Sun of the Sleepless

by Patrick Horne

  It was, perhaps, ironic that their white-haired opponent was playing blind considering his stake, but ultimately, it was his own actions that would dictate the consequences that befell him.

  Rey opened the door to the store a few full minutes behind Frans and made his entry just as any another last minute browsing tourist might, half truth that it was. He was announced by the tinkling jangle of a miniature clapper rattling against the brass bell that bounced freely from the end of a springy shaft of metal above the door.

  He quickly examined his surroundings; the store was a rectangle with a large glass frontage, the interior veiled from the damaging effects of the sun's rays by a large intricately embroidered muslin sheet. Each of the remaining three walls was hidden behind floor to ceiling bookshelves, lined with row upon row of at least a couple of thousand leather spines.

  At irregular intervals, the uniform tessellated fascias of the shelves were interrupted by a framed single page with a particularly interesting woodcut or print on it. Interspersed at irregular intervals were the ornately decorated cover boards of carefully propped and spread tomes, the pages facing away from the viewer rather than toward them. Rey noted a couple of small portraits; a stern faced patrician with an expression of learned disapproval and a willowy beauty demurely reclining into a coy but provocative pose.

  The shop was a veritable library of seventeenth, eighteenth and nineteenth century impressions, the heady aroma emanating from the collection delivering the scent signatures of a subtle blend of tanned hides and skin, the product of the antiquarian book binder's skill, a sublime and multifaceted art form in itself never mind the literary work printed upon the pages that they contained.

  Frans was already animatedly chatting to the dealer across the dark and heavy wooden counter, clearly an antique in itself. Just behind them was a small doorway leading off to a dimly lit and narrow corridor onto which various back-rooms converged, the glimpse of a bottom step indicating a staircase leading off to one side. It was likely that the dealer lived above his shop.

  Rey could see that the corridor ended in a rear exit and could not help but think that it might come in useful.

  Although he was not able to understand the fast exchange of Dutch, Rey felt that the intonation of the conversation was indicative of a negative outcome, at least for the initial phase of their encounter. He needed to prepare for the worst.

  Rey moved to one of the side walls and surveyed the spines arrayed before him, his ears cocked to the ongoing but incomprehensible discussion, his lateral vision distracted by the gesticulating arms of the old book dealer. He automatically started to stretch his fingers, his hands hidden within the pockets of his coat, readying the joints for sudden movement or impact, bending his wrists to stretch them and prepare them for stress.

  The painful crick of a finger or twinge of a nerve caused by rapid hand articulation could throw off the grip and power of any protagonist. The recognition and exploitation of such weaknesses formed the basis of many of the most effective martial arts moves and Rey's self awareness of such failings was all part of good preparation, regardless of the age or fitness of his opponent.

  His mind was racing ahead and if need be the staircase could be used to stage an accident. After extracting the information they wanted they could push him down the stairs and then ensure that his neck was broken. Any ensuing investigation would only reveal the necessary evidence of an entirely accidental fall.

  Perhaps some books scattered about the body would add further colour to the scene? The natural assumption would be that the old man had been carrying a heavy pile; a lost footing, a tumble down the stairs, the crash of the body as it had rolled into a heap at the last step, the neck snapping as the head connected with the wall or floor of the corridor.

  Rey glanced around as the old man enunciated three dots and jabbed at his right eyebrow, he saw him shrug and shake his head. Janssens appeared morose, disappointed, he was shaking his head and, in an expansive sweep of his arm, seemed to be indicating the books adorning the walls. Rey was a little confused as he saw Frans shaking his head, as if in disbelieving agreement and consolation of a shared opinion.

  Turning back to the shelves, he heard Frans talking again. A short conversation followed and he suddenly recognised the familiar doei of a Dutch goodbye. He looked around and saw Frans turn and walk to the door, a deadpan glance between their eyes indicating no assent or confirmation of action required.

  His confusion increased as he saw Frans wave a casual farewell, swing open the door and meander out to the street, turning about to wander off in the direction of the café that they had vacated some quarter of an hour ago.

  Frans' actions had implicitly declared a reprieve for the dealer; it seemed that the old man had unknowingly played his hand to perfection and his stake was safe, if not enhanced by winnings taken from his opponents.

  Scanning the array of book spines once again, Rey's eyes alighted upon two volumes on the shelf before him. He picked them out and approached the counter, sliding the pair across to the dealer who was now smiling at him.

  The old man looked down at the books and then up at his erstwhile nemesis, regardless of whether he knew it or not. Although ignorant of his narrowly averted fate, Johann Janssens could immediately tell the nationality of the customer standing before him. Without consternation he switched languages with ease and started speaking in accented but very clear English.

  'Ah, The Golden Bough by Sir James Frazer. 'A Study in Magic and Religion', 1890, Volumes 1 and 2. The first edition! You know this book?'

  He gently opened the first volume and lightly flicked through the pages before looking up at Rey again.

  Rey nodded and returned the munificent grin of the old man standing before him. He was glad that it had turned out this way as during the few minutes of their ambient encounter he had decided that he liked the dealer.

  'Yes, you could say that. You have a good copy here, all original green cloth, spines lettered with gilt, front covers with the mistletoe design, no scraping or damage. It's in excellent condition. A pity that the spines are slightly chipped at the heads.'

  The dealer peered closely at the pages open before him.

  'Hmmm, yes, also a little toning on the margins but this is to be expected, not so?' Janssens smiled again as he looked up, it was clear that he loved his books, loved his trade. 'You know something of such things?'

  'Not much,' Rey averred, 'but enough to know when I see a bargain.'

  He considered whether the dealer regularly dealt in stolen goods.

  Janssens leaned his head to one side thoughtfully, 'Yes, just so, in which case you are not surprised by the price, hey? So many people come in and expect to buy history at knocked-down prices. Cheap history does not bode well for the future I think.'

  'A history remembered is a future assured,' Rey agreed as he gently spun the open book around and ran a finger down the edge of the facing page. 'I'd like to buy these volumes!'

  'A wise decision,' the dealer assured with a delighted expression, 'just give me a moment to get the card reader to operate, it sometimes takes a little time. New technology does not always deliver what it promises, hey?'

  Reaching into an inside pocket, Rey smoothly withdrew a bulky brown envelope, 'No need, I'll pay cash. Would that warrant a small discount?'

  'Oh, yes,' the old man enthused as his eyes lit up, 'that would be fine! You are clearly a serious collector!' He pondered for a moment, 'Shall we say two and a half thousand Euros?'

  Burrowing into the envelope, Rey pulled out three wads of notes, placing two of them down and riffling through the last one to extract the odd five hundred Euros.

  'I will give you a hand-written receipt, what name shall I put on it?'

  Ignoring the pile of notes that had been deposited on the counter, Janssens fumbled about as if looking for a pen and his receipt book.

  Rey paused and then smiled, 'Mr. Nemein'.

  He wondered whether the learned gent
would recognise the Greek etymology, meaning 'to give what is due', a small but provocative academic reference, considering the circumstances.

  The dealer scribbled a few lines in a spidery scrawl and handed the receipt over, grinning benignly and clearly pleased with the profit of the evening's trade. 'Shall I wrap them for you?'

  After a curt nod, Rey became transfixed by the careful precision applied to the wrapping process, albeit distracted by the opposing thoughts running through his mind.

  On the one hand, he did actually want the books. On the other hand, it would be convenient that the old man now had a large amount of cash on the premises, just in case he and Frans required a ready made motive for a staged burglary gone wrong.

  He could not help but think of eventualities yet to transpire and depending on the outcome of a visit to the temporary holder of the Sigil Ring, they might need to drop in on the old man once again.

  Rey's attention was drawn by Johann Janssens leaning forward and pushing the fastidiously wrapped parcel across to him. He saw him grin tentatively, as if worried that the deal may still go sour at any moment.

  'Your books?'

  'Yes, sorry, I was just thinking, thank-you.'

  The old man nodded and winked confidentially.

  'Not to worry, I find myself thinking one thing and doing another all the time, although I do not think that age is such a problem to you as it is to me, hey?'

  Placing his wrinkled hands palm down on the scarred but well polished wooden counter top, the flat worn face of a gold ring sitting loosely about a gnarled little finger momentarily caught the light and glinted brightly.

  'Hopefully, I may see you again some time, as you can see, there are plenty of books here which may distract you!'

  Rey tucked the parcel under his arm and took in a last look around the heavily laden shelves, pausing just for one moment before replying, 'Yes, you never know, maybe I will be back.'

  After an exchange of farewells and a couple of minutes to traverse the street, Rey was once again sitting opposite Frans in the café, the packaged books sitting on the table in front of him, patiently waiting for a tea and a coffee to be brought to them before he would hear the translation of the exchange that had, for the time being, saved the old man's life. He was intrigued.

  Frans coughed and ran a fore-knuckle across his lips as the waitress brought a couple of steaming mugs to their table.

  'Dank u wel!'

  Pouring in the contents of two sugar packets, Rey then dripped some coffee creamer into his tea before giving the murky brown liquid a thorough stir.

  'So, I know how it went, but how did it go?' asked Rey as he tapped his spoon against the rim of his cup before resting it in his saucer.

  Frans rasped in air through the side of his clamped lips, staring with some disdain and humour at the muddy liquid exuding vapours before his comrade.

  'White tea and cryptic English, you'd never pass for a European!'

  'Come on,' Rey harrumphed, 'what was said that gave you such a warm and fuzzy feeling that we're not in there right now supervising the old fella's demise?'

  Frans clasped his hands and rubbed them together vigorously, 'Ahhh, interesting! Can you believe that Mr. Janssens was entirely up-front about the book when I asked him about it? Did you notice his ring? A Freemason no less, so I gave him a story about how it had been stolen from a Masonic Lodge!'

  'That was convenient,' muttered Rey as he lowered his head to blow over his tea before taking a sip.

  'He said that a young guy came in a couple of weeks ago and tried to sell it to him, although our Masonic friend guessed that it was not his to trade in the first place. Initially, he didn't want anything to do with it and wouldn't even take a look at it.'

  'What changed his mind?' Rey intoned, sardonically raising an eyebrow of disdain. 'Did he suddenly smell a profit?'

  Frans grimace was accompanied by a shake of his head, 'Our young thief, he became aggressive, he was insistent and our dealer was not a little worried that things might turn ugly. He's had some trouble with youth gangs around here before; graffiti on the front of the shop, shouting and drunkenness in the streets. He also gave me his opinion on the lack of discipline in modern parenting, no respect for books, that kind of thing. He thought that the easiest thing to do was to pay up and deal with it afterwards, get the guy out of the shop. He ended up giving him a couple of hundred Euros.'

  'Cheap history!' Rey snorted derisively. He looked at Frans' blank face. 'Something that the dealer said to me in the shop. That thieving little fucker probably spent it on spliffs and beer!'

  'Well, I suppose it is lucky for us that he only considered the value of priceless to be two hundred Euros, eh? Anyway, our dealer, he had guessed that it was stolen and so had no intention of selling it on through his shop but he couldn't find any library marks or identification stamps in the book so he couldn't try to track down the owner himself. The images in the book, the text, it made him think that it was Masonic but he didn't want to involve his Lodge in case there was some bad publicity, they can be quite conservative over here. Likewise, he didn't want to call the police in case the guy came back with friends to damage his shop, or worse, so, he sold it to the girl just to get rid of it. He says that he actually made a loss on it.'

  'Alright, but did he identify our man?'

  'Ha! He certainly did!' Frans exclaimed, rolling his eyes. 'You see, our man comes from an era when only criminals and sailors had tattoos and only women and pirates wore earrings. This young guy's piercings sealed Janssens' first impressions of him as soon as he walked into the shop.'

  'Identifiable tattoos and piercings?'

  'He has three studs going through his right eyebrow, dark shaved hair with a tattoo behind the left ear; a crescent with a star. Our learned Mason recognised it as an Islamic symbol but thought that the guy wore it for show rather than faith! He thinks he is North African, maybe Moroccan, late teens he guessed. He also gave a description of his clothes and, best of all, he mentioned a ring he was wearing on his left hand!'

  'A silver ring?'

  'Exactly! He noticed it because the guy's other rings were big gold chunky things, also, he commented on the death's head motif. I think that we have enough to find our young offender, especially since he told me that he has seen him hanging out at a coffee-shop a couple of streets away. My friend, I think we will be celebrating soon enough!'

  Gertrude woke with a start from the nap she had drifted into and it took a second or two for her to get her bearings. She had obviously been asleep for a while since it was now fully dark outside, but she could not see the face of the wall clock to tell what time it was since she had not put the lights on when she had finally settled down on the sofa. She had wanted to catch some sleep in an effort to subdue the morose feelings that had gripped her all afternoon.

  She considered that it could not be too late because it was the telephone bleating softly that had woken her and usually, nobody called her at night.

  Groggily sitting upright, she reached out and grabbed the receiver from the small table at the end of the sofa.

  'Met Gertrude Verker.'

  The voice that responded was relaxed and soothingly gentle.

  'Yes, Miss Verker, this is Inspector van Riel, Den Haag Politie. I'm calling in regard to the accident this morning. You provided a witness statement?'

  Gertrude rubbed a hand over her face to focus her mind, 'Yes, sorry, I was asleep, what time is it?'

  'Oh, sorry to have woken you, it is not too late, just coming up to nineteen hundred hours. I wanted to catch you before I finished work for the day; people are rarely home during the day time.'

  'Yes, yes, sorry, the accident, Mrs. Korteweg, well, I just needed to get a little rest. How may I help?'

  'Of course, I understand,' the Inspector reassured. 'It can be very stressful to witness such things and of course, especially when you know the person involved. In fact, that is why I am calling.'

  'This is about Mr
s. Korteweg?'

  'Yes, in your statement you indicated that you knew the lady who had died?'

  Gertrude winced at the stark banality of the denouement, 'A little, we had met for coffee a couple of times.'

  'Yes, that is fine, it is just that we cannot find any next of kin or relatives of any kind and your name featured in a diary in her personal belongings. I just wanted to make an appointment to meet with you, next week; it is purely a routine chat and won't take long.'

  'Yes, I am available every evening next week, when exactly?'

  There was a short silence. The Inspector was obviously consulting a calendar. 'Shall we say next Tuesday, around sixteen hundred hours? Is that possible?'

  Gertrude's mind was blank but she could not think of a reason why the time would not work, 'Yes, that would be fine.'

  'Excellent, we have your address so I will see you next week. Thank-you Miss Verker, Goodbye.'

  Gertrude gently replaced the receiver and sat for a moment, slightly anomic. She had to shake off this feeling and get on with things. Carola had been right; there was nothing that she could have done. She decided that she needed a coffee to wake herself up a bit.

  Standing up and orienting herself by the dim light filtering through the window, she shuffled over to a standard lamp and switched it on, the energy saving bulb buzzing slightly as it flickered to life, casting a warm glow to the room.

  Glancing across to the kitchen door she fixed on the indentations in the carpet, still marking the positions of the containers from that very morning, an age away in terms of the emotional highs and lows she had experienced during the day. It was suddenly clear to her what she should do to occupy her mind.

  Rey was staring intently at the glowing screen of his mobile phone, the lambent display showing a satellite image with the streets and roads clearly discernible and in exacting detail. He had zoomed into a specific area of The Hague to study the layout of the surrounding neighbourhood.

  Even his pre-paid phone had access to such web applications and although the use of this public domain service would be logged by his service provider, the small footprint he was leaving was only traceable to his handset - not to him. He was satisfied that the security risk was negligible.