Street of the Five Moons Read Online Free PDF

custodian of the dog got an extra-heavy sentence.
    With the dog right behind me, breathing noisily on the back of my raincoat, I explored the shop.
    Heavy metal shutters had been pulled across the front windows, so I was able to use my flashlight. I didn’t spend much time in the front of the shop, though I would happily have lingered over some of the treasures it contained. All the objects were beautiful and expensive. Most of the furniture was of the ornate, heavily gilded Baroque type that is still popular in Italy. There was a Venetian glass chandelier that might have graced a ducal palace in the seventeenth century, plus shelf after shelf of crystal, silver, and rare china. One case held jewelry, and I examined it eagerly. A single glance told me there was nothing for me here. Most of the pieces were nineteenth century — handsome and expensive, but not rare like Charlemagne’s unique gem. So I returned to the back of the shop.
    It was fitted up as an office, with a desk and a couple of straight chairs, and a big rusty filing cabinet. The dog lay down and started chewing absentmindedly on the end of the tattered rug while I looked through the desk drawers.
    They held the things one might expect to find — paper, carbons, pencils, and the like. I turned to the filing cabinet.
    I was handicapped by not knowing what I was looking for. I didn’t expect to find a detailed plan of some larcenous plot, complete with the names of the conspirators and floor plans of museums. But I hoped I would run across something that would prime the pump — if you will excuse a homely metaphor dating back to my days on the farm — some name or phrase that would have a sinister meaning to my suspicious mind.
    The surprising thing was that I found it, but not in the filing cabinet. Like the desk, that article of furniture contained only the things normal to a business establishment like this one. There were folders full of receipts from the craftsmen with whom an antique dealer ordinarily deals — furniture restorers, weavers, and so on. Several jewelry firms were mentioned. I jotted down the names, but I didn’t expect much from that source. A dealer in antique jewelry sometimes has to have a piece cleaned or restored. I recognized one of the firms, an old, prestigious establishment on the Via Sistina. These transactions appeared to be open and aboveboard.
    One of the folders was interesting, but I don’t suppose I would have noticed it if I hadn’t been groping desperately for some clue. It was a thin folder, with only a dozen pieces of paper inside, and unlike the other things in the file drawer it was comparatively new and clean. The papers consisted of a list of names — very distinguished names. Practically all of them had titles, and a few of them were familiar to me.
    For reasons which will become evident as this narrative proceeds, I am going to change those names — to protect the innocent, as they say. “The innocent” is me. I have enough trouble getting along in life; I don’t need lawsuits. The point is that the names I recognized were those of men who owned rare and beautiful art objects. The title of the Graf von—, to select just one example, went back to the tenth century, and so did some of the contents of his castle in the Bavarian Alps. One of his possessions, a saltcellar that was attributed to Cellini, had been reproduced in a dozen art books.
    I looked over the names with considerable interest. Were these men potential victims of a master thief? The prizes would be well worth the effort, and a private home, however grand, is a lot easier to rob than a museum. But it was only a theory. I could hardly call on these ladies and gentlemen and ask to look over their collections. I had no proof of anything yet. Besides, if the Charlemagne talisman was a representative example of the forger’s work, I wouldn’t be able to identify a fake.
    The dog had become bored with the rug, although, from the stains on it, I