Book of Stolen Tales by D. J. McIntosh Page A

tomes and flipped to the copyright page of one of them. “This looks quite complete. Editor is Norman Mosley Penzer. It’s based on a translation from the Neapolitan to Italian by Benedetto Croce. Not terribly recent though—published in 1932, and I believe that might well be the most comprehensive English version.”
    â€œIs there any chance I could borrow them for a few days?” Seeing a frown begin to grow on his face, I quickly added, “It would help a lot to get to the bottom of the theft.”
    Norris hesitated for a moment as he wrestled with my request. “I don’t know. Charles was quite possessive about his belongings. But the circumstances are extraordinary, aren’t they? I’ll have to ask you for a note acknowledging that you have them.”
    â€œOf course. I’d be glad to.” Norris got a receipt book from his desk and I decided to press my luck. “Given how long Renwick sought the book, I imagine he did a fair amount of research. Are there any records?”
    â€œThat’s likely. Nevertheless his personal papers must remain private. I wouldn’t even dare to go through them unless authorized by his executor.”
    â€œUnderstood,” I said. “That would be Arthur Newhouse, I imagine.”
    Norris nodded. He’d been very obliging. I thanked him and promised to let him know of my progress. He showed me the door and I stepped out into the damp London evening.
    My mind spun with all these new revelations. Renwick believed one of the tales in Basile’s book contained a clue to the origins of a deadly sickness he’d contracted as a boy in the Middle East. His obsession with the book therefore likely had little to do with its monetary value.
    My cell buzzed. A text came from Amy confirming that Ewan Fraser would be at the library tomorrow. The first direct flight I could get to Naples was at one in the afternoon the following day. I’d scheduled the police interview for the morning, so I’d have to bunk in another hotel for the night. I booked a room at a bed and breakfast in Wapping and hopped on the tube at Southwark station.
    Much as I loved my home city, I’d exchange the New York subway for the London underground any day. On my first trip to London as a kid I’d savored the rush through that dark, round cylinder. With my nose pressed against the glass, the tunnel walls seemed to fly past only inches away. I’d pretend to be in a rocket, barreling toward the center of the earth. Samuel told me the term padded cell came from the early trains that had no windows and buttoned upholstery. London rush-hour commuters probably felt not much had changed since then.
    I liked the way each station had its own unique character. Baker Street with the silhouette of Sherlock Holmes printed on a wall; Waterloo with the wonderful spiral of four hundred steps down into the bowels of the city. I’d heard somewhere a ghost station, now closed to the public, underneath the British Museum still had crumbling posters on its walls from its use as a shelter during the Second World War.
    I found a seat between a guy with his nose between the pages of the Guardian and a woman wearing a full-tilt burka. When I glanced at her she averted her gaze and clutched the shopping bag on her lap a little tighter.
    I noticed an old man at the end of the car staring at me. He wore a fifties-style fedora and sat bent over as if he were unable to straighten his spine. Norris’s description of Charles Renwick flashed through my mind. Would Renwick suddenly show up like this, knowing the police must be combing the streets for him?
    My stop came next. The man got ready to disembark. When he left the train and began to climb the stairs I followed him. At the top of the stairs he turned and raised his hat and then held out his hand, palm up. He gave me a ghastly grin and pointed his forefinger at his empty palm. Not Renwick, but a beggar. I slipped