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

accusingly.
    â€œYes, but it was reported stolen by the owner before it was even auctioned. I’ll be happy to provide you with the link to the Interpol report. Given the circumstances, I’d like to know who your client is, to tell him this in person.”
    I expected Newhouse to refuse my request outright or at least to express dismay at the new information. Instead, he pulled up his gangly frame, took out his cellphone, and abruptly left the room.
    His reaction was unusual to say the least. He hadn’t pressed me for any more details about the attack in my hotel room, instead immediately mentioned the insurance money. And despite his fit of temper, I’d sensed underlying anxiety in his voice.
    After a few minutes the office door swung open. Newhouse didn’t retreat behind his desk this time but faced me, quite agitated. The words spilled out of him. “Ordinarily I wouldn’t reveal my client’s identity; however, new circumstances have arisen that are troubling indeed. His name is Charles Renwick. My firm has represented his interests for many years. He owns a small publishing company producing high-quality, limited-edition books. Illustrated stories, books in great demand by collectors around the world. They sell for substantial sums.”
    He paused to sweep his hair back again and I thought what a girlish gesture it seemed. “I’ve been quite worried about him lately,” Newhouse confessed. “That book went to his head. He’d become infatuated with acquiring the damned thing. Utter foolishness. And look where it’s got him.”
    â€œWell, I appreciate your candor, Mr. Newhouse. Could you arrange for me to see him as soon as possible?”
    Newhouse turned even paler. “I’m afraid not. Charles’s shop was burgled last night and no one can find him. Terrible business. Blood at the scene. He’s feared dead.”

Seven

    N ewhouse set up an appointment for me with Renwick’s business partner, Tye Norris, at the publishing house they ran together. Norris reluctantly agreed to meet me later in the day after the police cleared the crime scene. With almost two hours to kill before I met him, I found a pub, and with a draft of crisp Wolf Ale before me, checked Interpol to see whether any of the volumes had been recovered. They hadn’t.
    I was quickly running out of options. I turned my attention to the topic of fairy tales in an attempt to discover why someone would go to such lengths to possess a rare and early version. The sum total of my knowledge about them is comparable to most people’s: I first heard the stories as a child when I wouldn’t have thought to question their meaning. Evelyn lovingly read to me from picture books every night before bed. I didn’t know at the time that she couldn’t read English. She made up the stories based on the illustrations. According to her, the Pied Piper kept rats as pets and stopped them from biting children with his music; Sleeping Beauty died because of her sins; Oscar Wilde’s selfish giant was an evil Jinn. I realized how far some of her versions missed the mark only when I saw Disney’s cartoons for the first time.
    On my cell’s Web browser, I used the rest of the time to refresh my memory about fairy-tale authors. People chatted amiably away in the background of the pleasant, old-fashioned pub as I settled into the comfortable leather bar stool, my elbows propped up on the mahogany counter, and began to read. According to one article, the first folklorist to put together a collection of tales was another Italian, Giovanni Francesco Straparola. His anthology, The Facetious Nights of Straparola , was divided into sections of twelve stories referred to as “nights,” similar to Basile’s division of each volume into a “day.” Although I’d never have recognized it from the title, Straparola’s story “Biancabella and the Snake” was