The Stolen Da Vinci Manuscripts

by Joshua Elliot James

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.

  Chapter 5: Back On Track

  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 Switz
erland, 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.”

  Chapter 6: The Tango Competition

  “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.”

  “So I see – was it the dog?”

  “Yes – trapped my head in the gate.”

  “You’re lucky.”

  We are picked up by a yellow and black Fiat, which drops us at the Trevi Fountain for sightseeing. Gavin is frustrated by the amount of time I spend in clothing stores, but a girl’s gotta do, what a girl’s gotta do. By the end of the excursion I am the proud owner of a pair of red high heeled shoes and a slinky outfit which will be stunning for the first round of the tango championship tonight. I can’t wait.

  Gavin has procured fabulous seats in the front row of the right wing. We get a peek behind the scenes at dancers in preparation for their performance on stage when the curtain sways, and I feel my blood gush when the orchestra strikes their opening number.

  I rise from my seat despite Gavin’s frantic attempt to stop me and dance alone. It takes but a few seconds before spotlights illuminate my red dress with black lace trim, and only a few more before a man joins me from the center seating. He controls me and positions himself masterly for my leg to entwine his at every smoldering turn. His hands ardently trace the curves of my body and his eyes lock mine in hot blooded passion. My head swims to the point of fainting but I am saved when the music comes to an end. Applause rocks the auditorium and I become aware of everyone standing and clapping in my direction – even Gavin. My partner kisses my hand, escorts me to my seat and joins the applause. “Bellissimo!” He yells to the crowd.

  I take a bow and sit.

  “Do you know who you just danced with?” Gavin asks.

  “Of course not.”

  “Adriano Bellini – I read the tag pinned on his jacket - you may not have recognized him, but I’m sure you know the name.”

  “Of course! He’s one of the best in the world!”

  “Well, he’s a judge here.”

  “I danced with Adriano Bellini! I don’t believe it.”

  “Believe.” said a voice beside me. “He’s my husband. He didn’t tell me that he would be dancing tonight though.”

  “He didn’t know.” Gavin told her. “Whenever music plays, Arcadia has to dance – no matter where she is or what’s happening around her - it’s a sickness.”

  “That is a wonderful sickness then.” She congratulated. “I have not seen Adriano dance with such passion for a long time.”

  “Why? Why is he not competing tonight?” I ask.

  “When I injured my leg, he swore that he would never dance in competition until I was healed.”

  “Oh, of course – you’re Antonia.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  You cannot imagine what willpower I drew upon to remain seated for the rest of the evening, and my feet perform every step of every dance until the final couple rest.

  With the judging completed, Adriano comes over to tell me that he expects me to compete in the championships next year and gives me his business card. “If my wife is not healed I may have to break my promise and have you as my partner!” He jokes.

  My cell phone interrupts the conversation and I apologize. “Sorry, I have to take this call.”

  “That is perfectly alright.” He says. “But please call me soon.”

  I nod. “Hello…”

  “This is Roberto, I am in the taverna. Signorina Capello says two people from here went travelling recently – one went to Geneva and the other to Paris. She says both left at short notice.’

  “Okay, thanks Roberto, I’ll sleep on it and see you in the morning.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  I relay the information to Gavin.

  “Do you want me to come along?” He asks.

  “Tomorrow morning - yes.” I leave the rest unsaid.

  He looks disappointed.

  He looks disappointed later, when I complain of a headache and condemn him to his own room again. I don’t know what’s holding me back from being with him.

  I get to know the ceiling quite intimately before falling asleep and awake early enough to take a long jog along the river Tiber, prior to meeting Gavin for breakfast.

  “So what do you think?” He asks.

  “I think Geneva – that’s where I would go.”

  “I think so too, but if you’re kicking me out I could go back to England via Paris and check that out.”

  “You would do that for me – after the way I’ve treated you?”

  “I know you don’t deserve it, but yes I would.”

  “Okay, let’s visit Roberto.”

  Chapter 7: The Suspects

  He looks as bad as the hangover must feel inside. “Been up all night?” Gavin enquires.

  “No, too much vino – I had to loosen tongues last night.”

  “Ah…”

  “Did you find out more?” I ask. I have an impulse to soothe his temples, but resist.

  “Just a little. The man who went to Geneva was alone – his name is Luigi Marconi – he is at the bar most nights so it is very possible that he heard papa talking about my ‘box’. He sells Vespa motor scooters for a living and deals marijuana on the side - everyone knows about it, even the police but it is seen as petty crime and so he is left alone. He left two days ago.”

  “Do you know where he is staying?”

  “Si, that was easy – at the ‘Victoria Grand Hotel’ – his mother is furious that he went without her – a few glasses of Valpolicella had her singing like a bird”.

  “What about the Paris trip?”

  “Edoardo Ricci – he supposedly went to visit his sick grandfather and I believe it – he is a god fearing man and would not steal from anyone.”

  “I think we can dispense with him then.”

  “Okay.” Gavin agreed.

  “Anything else?” I ask.

  “No.”

  “Describe the ‘box’ for me.”

  “It is a classic solid teak chest with metal reinforcing banding. About fourteen inches by eighteen and twenty four inches deep. It is dark brown in colour. The letters L.D.V. are stamped in Gold just below the lock.”

  “Thank you – one last thing…”

  “Yes?”

  “Did you place the ‘page’ in a bank yesterday?”

  “I did.”

  “Good. Keep your father under control.”

  “I will.”

  “Roberto – if anyone asks – I was never here – capiche?”

  “Capiche.”

  “Pray that I find the trail and can re-acquire the books, though I don’t know who in the world has enough money to buy them – I’ll have to work on a consortium. Okay, I’ll be in touch.”

  “I trust you and I pray for you.” Roberto promised.

  I turn as we step out. “Don’t even think of trying to sell that page.”

  “I will wait.”

  Chapter 8: Murder In Geneva

  My parting with Gavin is tearful, but necessary. I must be free to make decisions and act quickly, but I promise we’ll make up for lost time when I’m back in England.

  This is not looking to be a good day, traffic delays cause me to miss my flight to Geneva and the best option is to take a different flight routed through Frankfurt. I take my seat in a less than positive mood. I need a dr
ink.

  The plane is barely airborne before the ‘A2’ seat light illuminates in the galley.

  “Yes ma’am” the flight attendant asks.

  “A double Scotch whisky please.”

  “Ma’am we are not serving alcohol at this time, would you like coffee?”

  “Is this First Class?”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “Then can I expect First Class service?’

  “Absolutely ma’am.”

  “Then you can do two things for me…”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “Firstly – stop ending every sentence with the word ‘ma’am’ and secondly bring me a double Scotch whisky.”

  “I’m sorry m…, but we are only serving coffee and soft beverages now.”

  “Very well – I will take an Irish coffee made with Scotch whisky, but hold the coffee and cream. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Let me have the chief steward attend to you Ma…‘Miss.’

  “Good morning ma’am, how may I be of assistance?”

  “I am having a very bad day, we can make it acceptably tolerable, or I can be a total bitch for the remainder of the flight; which would you prefer?”

  “The former ma’am.”

  “Then I would very much like you to bring me a double ‘Scotch whisky’ on the rocks.”

  “We are not serving…”

  “If you say the word ‘alcohol’, I’ll scream. I assure you that if you open any dictionary and look up the word ‘bitch’, you will find my photograph staring back at you. So what’s it to be?” I demand coldly.

  “I will be right back.”

  “I’ll take one of those also…” A fat man in a business suit across the aisle, requests. He wants to make small talk but I’m in no mood, so he retreats back into the pages of his ‘Financial Times’.

  After a couple of sips of whiskey and I mellow enough to put the earlier snafus of the day out of my mind. I won’t waste time developing a plan because I don’t know what I’m up against, so I watch the scenery unfold below like a patchwork quilt.

  We finally land at Geneva airport at eight o’clock, as darkness falls – I could have rented a car and have driven here in the same amount of time as the flight took and been more mobile, but there is a readily available taxi to take me to the ‘Victoria Grand Hotel’.