Book of Stolen Tales Read Online Free PDF Page B

back there.”
    â€œSure I guess, but only on one condition.”
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    She raised her voice so Evelyn could overhear. “She has to make her great baklava for me.”
    I laughed. “I owe you hugely. Really—thanks.” I got back on the line with Evelyn and managed to persuade her to go to Corinne’s.
    â€œLove you, Evie. Goodnight.”
    In spite of the relief, knowing Evelyn was safe, my anger boiled over again at Alessio’s cruelty. Why did he want the book so badly he was willing to hurt an innocent old woman? It wasn’t priceless. I wondered again about the book’s evil history and the type of man who might want to collect such a thing. And how could tales from over three hundred years ago matter that much to anyone now?
    Clearly, Alessio wasn’t working alone. He’d arranged the false police call, and the woman he used to play cop was either a New Yorker or a damned good actor.
    I tried to let the passions subside and think rationally. When I set out to find the missing engraving in Iraq, I’d done so blindly, stumbling into a situation not of my own making. I’d turned it into a cause and paid dearly for it. Had I the choice again, it would have been far more prudent to leave well enough alone. But the experience taught me that when the stakes are high enough, people will stop at nothing to get what they want. And that’s where my problem lay. Slinking home with my tail between my legs didn’t guarantee things would end there. If Alessio threatened Evelyn once, he was quite capable of doing so again. Past experience showed me that waiting for some authority to act was a waste of time. And this theft would be only one small item on Scotland Yard’s very long case load.
    Signs on the M4 glowed with neon brilliance in the night. I tapped on the divider and the cabbie eyed me in the rearview mirror. “Change of plan. I’m not going to Heathrow after all. Can you take me to the Savoy?”
    He glanced at the meter. “Got to add on twenty quid to do that, or nearabouts.”
    â€œThat’s fine.”
    The driver let me out at a bank machine near the Savoy Hotel. I pressed damp pound notes into his palm. The rain had stopped but a cold fog hung in the air. I feared my bank accounts had been hacked too until the machine began spitting out bills. I withdrew my daily limit from the generous advance paid by the solicitor.
    I’d been to the Savoy for other art events and dinners with clients and was familiar with its history. Its name came from a deed of land King Henry VIII granted to a count of the Italian royal House of Savoy. I thought of the Savoy insignia on the cedar box that had contained the book, the white cross on a red shield. That emblem still symbolized the pinnacle of power and wealth.
    So many celebrities and aristocrats had crossed the threshold, the hotel might as well have a permanent red carpet. And yet for all its storied past it was still centuries younger than the book Alessio stole. With some of the priciest rooms in the city, it was ideal for my purposes.
    I crossed the elegant lobby with its imposing pillars, coffered ceiling, and exquisite carpets. At the registration desk the clerk gave me a measured glance, groping for a way, I imagined, to point out the Savoy didn’t accept guests who looked like drowned rats. He asked how he could assist me.
    â€œI’d like to reserve a suite for tonight, departing in two weeks’ time. Do you have anything overlooking the Thames?” I thrust out my Amex.
    He gave me a tepid smile. “I’ll just check then, shall I?” His fingers fluttered over the keyboard and he looked up. “We have a suite available. Eight hundred and seventy pounds per night. Will that suit?” He clearly doubted my ability to pay.
    â€œMarvelous.”
    He seemed more affable once my credit was approved. We concluded our business and he handed me