“Hey, Damian.” Alec brandished a sheaf of paper. “Look at all these letters he sent asking for information. Why would he have saved all these?”
“I can’t see any pattern,” Damian replied, flipping through them. “Universities, pharmaceutical companies, botanical institutes, laboratories, DNA research, everything under the sun.”
“Right. Brochures, registration forms, research reports, you name it.”
“We’ll set them aside and go over them again later.”
After a while Alec said, “You know what seems strange to me? Those postcards. Have you run into any yet?”
“Yeah, I just saw one. It was signed ‘Simon.’ That was a friend of Frank’s, right? Simon Versteegen?”
“Yeah, they went back a long way. I think they did business sometimes, so they probably had plenty of reasons to write each other, but still, there’s something weird about those cards. Why would Simon send Frank cryptic little messages like that? Besides, they’re the only postcards Frank saved for me.”
They picked through the stacks of paper, fishing out ten postcards in all.
“You’re right about those messages,” Damian said. “They’re weird. This one says, ‘Up another ten.’ And this one says, ‘Doubled.’ “
“They’re all about figures.” Alec stared at the card in his hand, brooding.
“And what are we supposed to make of this?” Damian asked, after Alec had laid all the cards side by side with the pictures facing up.
“The theme seems pretty obvious. He didn’t just pull these off the rack at random. Here’s one with lots of scientific instruments. A chronometer, a sextant, and a telescope. And here’s Leonardo da Vinci’s sketch of a flying machine.” As Alec described the cards, he tapped each one with his index finger. “A portrait of Galileo Galilei.” He flipped over the card and looked at Damian. “You know when this was painted? Sixteen thirty-six. You see? They’re all connected to the seventeenth century.”
“You’re right.”
Damian studied the pictures with a frown. Then he reached out and pulled one toward him.
“Do you see what I see?”
Alec nodded.
Eight men dressed in black were gathered around a table. Light shone on their broad white collars. A beam slanting down from the upper left corner illuminated the naked body lying on the table. The skin was pale, almost transparent, in contrast to the soles of the man’s feet, which looked unwashed. A loincloth was draped loosely over his genitals.
Three of the men were leaning in to examine the body. The two behind them gazed directly out at the viewer. One held a piece of paper covered with writing too small to read. They seemed somewhat disturbed, as if the person looking at the painting had burst into the room without warning. One of the two men at the bottom left glanced at the viewer out of the corner of his eye. The man behind him looked straight ahead, toward the central figure of the painting, the only one wearing a hat— a large, black one with a wide brim. He sat bolt upright in his chair, his mouth open slightly. He was gesturing with his left hand and holding a forceps in his right, which he was using to keep open the incised skin of the dead man’s forearm. All the muscles and tendons were exposed from the elbow to the tips of the fingers.
“Finally, something to go on.” Damian stared excitedly at the postcard.
Alec nodded. “The Anatomy Lesson of Dr. Nicolaes Tulp.”
Alkmaar
FEBRUARY 5, 1637
The three men who had sat in different parts of the room, bidding on every lot, met at the entrance to the New Archery Hall. Squinting in the glare of the winter sun, they huddled together and exchanged glances without saying a word.
The door behind them opened and the tall man stepped out, still clutching the Bible to his chest, his finger marking a page. He looked at them and nodded. Visibly relieved, they nodded back. Then, without so much as a greeting, they turned and left, dispersing into the street.
He was satisfied. They had arrived with empty purses and were returning home with empty hands, but he felt richer than ever. They had completed their mission successfully. He was sure of it.
Never before had tulip bulbs fetched such high prices. During the auction, it had been hard for him to contain himself. How had it come to this? Wealth and finery was all they cared about, all that gave their lives meaning. He had seen it around him, spreading like the plague. The weaver who lived around the corner had sold his loom and used the money to buy tulip bulbs. And the blacksmith who shod his horse had closed his business and started investing in tulips.
He hoped it would soon be over and they would all go back to their proper station in life, to the tasks God had ordained. Then true Christianity would return to the republic, which over the past years had slowly transformed into an abyss of greed, egotism, and blasphemy. If his plan worked as he prayed it would, the masses would pour back into the house of God, driven by their fear of the future. Then he would help them restore meaning to their empty, miserable lives.
For now, he would simply watch and wait. Great changes were coming for all of them, that much was certain.
THIRTY
“What could these messages mean?” Alec asked. “What were Simon and Frank up to? I know they were friends. Simon came to visit now and then, but I certainly wouldn’t call him a regular guest. He had a stepdaughter about my age. I can imagine he and Frank might have talked to each other about child rearing, that kind of thing. They were both going it alone.”
“When did they meet?”
“When they were students, I think, like Frank and Dick. But why was Simon sending him those cards every year? Simon’s the one we have to talk to.”
Alec stood up abruptly. “I just realized something, Damian. How stupid of me not to think of it before. The whole time, I’ve been wondering where it was I saw Simon’s name recently. God, I could kick myself. I remember thinking there was something funny about it. Hold on, I’ll be right back.”
He leaped up, raced out of the kitchen, and returned a moment later, holding a book.
“The condolence register,” he said, a little out of breath. “Here, look . . . wait, damn it . . . where was it?”
He leafed through the pages at a furious pace.
“I thought it was a weird message. Oh, here it is, look what he wrote.”
Damian looked at the hurried scrawl, which stood in stark contrast to the other, neatly penned, expressions of sympathy.
Alec,
The death of a loved one is always bewildering. Maybe I can help you understand.
Yours, Simon Versteegen
Under the message was a telephone number.
“He wants to tell you something.”
“That’s for sure,” Alec said, clapping the register shut.
Alec sat at the kitchen table, tapping his nails against his full wine-glass. His gaze wandered over the objects in front of him. Damian had kindled a fire before he went upstairs, and the gold leaf of the tulip book gleamed in the light of the flames. Next to the book lay the postcards. Alec fanned them out.
“What were you trying to tell me, Frank?”
He picked up the tulip book, then changed his mind and put it down again. He pushed himself away from the table and stretched.
“Aren’t those illustrations just amazing?”
Emma draped her jacket over a chair and kissed him on the cheek. She sat down and pulled the book toward her. Gently, she stroked the cover. He looked at her hand, remembering how she’d touched him the same way. He could feel her caresses down his back again, remembered the look in her eyes when he turned to face her. Cut it out, Alec, he thought to himself. You’ve had too much to drink.
She looked up. “Yesterday I took a good look at this book. I’m starting to wonder whether it really holds the clue we’re looking for.”
“Would you like some wine?”
“I’d love some.”
As he got up to fetch a glass, she said, “Maybe we were wrong, and Frank meant
something completely different.”
“I’m coming around to that point of view myself.”
She picked up the glass, took a sip, and said, “Here’s what we’ll do. We’ll go through the whole book once more, but this time we’ll do it right. One page at a time. Who knows. Maybe we missed something.”
“Go through it again? Now?”
“Yeah, right from the beginning. Now, where are those gloves?”
“Here, use this.” He grabbed a dishcloth and handed it to her.
Alec looked over Emma’s shoulder as she slowly turned the pages. Every illustration was superb. The tulips were rendered in minute detail. One of the leaves of the tulip in front of them was sagging under the weight of a snail that crept toward the tip. On one of the petals in the next illustration, the artist had painted a fly, so lifelike that you’d think it might take wing at any moment. The tulips were magnificent, executed with such devotion that each new page made Emma and Alec more deeply aware not only of their beauty but also of the power that dwelled in their simplicity. Not a petal too many, the outlines crisp and clear. They were exuberant in a way, but also modest, as if they were unaware of their own splendor. It was the combination of their simple forms— the bloom, the slender stem, the tapering leaves— with the brilliant colors of their petals that made these flowers so special.
Alec was starting to appreciate why so many people had fallen under their spell, and how a bouquet of real tulips could cost more in the seventeenth century than the still lifes that now filled the walls of museums. Yes, he believed that if he’d been alive then, he too might been swept up in the tulip craze.
“If you notice anything unusual, just say so.”
He nodded, and she went on leafing slowly through the book. After she had turned the final page, she placed one hand flat on the end-paper and the other on the back cover. Just as she was about to close the book, she said, “That’s strange.”
“What?”
“This part feels uneven. Like there’s something there. Here, feel this.”
She took his hand and laid it on the inside of the cover. He ran it over the paper intently, with her hand pressed gently against his.
“Yeah, it’s uneven.”
“That’s what I thought.”
She lifted the book, running her eyes over its contours.
“Here, look at this, there’s a kind of bulge, right?”
Alec leaned in, his cheek almost brushing hers.
“You’re right,” he said excitedly. “There’s something inside.”
“But what?”
“There’s only one way to find out.”
Startled by Damian’s voice, Emma let go of the book, which fell to the table. Damian rushed forward, cursing. “Em, how could you be so clumsy? I told you to be careful with that book!” He picked it up and examined it closely.
“Oh, sorry, I, um . . . did we wake you?” Alec stammered.
“No, I was still up. What were you saying?” he asked gruffly. “Something about a bulge?”
“Yes,” Emma said, “there.”
Damian ran his hand gently over the endpaper. “You’re right; I can feel it too. It’s uneven.”
“Pull it open.” Alec was leaning over the table, staring at the book.
“Pull it open?” Damian looked at him in astonishment. “Are you out of your mind? This is a museum piece. I’m not about to start mucking with it. No, we’re going to do this properly.”
“What do you mean, properly? Do you think I care how much that book is worth? To hell with doing it properly. I want to know what’s in there, now.”
“Just calm down, okay? You’re acting like a spoiled child. When will you learn to stop acting on impulse? Count to ten and think for once, instead of just rushing in.” His gaze fell on the empty bottle. Picking it up, he said, “This doesn’t help, of course. I see you’ve been living it up again.”
Damian slammed the bottle down on the table. Emma opened her mouth, but before she could speak Alec said, “So that’s it? That’s what you’re all worked up about? Or is this about something else? Well? Do you think I should follow your example? Is that it? The incomparable Damian Vanlint will show us all just how it should be done. Mr. Van-lint, that paragon of perfection, who always looks before he leaps! Well, look at yourself for once. It takes you months to make a decision. Think it through, weigh the alternatives, blah blah blah. You’re acting like an old fart.”
“And you’re acting like a fired-up teenager. Control yourself for once.”
“Control myself? Why should I? I’ve lost the person I loved most in the world, remember? Don’t you get it?”
“I’m keenly aware of that, and in case you’ve forgotten, I loved Frank too. But I’m not using that as an excuse to lose my head or hurt the people who matter most to me. Unlike you. You’re using Frank’s death to—”
Alec pushed his chair back and strode around the table. He stopped right in front of Damian. “Easy for you to talk. Your life’s a bed of roses, you’ve got it made, you just let it all wash over you,” he said, gesturing in Emma’s direction. “Not all of us have such luck.”
“If I’ve got it made, as you put it, it’s because I work hard, instead of wallowing in my own misery.”
Emma slammed her hand down on the tabletop. “Stop it, please, both of you. That’s enough.”
“More than enough,” Alec said, putting his hand out. “Give it here, it belongs to me.”
“Alec, listen,” Damian said in a steady voice. “We’ll talk about this more tomorrow, okay? I know professionals who could open this up without damaging it. Why shouldn’t we ask for their help? What’s the problem? Do you really think a few hours are going to make a difference?”
Alec stared at him.
“Alec, he’s right,” Emma said. “I mean, suppose it’s nothing, suppose there’s nothing there, and we ruin something tremendously valuable, just because we wanted to find out right away. We can’t do anything now anyway. What’s wrong with waiting till tomorrow?”
Alec lowered his arm. “Maybe you’re right. Sorry, I think we’re both just worn out.”
“Worn out, right,” Damian snapped. “I’m going to bed.”
He walked out the door with the book tucked under his arm.
THIRTY-ONE
Dawn handed Wainwright his mug and sat down on the corner of his desk. As she warmed her hands on her own cup, she looked at him. His eyes looked puffy and half closed. She knew he got up every morning at six A.M. so he could make it to the office in time, just like most people who worked in the center of London. Since property was unaffordable for mere mortals, it was nothing special to spend four hours a day commuting. She thanked her lucky stars that she lived with her aunt, whose rental apartment was not too far away.
“Well?” He leaned back, with his hands clasped behind his head.
“I think you’re right, about Alec holding back, I mean. But that’s not to say he’s guilty of murder. By the way, did you ask him if he took a book from the shelf?”
“Yes. He says he didn’t, but he’s lying. There’s no doubt in my mind he took it with him.”
She put down her mug. “So it wasn’t the killer?”
“No, it couldn’t have been. The blood on the palms of Frank Schoeller’s hands had already dried by the time the book was removed. It must have happened later, after the murder. Look.”
He handed her a stack of color photos. She looked at the first print. Schoeller’s head was lolling to one side. His eyes were shut, and the expression on his face was peaceful. The left shoulder of his pajama top was stained crimson with blood from his head wound. The palms of his hands were facing up, and a rectangular outline was clearly visible.
“What else do you know about Alec? Wife? Family? Friends? Any surprises?”
“No wife, and no girlfriend either, as far as I know.”
Wainwright raised an eyebrow and nodded encouragingly.
“Forget it, sir. You should se
e the women he dates. Top models, actresses— I haven’t a ghost of a chance.”
“Dawn, you know true beauty—”
“—lies within. No argument from me, sir. What they never mention is, if you don’t like the packaging, you don’t stick around to find out what’s inside. Anyway, Frank Schoeller was the only family Alec had.”
“What about Damian Vanlint?”
“He’s Alec’s best friend. They’ve known each other for years. Oh, that reminds me, I wanted to show you something. Wait here, I’ll get it.”
She left the office and returned a moment later with a folder in her hand.
“Shall I give you the short version, sir?”
“Let’s have it, then.”
“Damian Floris Vanlint. Born on September fourth, nineteen seventy, in Amsterdam. His father is the property magnate Florian Van-lint. Worth a fortune.”
“The father’s still alive?”
She nodded.
“Parents divorced. Mother remarried a couple years later. She lives in Italy. Damian went off to boarding school in England at the age of fifteen.”
“Yes, that’s where the two of them met, wasn’t it?”
“Right. Damian Vanlint also met his wife there: Emma Caen, born and raised in France. At the age of twenty-one, Vanlint inherited part of the family fortune.”
“What kind of money are we talking about?”
“Big money, sir. There’s a Dutch magazine that publishes an annual list of the five hundred richest people. For the past few years, Damian Vanlint has bounced around between two hundred and two twenty.”
“And how much money does it take to qualify for this list?”
“Hold on, I’ve got the figure.” She flipped through the file. “Okay, here’s the latest edition. Look, here it is.”
She gave the magazine to Wainwright. Tucked between two pages was an English translation of the paragraph about Damian. Wainwright fished it out:
#218. Antiques dealer. €98 million.
The Tulip Virus Page 13