The Closed Book: Concerning the Secret of the Borgias. Le Queux William

did you make any purchases?”

      “I bought one book – a rare Arnoldus.”

      “In manuscript?”

      “Yes.”

      “Bound in original oak boards, with an old brass clasp – eh?” he inquired, with a queer smile about the corners of his mouth. “May I be permitted to see it?”

      His demand aroused my suspicions at once. It was evident that the prior had regretted having sold it to me, and had sent his agent to endeavour to get it back at any cost. Therefore, knowing the unscrupulous ways of some Italians in a cosmopolitan city like Leghorn, I did not intend to give the cunning old fellow sight of it.

      “Why do you wish to inspect it? I’ve packed it away, and it would give me great trouble to get at it again.”

      “Then the signore does really send things to England to sell again, as I have heard the people say?” suggested the old man somewhat rudely.

      “No, I’m not a dealer,” I responded angrily. “Who told you so?”

      “It is common gossip, signore,” replied the queer old fellow blandly. “But if you wish it, I’ll take steps to correct public opinion on that point.”

      “Let the gossips say what pleases them,” I snapped. “I’ve never yet sold anything I’ve bought. I suppose they think that by the quantity of my purchases I must be going to set up a curiosity shop. But,” I added, “tell me, Graniani, why do you wish to see the manuscript I bought yesterday?”

      “Oh, mere curiosity,” was his quick answer. “You know I’m interested in such things, and wanted to know how the prior treated you after my recommendation.”

      “He treated me well enough, and I brought a bargain.”

      “A bargain?” he echoed, and I fancied I detected a strange curl in his lip. “The reverendo does not sell many bargains. How much did you pay?”

      “Ah!” I laughed, “I suppose you want to charge him commission – eh?”

      The hunchback grinned, displaying his toothless gums, whereupon I took up the receipt and showed him the amount I had paid.

      Again he expressed a desire to be allowed to see the book; but, feeling certain that he had come to me with some hidden motive, and at the same time wondering what plot against me the evil-looking old fellow was forming, I point-blank refused. I did not tell him that I knew of his presence in Florence on the previous day, deeming it best to reserve the knowledge to myself. Without doubt he had seen the book in Landini’s possession, and the desire to inspect it again was only a clever ruse.

      “I think, signore, that hitherto my dealings with you have shown me to be trustworthy,” he said in a tone of complaint, “and yet you refuse to allow me to see a volume that I understand is most interesting.”

      “And rare,” I added. “It has already been valued by Olschki, who declares it to be a unique specimen, and worth very much more than I gave for it.”

      “I know, I know,” he replied with a sly wink. “The person who sold it to the prior knew its value and told me. But it is not a bargain, signore – depend upon it that you never get a bargain from the signor reverendo.”

      “To whom, then, did it originally belong?”

      “Ah, that I regret I am not at liberty to say, signore. I gave my word not to divulge the name. Our nobility who become so poor that they are compelled to sell their treasures to the rich foreigners, like yourself, are naturally very reticent about allowing themselves to be known as needy.” True, I had believed that the old fellow himself was a broken-down noble, some count or marquis who had a knowledge of antiques and who had fallen upon evil times; but the events of the last couple of days had caused me to change my opinion, and to regard him rather as a clever and crafty adventurer.

      I could see by his manner that he was ill at ease, and after some conversation regarding an old Montelupo plate he had offered me at a fabulous price, I waited for him to speak.

      “I really wish, signore, you would show me the manuscript,” he blurted forth at last. “Believe me, I have always acted in your best interests, and surely you will not refuse me such a small favour?”

      “But why are you so desirous of seeing it?” I demanded.

      “In order to verify a suspicion,” was his response.

      “Suspicion of what?”

      “A suspicion which I entertain, and of which, if true, you should be warned.”

      I was surprised at his words. Had not the actual seller of it warned me by strange hints?

      But an instant later, on reflection, I saw the cunning of the two men, who, acting in collusion, wished to repossess themselves of the book, and I resolved to combat it.

      “I have no use for any warning,” I laughed. “I suppose you’ll tell me some fairy story or evil pursuing the man in whose possession the volume remains – eh?”

      The hunchback raised his shoulders and exhibited his grimy palms, saying:

      “I have come to the signore as a friend. I regret if he should seek to treat me as an enemy.”

      “Now, look here,” I exclaimed, rather warmly, “I’ve no time to waste over useless humbug like this! I’ve bought the book at the price asked, and neither you nor the prior will get it back again. Understand that! And further,” I added, “I shall not require anything more that you may have to sell. I’ve finished buying antiques in Leghorn. You can tell all the touts in the piazza that my purse is closed.”

      Again the ugly old man raised his shoulders expressively and opened out his hands – this time, however, in silence.

      I rang the bell for Nello to show the fellow out. Then, when I had done this, he turned to me with knit brows and asked:

      “Does the signore refuse absolutely to show me the ‘Book of Arnoldus’?”

      “Absolutely.”

      “Then it must be at the signore’s peril,” he said slowly, with a strange, deep meaningness and a curious expression on his brown, wrinkled face.

      “I don’t believe in prophecy,” I cried in anger. “And if you mean it for a threat – well, only your age saves you from being kicked downstairs.”

      The old fellow muttered beneath his breath some words I did not catch, then bowed as haughtily as though he were a courtier born, and, turning, followed the silent Nello through the long white door.

      I believe it was a threat he uttered at the moment of parting; but of that I was not quite sure, therefore was unable to charge him with it.

      Still the strange warning caused me to reflect, and the old hunchback’s movements and his secret inquiries about my antecedents all combined to induce within me a vague sense of anxiety and insecurity.

      Through an hour in the blazing, breathless afternoon I dozed with cigarettes and my three-day-old English newspaper, as was my habit, for one cannot do literary work when the sun-shutters are closed and the place in cooling darkness. I was eager now to get back to England, and had already ordered Nello to make preparations for my departure. He was to go into town that afternoon and inform the professional packer to call and see me with a view to making wooden cases and crates for my collection of old furniture and pictures, all of which I intended to ship direct to London. Italy was a lovely country, I reflected, but, after all, England was better, especially when now, through no fault of my own, I had stumbled into a slough of mystery.

      The faithful old man was heart-broken at my sudden decision to leave.

      “Ah, signor padrone,” he sighed, when he returned to report, “this is a sorry day for me! To think – the signore goes to England so far off, and I shall never see him again! I have told them in the town, and everyone regrets.”

      “No doubt,” I answered, smiling. “I suppose I’ve been a pretty paying customer to the tradespeople.