her hair. And where had she found those clothes? She had on a calf-length brown skirt with a matching jacket. Renard said something to her in French that I couldn't catch and she responded in kind, gracing him with a brilliant smile. “Yes, Alphonse,” she said in English for my benefit, “John wants to see your book. He's come a very long way for it.”

“Dina's right,” I said. “I'd like to see it. It's the second volume, I believe, day two in the anthology.”

“Well, I'll certainly consider that,” Renard said.

“I would appreciate it. I'd like to verify its authenticity and photograph it, if you don't mind. For insurance purposes. Did Dina tell you your volume has also been declared stolen?”

She shot me a hostile glance. “Certainly I did. And also that the claim was false.”

Renard hastened to back her up. “I've purchased many rare books. I'm accustomed to these tricky issues with provenance.”

“Well, you might want to rethink that. Dina's agent for the sale, Ewan Fraser, was murdered in Naples a few days ago. You could be in some danger—and I point that out only because we were able to enter your house quite easily last night.”

“I can assure you,” Renard said laughing, “no one gets close to my property without my approval. You need have no fears on my behalf. I was in the process of showing Dina the house. Join us if you wish.”

Although Dina was still walking stiffly she seemed well recovered, and Renard, quite unnecessarily I thought, took her arm with exaggerated politeness. I wondered whether underneath her cheery exterior she recoiled from his touch, but far from taking her hand away as she had with me, she gave him another dazzling smile.

Renard chose a key from a large metal ring and unlocked a door beside the fireplace. We entered a corridor and passed by a small room outfitted with phones, computers, and a fax machine. The merchant had not entirely eschewed the modern world after all. The two dogs from the night before lay placidly on the floor farther down the hall. One raised its head; otherwise, they remained docile.

We descended a stairway to another locked door, this one built of metal with a keypad. The room we entered astonished me. It had no windows and it would be hard to know what exactly to call it. An armory? A strong room? Glass-fronted cupboards held an assortment of revolvers and pistols. Rapiers, sabers, pikes, and heavy swords hanging from brackets looked as if they'd last been held by a knight in the Middle Ages. A variety of long rifles, some of them old muskets, had been set into wooden wall racks. Not all the weapons were old. A couple of cases held new pistols and rifles with scopes.