Book of Stolen Tales by D. J. McIntosh

before me. I clicked off my phone. We shook hands and he showed me to his office.
    The solicitor knew how to make an impression. Although I preferred the flair of Italian design, Newhouse was impeccably turned out in a British-tailored charcoal pinstripe suit and twill silk tie. A cabinet with a computer and files sat against one wall, the only sign this room was actually used for work. He took his seat behind a beautiful Georgian-era mahogany desk that held photographs in silver frames and a quill pen in a holder.
    A Francis Bacon painting hung on one wall among several other works by well-known artists. I’d always found Bacon’s portraits shocking. He painted the condemned soul, his wraithlike figures with howling mouths and tormented anatomies so convincingly rendered, just looking at them was painful. Bacon suffered from terrifying bouts of asthma all his life. I’d often wondered whether those contorted mouths expressed his own awful feelings of suffocation.
    The grotesque image seemed out of place in a solicitor’s office; then again, owning an original Bacon was a symbol of status and wealth and perhaps that’s what he wanted to convey. It must have set him back millions.
    Newhouse opened with an apology. “I’m terribly sorry to be so late. It’s not my habit, I assure you. I do hope our Jennie made you comfortable in the interim.”
    â€œYes, of course.”
    Apropos of nothing he waved a pale hand toward the quill. “Used by Jonathan Swift. The nib broke as he was finishing a passage. You can still see the spray of ink in the original manuscript.”
    I assumed this was intended to set me at ease and perhaps demonstrate he was a man of means if I hadn’t been sharp enough to conclude that from his art.
    â€œThat’s fascinating,” I said politely. “But I’m curious about your client. Why did he choose me to represent him … or her, as the case may be? Why pay for me to come all the way from New York when there are dozens of talented London dealers?”
    He tossed back a sweep of flaxen hair that had fallen across his forehead. “Come, Mr. Madison, your talents are well regarded even on this side of the pond. My client—and it is a ‘him’—was very determined, perhaps I could say, even desperate, to acquire the book. And yet his funds were limited. He put aside every penny of his capital to buy it.
    â€œTo win the auction he needed someone with a quick mind. A skilled bidder. He’d heard about your success last year when a George Stubbs equine painting was auctioned.” Newhouse had rested his arms on the desk. He leaned forward and clasped his hands. “To be perfectly frank, I advised against hiring an American. And you a kebab, no less.” He punctuated this slur with a wink as if to show it was all in good fun. “As you pointed out we have a surfeit of talent right here. All the same, my client made up his mind and wouldn’t hear of anyone else.”
    The insult about my Turkish origins proved that for all his expensive trappings, Newhouse lacked class. And I didn’t buy his explanation. The Stubbs purchase involved some sleight of hand but it was hardly earth shattering. “He chose me solely because of that?”
    â€œYou must have realized my client’s desire to remain anonymous already telegraphed a very private nature. Discretion was paramount. He was afraid a London dealer might, well, indulge in chatter, as it were.”
    Here then was the real reason. “What was so important about the book that your client felt the need to hide his purchase of it? And the reference to a malevolent history in your letter—what did you mean by that?”
    â€œAfraid I can’t tell you. I’m not privy to that information.”
    It felt frustrating to make so little headway. As Newhouse was my only contact, I’d hoped for more.
    In an obvious effort to change the subject,