A Conspiracy of Paper by David Liss

soldier, and, I am shamed to say, a Jew of my own neighborhood. Mendes and I had attended the same small school as boys, and I had even maintained a cautious sort of friendship with this menacing lad who was, even by my standards, violent and dangerous. I had often seen him in the company of Wild, but I had not spoken to him since I was perhaps twelve years old, and he had been exiled from our school for attempting to blind the instructor with a Torah pointer. Now he was a game-enough-looking buck—hardened by ill fortune; his face, which bore the twisted and misshapen look of a man who had been in the thick of more fights than even I had, was now a grizzly cast of vile apathy.
    When I walked in, Mendes glanced over and met my gaze, as though I had arrived late for an appointed meeting. Without changing his expression, he leaned forward and whispered into Wild’s ear. The thief-taker nodded, and then slapped his hand hard upon the table like a judge banging his gavel; the fiddle ceased, the revelers stopped dead, and a tense silence descended. “We cannot allow our good cheer to hinder business,” Wild announced. “The Lost Property Office remains open.”
    The wench and the bulk of his prigs disappeared in an instant, melting quietly into the back rooms. Only Mendes remained, standing quietly behind his master like a demonic statue.
    Wild rose to his feet and took a few steps forward, perhaps exaggerating his famous limp. There were those who claimed that Wild falsified his lameness, perhaps to make the world think him less dangerous, but I did not believe it. I too had suffered a leg injury, and I knew the difference between a true limp and a false one.
    “Please come have a seat.” He gestured toward a chair at his table. “You will excuse my companions’ merrymaking, but we have had a successful morning, Mr. Weaver.”
    The sound of my own name struck my ears like a blow, and I wanted nothing so much as to flee. I had been fool enough to think that I might retrieve these ledger books anonymously, that Wild should never recognize me. I could not now swallow my pride and tell him what I wanted. I would be laughed at throughout the town. Yet it was too late to retreat, and I stepped forward, slowly lowering myself into a chair while he did the same.
    I said nothing.
    Wild smiled as unctuously as a shopkeeper. “Would you care for some refreshment?”
    I still said nothing. I could think of nothing to say, and so I hoped he would find my silence menacing.
    “Mr. Weaver, I cannot help you if you will not state the nature of your business. Have you lost some property?” He waved his hands in the air as though attempting to summon such examples as came to mind. “Some . . . ledger books, perhaps?”
    I felt like a child who had been caught in an act of mischief. It was no surprise that Wild knew what I sought; the only surprise was that I hadn’t anticipated it. I had been making inquiries and threats of his men for the past week, and I should not have expected him to be ignorant of a man who sought to impose on his hold of the thief-taking trade.
    I could not leave, and I could not ask for his help. My only option, and it was one that in the past had brought upon my head as much success as injury, was bravado. “I know you have the ledgers,” I said. “I want them.”
    Wild pretended not to hear my threat. “It has reached my attention that you have been making inquiries about town, and I believe it is possible that I may be able to locate these books for you. As you are certainly aware, I take no money for my services here at the Lost Property Office, but I may have to offer the person who finds himself in possession of the items some small consideration. I am certain one pound per book should suffice.”
    I wished most heartily to beat his false look of complaisance into the tabletop, but I knew this was not the place for violence. Mendes had the instincts of an animal—he narrowed his eyes and flared his