Caveat Emptor

Chapter 18

Melvyn Dysart pushed his glasses back on his head and stretched back in his chair, shoulders cracking after so long in one position. Nothing he had found in the huge database of texts and languages had given him any clue as to the wording on the document. It was as frustrating as it was challenging . . . and Melvyn loved challenges.

Roman cursive was the closest style, but the ink predated that, as did the paper. Melvyn had to consider the fact that whoever wrote the words had access to the old ink and paper, which only made the puzzle more frustrating. His call to Arthur had been disappointing.

As the purported draft of a letter to be included in a codex, it meant somewhere in the third to fourth century but Melvyn could not make any connections or comparisons; he worried over the idea of a fake or practical joke.

He emailed his concerns to his colleagues, and unexpectedly, received some encouraging replies. He wouldn't call Arthur back just yet.

****

Arthur looked desolate.

"That was Melvyn," he said, as Barbara entered the office, closing the door behind her. "He's stumped. He said he'd tried everything, contacted colleagues all over the world, as you guessed he would, used every database he could access, and nothing. It smacks of the Voynich Manuscript, in that the language is indecipherable."

"But the paper and ink are authentic." Barbara sat and leaned on his desk.

"And the style is possibly the right era too but the words, if they are even words at all, are just gibberish."

"There must be something . . . the person it was stolen from, that French crime boss, he must have some idea of what it is, or why go to such lengths to get it back?"

"Yes, well I doubt if you called him he would be very forthcoming . . . particularly to you." The inference needed no explanation, and Barbara sat back, her neck heating with embarrassment.

"Not to me, but maybe the police, Arthur." She finally managed.

****

The little flag warning appeared on Monique Roche's screen, and she quickly transferred the call to her private phone, and listened to the conversation between the Canadian Police Captain and the Préfet de Police in Nice. Immediately she contacted Jean Paul and reported.

"Is it wise to speak with the police of another country, mon cher?" Helene, Jean Paul's constant companion asked, running painted nails across his chest.

"Monique will be monitoring any related connections, mon ange, I have no concern."

The call came through, and Jean Paul used his most eloquent English speaking to the caller.

"Mister Vateur, my name is Detective Keith Railton of the Toronto Metropolitan Police. In the interest of transparency for this conversation, I am the Detective that eluded your men and brought the scroll back to Canada."

In the following silence, Jen Paul eased Helene away and sat upright. "You have caused me considerable annoyance, Detective Railton."

"I could say the same, sir – and it still goes on over here. Your . . . employees are fugitives and wanted for the murder of two others in the same field."

"I don't believe this is the reason for your call." The Brando rasp crept in.

Keith took a large breath and began. "You're right. I'm calling because I want you to know that our experts over here have examined the scroll thoroughly, and I mean thoroughly, and have discovered that while the paper and ink are authentic and quite old, the writing is a meaningless scribble, matching no known language, dialect or colloquialism. My question, sir, is what possessed you to make such an expensive purchase considering what I have just told you?"

"And what kind of fool do you take me for should I answer that question while you have possession of my property."

"You have my professional and personal assurance, your property will be returned to you as soon as we have concluded our investigation into the killing of the courier who brought it here initially."

"It was my understanding, Snelgrove, Frossard and Aubert, answered those questions."

"You are well informed, sir, but one question remains. Who shot Snelgrove in your country? You wouldn't have an answer for that would you?"

"To use your, interest of transparency phrase, I do not."

"Then my investigation continues. I had hoped your purpose in buying the scroll might shine some light on the reason for all these events."

"Regretfully, Detective, I must decline. Bon chance with your investigation." Jean Paul hung up.

"Damn!" Keith banged down the phone then looked apologetically at his chief. "Sorry, sir."

"I take it he wouldn't co-operate."

"Not while we have the scroll anyway. I think he figures we might renege and keep what we learn to ourselves. He did know all about our investigation though, and he never denied his goons were running loose over here."

"Catch them and maybe they'll have something useful."

"With respect, sir . . ." Keith gave his chief a doubtful stare.

****

Jean Paul stormed into his suite from the patio balcony, his voice a roaring shout for his lieutenant. He went to his desk and unlocked a drawer, pulling a file from inside and slamming it on the desk top.

"Jean Paul?" The man skidded nervously to a halt a safe distance away.

"Nico, take this file and make a visit to our friend Jules. Find his source for the scroll he delivered to me and bring him here alive . . . by any means."

"And Jules?"

"Yes Jules too. There is a lot to be explained for an investment of a million Euros."

Nico took the file and was stopped by a hand on his arm.

"What have we learned about the shooting of Snelgrove?"

"The possibility of a hit man, and another Canadian who arrived from Marrakesh, staying only three days."

"They are connected?"

"We are still gathering information."

"I want the Canadian's name."

Nico nodded and left the office quickly.

****

Keith manoeuvred recklessly through traffic, his blue and red lights flashing, siren burping, horn blowing and heart pounding. The message from Purcell that Barbara had been followed into her apartment complex by two men made him both terrified and enraged. More horns blew and brakes squealed as he skidded into a wide turn through an intersection, barely skimming an oncoming car.

He killed the lights and the siren as he turned onto her street, jamming on the brakes and rocking to a halt against the curb. Inside the lobby door he found Purcell propped against the wall, blood soaking the front of his jacket.

"Go! It's not as bad as it looks and I've already called for a bus and backup. They went up on the elevator. Two of them. One limping because your girl connected with a tender spot." Purcell grimaced.

Keith dashed to the stairs and tore up, two at a time to Barbara's floor. Slowing, gun out and aimed ahead, he crept to her door and listened. Inside he heard mumbled voices, rising and falling in argument and hesitated, unsure of his approach then there was a scream, followed by a gunshot. Keith faced the door, and with one roar and a vicious kick, sent it crashing crazily off the hinges as he burst into the room shouting, "Police!"