Book of Stolen Tales (6 page)

As was customary with Interpol's theft reports, the brief didn't name the book's rightful owner. Maybe no individual name was attached. Often enough these valuable items were assigned to a business for tax reasons. The owner's name might prove difficult to unearth.

I sat back in my chair. Breakfast no longer interested me. The fact that four other volumes were listed as stolen by Interpol might help me. I could follow any of those leads if the man claiming to be Gian Alessio Abbattutis threatened the other buyers. And those buyers, I reasoned, might be able to supply useful information for finding Alessio. Visiting Amy at Sherrods had to be my first priority, though, to learn who assigned the book to the auction house in the first place.

After settling things over the phone with the car rental agency—which meant losing my entire damage deposit—I left a healthy housekeeping tip, checked out of the hotel, and found a bank nearby. I had to haggle with the teller and sign my life away before the man finally handed over the cash. This would furnish me with enough money to manage, whatever lay ahead.

I rented a safety deposit box and placed my gold coin, along with the cedar box that had contained the book, inside. Knowing Alessio could use my phone to find me, I put it in the safety deposit box as well. I bought a money belt and then went to a discount electronics store for an untraceable burner phone.

It felt good to walk in London's crisp autumn air. The strange paralysis I'd experienced last night hadn't returned. The more I thought about it, the more I believed it resulted from some form of hypnosis. I rubbed my fingers over my neck on the spot where Alessio's cane had bitten into my skin. It was tender but the skin wasn't broken. My neck was fine. My imagination was working overtime. My resolve deepened to chase down leads to the other volumes and prove they'd never been auctioned to me in the first place.

Sherrods was located on the same street as Christie's—Old Brompton Road. I found my friend Amy Price, a petite transplanted Australian, in her office and able to spare a few minutes. We were on good terms. On my last visit to London we'd shared cocktails followed by a night out and one thing had led, very pleasantly, to another.

She got up from her desk and I gave her a hug that lingered long enough to be more than friendly. She shook her finger at me in mock disapproval. “Don't be cheeky,” she said. “I'm at work.” Then her smile faded. “I know why you're here. I'm so sorry. Very bad luck, John. The police contacted us last night after you reported the robbery. It must have been horrible.”

“Amy, listen. I hate to tell you this but the book I bought here yesterday was stolen.”

She looked at me with puzzlement. “I
know
. That's what I meant. You'd have arranged for insurance, of course. Still, it must be upsetting.”

There was no way to break this gently, much as I wanted to spare Amy any trouble. “Don't worry about me, Amy,” I said. “The auction house could be in some difficulty. Legally they're obliged to return my client's money because the title wasn't cleared. Have you thought about what you're going to do?”

“What do you mean? The theft happened after you left here. We're not involved.” A hint of worry darkened her eyes. “What are you trying to say?”

“A claim's been made the book was stolen
before
it went on the auction block. There's an Interpol file on it.”

“No way. I checked that personally. It was completely clean.” She smoothed her brown hair in a nervous gesture.

I wanted to reassure her if I could. “Apparently, the Interpol alert came in right before the auction. You couldn't have known.”

“Oh no—are you serious?” She bent over her laptop and frantically punched keys. I could see apprehension clouding her face as she found and digested the Interpol report. When she turned around her voice quavered. “I cleared that bloody thing.… They were about to offer me a permanent position. I'll never get another job in this field.” She put her head in her hands and valiantly tried to hold back a sob.

“Not your fault, Amy. You couldn't have known about the report. Besides, these things don't always become public.”

She lost the battle with her emotions; when she looked up, I saw her lovely blue eyes brimming with tears. “You know what it's like. The office gossips feed on stuff like this. One of the interns is a nephew of the owner and he's thoroughly pissed he's not getting the job. Wait until he hears.”

I touched her shoulder reassuringly. “I'm getting that book back, Amy, and nailing the asshole who stole it from me. I'll do anything I can to help you. But you've got to tell me what you know. The thief said his name was Gian Alessio Abbattutis. He might be a nut job or maybe a descendant of the author. Or just got a kick out of using an alias. I have a feeling that book's at the center of a family dispute. What can you tell me about the author? I've never heard of Abbattutis. It's not exactly a household name.”

“John, that's a pseudonym. The author's real name is Giambattista Basile. A celebrated member of the Spanish court at Naples and later awarded a title—the Count of Torone. He had a great sense of humor and loved anagrams. If you check all the letters you'll see Gian Alessio Abbattutis anagrams almost perfectly to the author's actual name.”

So Alessio's use of the name Abbattutis turned out to be a perverse kind of joke. “Why would the real author use a pseudonym?”

“It was pretty common to do so in those days and Basile's writing contains some pointed satire directed toward powerful political figures. Maybe it was self-preservation. He was far ahead of his time because he wrote in the Neapolitan dialect—instead of classical Latin—horrifically hard to translate properly. That's why the book remained obscure until the twentieth century. The anthology's a collection of fairy and folk tales. It's often compared to Boccaccio's
Decameron
.”

“Well, that's fitting. The guy who stole my copy looked like he walked right out of one of those old stories.”

Amy raised her eyebrows. “The entire book includes some of the earliest versions of fairy tales every kid knows,” she went on. “Like ‘Puss in Boots.' Some of the stories are pretty violent and there's tons of sexual innuendo, not kid stuff at all. The book's structured with a wraparound story like the one in
The Arabian Nights
, explaining why the tales were told.”

I looked her squarely in the eye. “Did you know it included illustrations by José de Ribera?”

“No! That would have increased the book's value astronomically.”

“Exactly,” I said ruefully. “An incredible find, really. My client stood to make a fortune. There's something else. The book's gold covers are really well executed, with Arabic-looking arabesque designs. Is that unusual for an Italian book? What do you think?”

She thought about what I asked for a moment and said, “I remember now. Except for the initials, the covers are almost a direct copy of a famous design done in 1537 by Hans Holbein the Younger for an English book.” Amy bent over her computer and searched for an image and then swiveled the screen for me to take a look.

“That's it, exactly, except for the initials. Why is that ring on top?”

“To fasten the book to a cord or belt so it couldn't be lost or stolen.”

“Nice. I'm curious why Sherrods' catalog made no mention of the author's real name or the fact it was a fairy-tale anthology. That would have made it highly collectible.”

“The consignor was very secretive and wanted to limit how much information we gave out. Since the owner was represented by someone I know and trust, I went along with it.”

“Didn't the secrecy raise your suspicions?”

“Happens all the time. Some sellers can be pretty weird. They would have refused to let us auction it, otherwise. How are you thinking to get it back?”

“By finding the thief. Listen, can you put a hold on the money? If the book does turn out to be stolen your consignor had no right to sell it so he's not entitled to the proceeds.”

“We wired the funds this morning—sorry.” She bit her lip. She was already thinking beyond the immediate theft and how to protect Sherrods' reputation. “Our lawyers will have a go at it. The house may not be compromised.”

“The whole thing might turn out to be a nonissue. One family member accusing another of selling it without permission. It wouldn't be the first time someone made a false accusation of theft.”

She brightened up for an instant but her face fell as quickly. “Interpol would have checked all that before issuing the alert.”

“Not necessarily. Depends on who made the accusation. If it's from someone powerful, that would influence the police. Look, if I can retrieve it, I'll make it clear you were instrumental in helping me get it back. That should help. Who's the consignor? Where did it come from?”

“I'm right fucked anyway so you may as well know. It came from Ewan Fraser Associates.” She sighed as though she were carrying the weight of the whole world on her shoulders.

“Sounds Scottish. Is he from Edinburgh?”

“No, Naples. We've dealt with him in the past. Completely trustworthy source. He's a rare book dealer in his off hours. It's somewhere between a hobby and a real business for him. I met him on a trip once. A big blustery guy.”

“Why Naples?”

“He works at the national library there. Moved to the city because he's always loved the Italian life. And it's a lot warmer than Scotland.”

Her face clouded over. I saw she was thinking the same unpleasant thought I was.

“Surely he wouldn't have taken it from the library and sent it here hoping no one would find out?”

“And used his own name? Doesn't make sense. Not rightly.”

“Does your consignor still have the other four volumes, or were they sold too?”

“What are you talking about? We auctioned the complete book.”

“No, Sherrods didn't, Amy. There's no way. I found only one volume of the five inside the gold covers, the first one published in 1634.”

With an exasperated sigh, she fished among some papers on her desk, pulled out a sheet, and handed it to me. “Here's the record of consignment.” She ran her finger underneath a sentence. “It clearly states all five volumes were offered.”

“I don't give a damn what it says. Your ‘reliable' consignor falsified the record then. I
know
there was only one volume. I checked.” I clicked on my phone and brought up the photo image of the frontispiece I'd taken. “Here, I took a photo.”

She backed away a few steps and crossed her arms. “John, that doesn't prove anything. We're good mates, you and I. But don't try putting one over on me. This situation is bad enough without you … distorting it.”

I was on the verge of flinging back a retort when I remembered the tiny scratches I'd seen on the wooden box. “It's customary for any house to check on an article before putting it up for sale, right?”

“Yes.”

“And did you in this case?”

“Stop giving me the third degree. Of course I did.”

“You just looked inside the wooden box though, correct? You didn't actually open the covers.”

Amy wilted, her face falling for an instant; then she sidestepped my question. “This discussion is getting us nowhere.” She glanced at her watch. “In five minutes I've got to go on deck. I imagine you'll want to see Ewan to sort this out?”

“Absolutely.”

“I'll make sure he'll be at the library tomorrow.”

“That's good—thanks.”

“I'll let you know, but I can't talk to him directly until I've cleared everything with Sherrods' solicitors. Now I've got to run. I don't want to look a total wreck when I break the bad news to my boss. You'll have to excuse me.”

She turned to leave, her shoulders slumped, and said despondently, “John, I'm shattered. And so sorry you're in this position. But now that this is a legal issue it's best we don't talk more about it.”

I wasn't happy with Amy's dodging the question of whether or not I had a complete book but my heart went out to her all the same. She gave me a quick hug. “I'm on your side, Amy. Don't forget, if it's in my power to clear this whole thing up, I will.”

With a beleaguered smile she hurried out the door.

Six