The Stolen Da Vinci Manuscripts (2 page)

“Yes, another adventure.”

“Where?”

“Italy.”

“Italy… so romantic.”

“Yes. It is.”

“Do you know what’s happening in Rome next
week?” He asks with a boyish grin.

I haven’t heard of anything in the news or
media. “No.”

“The European Tango Championships.”

My pulse quickens. “No! - Where?”

“The ‘La Cabala’ club.”

“Oh I must go!”

“Let me take you.” Gavin suggests out of the
blue.

“No, you can’t, you mustn’t, how can you?
Can
you?” The words leave my mouth without control.

“Yes - I can. I have no assignments
pending.”

My arms grab around his neck and he swings me
around. “I can’t believe it!”

We ate ‘Italian’ tonight, just to get in the
mood.

My parents are thrilled that Gavin will
accompany me, more for hopes of rekindled feelings than as a
protector I think, they always liked him.

I wish the handmade pair of shoes I ordered
from the Craddock Terry shoe manufacturers at Lynchburg in Virginia
had arrived in time, but oh well, I’ll just have to make do.

The flight to Rome takes no time, in part
because Gavin is there to amuse me. Being back with him is
comfortable, like putting on an old pair of slippers.

“So what have you done since we were last
together?” He asks during the taxi ride to our hotel.

“Well, let’s see… I achieved ‘black belt’
level in karate, wrote an advanced computer archaeology program and
completed the Spanish language course. I think that’s it.”

“As well as teaching at Harvard and
‘curating’ the museum – how on earth do you find the time?”

“You can
always
find time if you love
what you do”. I answer.

We arrive at the Hotel Eden Rome and check
in, just before dark.

“Adjoining rooms?” He asks.

“Certainly – with the connecting door lock on
my
side.” I agree.

“Fair enough.”

The rooms are spacious and decorated toward
the Renaissance period. Four poster beds draped with gold and green
sateen dominate each and I notice Gavin’s eyes light appreciably
but refrain from commenting. The view from the windows is
breathtaking across the seven historic hills of Rome, which cradle
the Forum, the Coliseum, the Vatican and the Trevi Fountain.

“Let’s freshen up and find that address, then
have dinner.” He suggests.

“No, let’s just have dinner.” I counter.

“But I thought…”

I know what you thought, but this is my show.
“I don’t think it wise to investigate a strange neighbourhood at
night.”

“You’re right; Okay, dinner then.”

I usher Gavin to his room to change clothes
and make sure he hears the lock engage behind him.

We decide to have dinner at the famous
rooftop restaurant, La Terrazza dell' Eden The Italian cuisine is
marvelous, the wine list a connoisseur's dream and the panorama
view over Rome is spectacular. I feel like a tourist but have to
remind myself that I am here to do my detective work. Five other
couples are enjoying the food and wine, and become captive diners
when lightning and thunder erupts unexpectedly around us. Fabric
globe lanterns, strung around the open terrace, swing wildly but
settle to a modest sway when the wind subsides. A small band
briefly silenced by the storm, strike up ‘Volare’ from a meager
shelter and awake my urge.

“Arcadia, it’s raining!”

“I must dance.”

“You’re crazy.”

“I know – come.” I reach out my hand but he
casts it aside with a grunt.

I shed my shoes and walk to the small dance
floor to the obvious joy of the band, which starts to play with
renewed vigor. I spin and trace steps in the wet mosaic floor with
abandon, lost to everything but the music and the dance. My auburn
hair sprays fans of water pearls when I pirouette, and the sound of
rumbling thunder serves as a drumbeat to the musicians.

I feel a hand grab my wrist. “We must go –
your dress…”

I look down and see that my white dress has
become quite transparent.

“Gavin – I have underwear…”

“But everyone can see.” He argues with a
sweeping gesture of his arm.

“Gavin – you’re jealous!”

“Who wouldn’t be?”

I succumb, but not before the music
stops.

Back at my room, we have a nightcap and I
make sure his is substantial enough to induce slumber once he
retires to his bed, but I am aware of several attempts to open the
communicating door while I change into black slacks and top.

The rain has ceased now and late night
revelers travel the streets in search of the next party. I have to
ask directions a couple of times, but reach my destination without
mishap.

Here it is, 60-12 Piazza de Castagno - a
quaint corner home on a treed quadrangle. Four quarry tiled
pathways lead to a central fountain where children, who should be
in bed by now, shriek and splash in the pool, but that’s okay with
me, for it takes attention away from my presence.

I peer through wooden shutters into a room
which contains a table and chairs, dresser and china cabinet –
nothing spectacular. The only other light from the interior shines
into an alley behind the home from an upper window, so I move to
take a look but all I can see is a chandelier hanging from the
ceiling. A small balcony outside the window is not reachable unless
there is a rope or ladder inside the fenced area so I quietly open
the solid gate and peer in.

The hinges give a slight squeak, just enough
to alert whatever the beast was that pounded the gate against my
left temple, and caught my head between it and the post. I’m
trapped - I cannot back out and dare not go forward for risk of the
animal ripping my head off. Its weight is pressed hard against the
gate and its putrid breath and snapping fangs reach within inches
of my face. I half sense the upstairs light extinguish and hear a
man’s voice shout ‘Shadow’! Down!

The gate swings inward sufficiently to
retract my head and I stagger to the deeper darkness of the alley.
The same voice yells “Who’s there?” in my direction and attracts
the attention of passers by, so I depart in the opposite direction,
holding my hand to my head to stem a trickle of blood running down
my cheek. I lower my beret to hide my injuries and get back to my
room with all haste.

The bathroom mirror reflects a half inch gash
on my right temple which I repair with butterfly tape and super
glue – with luck there will be no scar to remind me of tonight’s
sortie. The accompanying bruises suggest that I will have at least
one black eye come morning.

I’m awakened by a knock on the door and my
head is pounding as I reach to open it.

“What the hell happened to you?” Gavin
exclaims.

“Sleep walked.” I lie.

“Off the balcony?” He quipped.

“Feels like it, where’s my aspirin?” I dig
into my purse and come up with the Bayers. Gavin already has a
glass of water poured.

“I can’t imagine what you ran into.” He
commented, looking round the room.

“Nor me – it was dark.” I hate to fib, but
sometimes there’s just no choice.

We arrange to meet in half an hour for
breakfast and then head to the house. I shower and apply Chanel
‘Number Five’ liberally to cover any odor that will alert the dog
to me, along with layers of foundation.

“Pooh ha!” Gavin commented, “Did you bathe in
that stuff?”

“Oh is it too strong?” I ask innocently.

“That knock on the head may be worse than I
thought.” He says.

“It’ll wear off.” I promise.

“Not soon enough.”

Gavin pulls the bell handle at number 60-12
and the door opens a crack.

“I’m Arcadia Jones.” I announce. “From New
York - someone at this address sent me a sample of vellum.”

The door opens wide and we are ushered in
quickly. The old man sticks his head outside and looks to see if we
were seen before closing it. “Up there.” He points to the
stairs.

This is not the voice I heard last night.

I recognize the chandelier and pray that the
dog is not in the room. It’s not. I look out the window – there’s a
huge Bull Mastiff lazing by the fence. I see how lucky I was.

A door opens and another man enters –
younger, strong arms, olive complexion, nice smile.

He extends a hand. “Roberto.” He has that
handsome Italian face that female movie goers fall in love with and
a grace of movement that seems fluid.

“Arcadia.” I respond and he kisses the back
of my hand.

“Ah, good – I have been expecting you. Can I
see your driver’s license or your passport please? One cannot be
too careful.” He shrugs. “And this is?” He asks in a beautiful
Italian accent.

“Gavin – my friend.”

“He is to be trusted?” Roberto asks
bluntly.

“Completely”.

“What happened to your face?” He
inquires.

“Sleep walked.” Gavin answers on my
behalf.

“Mmm. Someone tried to break in here last
night.” Roberto said. “Whoever it was got away lightly – if the dog
got whoever it was, it would not have been pretty.”

I read understanding on Gavin’s face. “She
walked into a door.” He says, “You know – a strange place and all
that.”

“You were together?”

“Yes – she woke me out of a great dream about
a tango.” He lies.

Roberto shows skepticism but casts it aside.
“Now, I will tell you a story. Many hundreds of years ago Leonardo
da Vinci bestowed many of his books of inventions to…”

“Francesco Melzi.” I interrupt.

“Ah, you know the story already I see. Good,
this will save time.”

“I dated the sample – as you expected.” I
answer.

“But of course; so, here is what you don’t
know – they were found”.

“Found! Where?”

“At the Roman Baths in England. They were in
a specially constructed container, built into the ceiling of one of
the warm spring rooms.”

“How perfect! Controlled temperature and
humidity all year-round.” I applaud.

“Actually centuries- round.” Roberto
corrects. “I’m sure that the person who had them placed in that
location did not expect to retrieve them soon and thought this was
the best place.”

“So where are the books now?” I ask.

“I don’t know – they were stolen again.”

“From where?”

“Here.”

“What! You had them
here
?”

“Yes.”

“You’re nuts!”

“I know – I wanted to show them to my
father.”

“This is your father?”

“Yes. He is a little senile and I’m sorry to
tell you that he told some people that I had them. That’s why I
have the dog.”

“A little late.” Gavin iterated.

“You think I don’t know!” Roberto argued
loudly. “I still have the one page though.”

“May I see it?”

Roberto retreated to the other room and after
sounds of furniture being moved, reemerged carefully handling a
folder, which he placed on the table.

I don a pair of lab gloves and open it,
gingerly. My eyes behold what appears to be a totally authentic
page containing drawings of a helicopter and what we know today as
‘hang gliders’, along with copious notes in da Vinci’s hand. The
fragment of paper received by me matches the torn corner
perfectly.

“You do realize that just
one
sketch
by da Vinci sold in the UK for eight million pounds. That makes
this one sheet worth around twenty million or more – and you have
it under your bed
… unbelievable
. How did you come by them
anyway?”

“I found a letter in my great grandfather’s
trunk after he passed away - it was from a man named Lorenzo di
Alfonso, describing the exact position of the ‘box’ as he called
it. I thought it was a hoax, but anyway I went to England and took
a tour of the Roman Baths. It blended in
so
well, but I
could see where it was and could have reached it if I stood on a
couple of bricks. To cut a long story short, I found a restoration
worker in need of money and bribed him with
many
Pounds to
retrieve it for me, and he was sympathetic that this was my
family’s heirloom after I showed him the letter. To my shock and
distress that worker was found dead the next day. He was murdered.
It was all over the news and the police asked for any witnesses to
come forward but I did not dare to show my face as I was too
worried about the lost Manuscripts and my own life to be
honest.”

“Do you have any idea who could have murdered
the man and stolen the box?” I ask.

“Papa does not remember exactly who he
told.”

“So it could be anyone in Rome.?” Gavin
said.

“No – papa stays only here – in the piazza.
He gets confused anywhere else.”

“So then, let’s think this through – the
books cannot be sold in Italy unless to a private buyer for his own
collection, or for further profit. They are more likely to be sold
to a major player abroad – say Switzerland, for example.”

“I like that possibility – no hassle with
customs and within easy driving distance.” Gavin agreed.

“It’s a starting point at least – Roberto why
don’t you ask around and find out if any of the locals are
planning, or have recently taken a trip somewhere.” I suggest.
“Here is my cell phone number – call me as soon as you have news.
And put this folder in a bank safety deposit box immediately.”

“I will.”

“Why did you lie to me?” Gavin asked while we
waited for a taxi.

“I didn’t think you would understand.”

“That you went alone?”

“Yes – Gavin, it’s what I do. Whenever I am
tracking down artefacts for the museum, I do it alone. It can be
dangerous.”