"—are wondering why you are so careless about opening your house to someone like her, when you won't open it to us," says Blackwell's visitor.
"I think that would be obvious," Blackwell retorts.
"It is still careless. What if she knocks something over?" His voice is deep and rich and smooth and strong, but with a trace of strong acid. If a cup of black coffee could speak, it would sound like this voice.
"What do you mean by that?"
"I mean," says the other, "that you are going to tell me that she is simply a lab assistant. Or the equivalent. But even a good lab assistant can ... knock something over."
"I let her near nothing that could be 'knocked over'," Blackwell says. "You and your colleagues, on the other hand—"
"But it hurts our feelings, so," the other replies in a mocking tone. "It makes you seem unfriendly."
"I am not unfriendly—"
"But you are! You never act the gracious host with us!"
Blackwell replies, in a sulky voice, "Because I don't feel like counting the spoons after you leave."
There's a brief, deep silence. Then the other looses a deep, rolling, unforced laugh.
"That is quite good," he says. "What it lacks in diplomacy it compensates in wit. But you had to count the spoons after your last assistant left!"
"What is that?" Blackwell asks, sharply.
"I said—"
"I heard what you said. But the allusion escapes me."
"But something else escaped you as well! And it wasn't your assistant, whose vanishing act would have impressed Houdini. And might yet impress the FBI, should they take an interest."
"Why would they?"
"Oh, because some people know other people, and a word from one to the other—"
"I have nothing to fear from the FBI!"
"But it all rather depends, doesn't it?" the other drawls. "And one wouldn't like to gamble, even if the consequences are only ... embarrassing. But as I was saying, you've lost something else. And I don't mean the assistant that came after him," he adds in a very acidic tone.
There's a long silence. Blackwell's tone is clipped when next he speaks.
"I was perhaps too hasty with my ... assistant. And yes, he mislaid something. It put me into a temper."
The voice turns very deep. "What was it, Aubrey, that he mislaid?"
"An antiquity," he says, and it sounds as if the words are being squeezed and twisted out of him. "A rare book."
"It must have been valuable, if you—"
"I said, he put me into a temper! And I was too hasty! I do regret it, and would not have—"
"What was the book? I ask," he adds when Blackwell doesn't immediately answer, "because we might like to do you a good turn. Something to demonstrate our good will."
"What kind of a good turn?" Blackwell asks. His voice is pinched.
"We might replace it, this book that you lost. Present you with another copy. Come, would that not be a neighborly gesture? A friendly gesture, a gesture of good will?"
"It would indeed."
Something in Blackwell's tone seems to knock the other off guard. After a long pause, it says, "Was it that rare?"
"I did not say—"
"Could we replace it, Aubrey? There are few books we could not. But if it was—"
"It was a copy of The Book of the Toad," Blackwell snaps. "A manuscript, actually," he adds. "Sixteenth century."
There's a long pause. Then the other says, "Book of the Toad, manuscript. Well well. That is a rarity."
"So you could hardly—"
"How did you procure a manuscript copy of the The Book of the Toad, Aubrey? That takes skill! All known copies are accounted for."
"A private collector—"
"All known private collections are accounted for as well." The voice has turned dangerous now, like the rippling breeze that goes before a thunderstorm.
"I paid a great price," Blackwell says. "For it."
There is a much lengthier pause.
Then the voice says, "Arnholm's Used Books does not traffic in manuscripts."
There is a much lengthier pause now, one so long that you nervously eye the restroom door, wondering if maybe you should jump behind it lest someone come stalking out of the living room without warning.
But then the visitor says, "Yes, I suppose we have had enough of the topic. Well well, I say again. Something rare and valuable and not to be spoken of is rattling on the loose in Saratoga Falls. We shall certainly keep an eye out for it for you. Even if you won't tell us what it is, we shall certainly know it when we see it. Shan't we?"
His words turn your whole spine to ice and starts you shivering even after you hear the front door close. You go for the window wanting desperately to see the body behind the voice, but Melody's logic turns you back knowing that the light would show her looking out which may put her in evil sights.
Footsteps, obviously Blackwell's, sound as if headed your way, so you quickly sit at the computer entering the first book you see. The footsteps stop, and you are not sure if he is at the doorway or not, so you continue working without turning around. As you grab another book, the footsteps retreat fading completely as you hear the study door close. You rub your hands and shake yourself to chase away the chills. The end of the stranger's farewell plays back in your head like a warning, and you aren't sure if you, or actually Melody, had just been targeted.
(This chapter has undergone a textual revision by Seuzz.)
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