Episode 4: For the Lost Leonardo, Chapter 2
The gentlemen arrived at the auction through the back door. Both theirs and its. Almost as soon as the three men stepped away from the door, a waiter with a bag of rubbish moved past them and out into the alleyway beyond.
Flynn did a double take. "Does it always do that?"
"Part of the magic, mate," grinned Ezekiel. "If you don't know it's there you can't find it. The perfect escape route."
"Unless you're Morgan le Fay of course," Stone added grimly. "Come on, we're going to draw attention to ourselves if we stick around here any longer."
"Eve mentioned you'd had a case involving an auction before," began Flynn, following Stone in step with Ezekiel. "I've been to a few myself. They're usually boring mostly, but you can find some gems here and there. What was it like?"
"Boring, mostly," Stone growled.
Flynn blinked and looked at Ezekiel. "Was it something I said."
"Nah, he's just bitter because he spent the entire time being possessed by a murder mystery story," grinned the thief. "Stole a priceless necklace and everything."
"Oh," Flynn's brows rose. He lowered his voice. "That book he was reading before we left..."
"Was a biography of the Italian artist Michaelangelo," cut in Stone. "I ain't deaf and I ain't possessed. Can we drop it now?"
"Wasn't he one of those Turtles?" Ezekiel queried, grinning until Stone turned, then assuming a look of serious inquiry.
Stone started to say something, paused, began again, then changed his mind and, with a wave of his hand, walked away.
"And now you know why you're really here," said a broadly grinning Ezekiel to a narrow-eyed Flynn by his side. "To stop him from killing me!"
The hall set up for viewing the auction pieces was far larger than that of the one they had attended previously. It's tall ceiling and large, curtained windows suggested more of a ballroom than an auction house. Stone's eyes took in little of his architectural surroundings, however: they were fixed on the display that stretched out before him. Row upon row of easels, plinths and cases displayed treasures so valuable they could have bought and sold several smaller countries outright. Statues, paintings, sketches, jewellery, snuff boxes, cabinets, curiosities, lamps, crockery, clocks, mirrors, eggs, trinkets, keepsakes, books.
Books.
Stone walked over to a bookcase of ancient volumes, their leather bindings faded and worn. The Libris Fabula had come from an estate like this one. Could there be another book involved? He looked round as Flynn and Ezekiel caught up with him.
"Look at these," he said, indicating the books. "They're easily as old as that collection we came across in Bremen. Could it be one of them?"
Flynn peered at the volumes and shook his head. "I don't think so," he opined. "I'm pretty sure we already have original copies of each of these. First editions can be a bit troublesome. Well, all firsts, I guess. The first of anything has its own kind of magic attached."
"Tell me about it!" Stone replied with a wry laugh. "One first nearly sent me to jail, another..."
"Another saved Cassandra's life," Ezekiel finished for him. He looked up at Flynn. "You're sure you've got all the dangerous copies?"
"There only ever is one, and we've got all of these," Flynn nodded. He tapped his head. "Photographic memory, remember."
"Okay, so it's something else," said Stone. "Something that's either the first of it's kind, or mythologically important?"
"More or less," agreed Flynn.
"Jones, think you'd know if an item was mythological?" Stone raised a brow at the ex-thief.
"If it's worth stealing I'll have researched its history," smirked the young man. "Plus Jenkins has had me reading up on all the old stories while I've been held captive there."
"Eve told me you'd been enjoying your lessons," Flynn frowned, replacing the arrogant smile on the young man's face with a sheepish grimace.
"It's not all boring, when you get into it," he admitted.
"Either way: you look for possible mythological items," commanded Stone. "Flynn, you do the same, but also go through any books you find. See if there are any we don't already have."
"Hey, whose case is this?" Jones complained.
"You asked for my help," returned Stone. "Not the other way round."
"And exactly what help will that be," riposted Jones, his voice rising, "other than handing out orders like you think you're Baird?"
"I'm the art guy," barked Stone, temper fraying. "I'm gonna go look at the art!"
"No offence, but I don't see how the difference between a Caravaggio and a Canaletto is gonna help us here, mate."
"And that is precisely why you need me!" Stone simmered, fighting to keep his voice, and temper, down. "It's about firsts, Jones. Do you know who was the first artist to use the impressionist style, and on what picture? Or the first to think of using egg white as a fixative in paints? What about the guy who invented the lost wax method for bronze casting? No? Okay: here's an easy one. Who was the guy who invented cubism? Come on, Jones: everyone knows that!"
"Okay, gentlemen, that's enough," cut in Flynn firmly. "Ezekiel you are right it is your case, however, you did ask Stone for his help and it is his expertise we need right now. Stone, go do your thing and call us if you find anything. Try not to kill anyone and stay away from apples. Ezekiel, why don't we start off our search in the other direction."
"Nobody really knows," grumbled Ezekiel as they headed away from the bookshelf.
"What's that?" Flynn asked, looking round.
"Nobody really knows if it was Braque or Picasso who started the cubism movement," he expanded. "We used to think it was Picasso, and he got all the credit because he was the bigger name, but now we think Braque was an important instigator too."
"Okay," said Flynn, carefully. "Don't take this the wrong way, Ezekiel, but how do you know that? I didn't know that."
"When we worked it out, Braque's work shot up in value," shrugged the thief. "I just wondered why he was making me more money suddenly."
Flynn stopped in his tracks, mentally kicking himself. "Of course you did."
XXXX
"I'm not entirely sure I condone gambling," murmured Jenkins, peering over the ladies' shoulders at the sheet of paper on the desk. "Especially not in the Library."
"The Library disagrees," giggled Cassandra, pointing to a line of neat text halfway down the page. "We didn't even think about that one!"
"Hmm," frowned Jenkins, no longer sure who was teaching whom bad habits. He looked down the list. "I find it highly unlikely that Mr Stone will lose his composure to such an extent that he will visit physical violence upon the person of Mr Jones."
"When was the last time you tried working with just the two of them?" Cassandra asked him, frankly.
"Although I do think he's less likely to punch him if Flynn's there," consoled Eve.
"As opposed to you or me?" Cassandra raised an eyebrow.
"Heck no!" Eve laughed. "As opposed to nobody!"
"Do all women have such a deprecating view of their male partners?"
"Only the sensible ones," quipped Eve.
"That's quite a long list," Jenkins continued. "What makes you think you've got them all right?"
"We pay attention," chorused the girls.
XXXX
Flynn had carefully steered Ezekiel out of Stone's path as they crossed on the opposite side of the hall, but eventually the time had come where they had to meet and discuss their findings. He could tell, from the perplexed look on Stone's face, that the art historian had had no more luck than the thief and the student of learning.
"I don't get it," Stone exclaimed as he reached them. "I've looked at every item in this room and there is nothing! Not one first anything in the whole room. I mean the collection is huge. Surely by statistics alone there should be something in here that fits the bill."
"Maybe the old dude just preferred art that wasn't experimental," shrugged Jones.
"Maybe, but if it ain't the art," he appealed, "what is it? Did you two find anything?"
"Nothing," Flynn shook his head. "Anything remotely interesting we've already got."
"What about mythological stuff?" Stone persisted.
"Nada," replied Jones. "Not that either of us recognised."
"Maybe it's not an item being sold," suggested Flynn. "Maybe it's something a buyer is using to make sure they win the bid, like that app Morgan le Fay made?"
"Or something the seller is using to bump the price up," added Jones.
"Or neither," sighed Stone. "It could be anything! It could be the house itself for all we know. We've dealt with a mystery house before."
"Yeah, but that was tiny compared to this place," argued Jones. "Do they even come this big?"
"No reason why not," admitted Flynn, his voice quiet and thoughtful.
"Jenkins had a book on them last time," said Stone, pulling out his phone. "I vote we call him, see what he's got."
"Oh good, we're a democracy now," commented Ezekiel, earning him a glare from Stone and rolled eyes from Flynn.
Stone led them out into a corridor, where it was quieter, and dialled Jenkins' number.
XXXX
The phone on Jenkins' desk rang and the one remaining male noticed how neither woman, both now giggling over more sheets of paper, and a magazine or two, even flinched.
He sighed and reached out a hand. "Hello, gentlemen, how can I help you?"
"Jenkins?" Stone's voice sounded worried. "You sound cheerful. You never sound cheerful."
"Thank you for that thrilling episode of psychoanalysis," threw back the older man, his voice dripping sarcasm.
"We need you to look out those books you found before on the mystery houses," Stone continued, more confidently now that the status quo had been resumed. "We need to know if any of them are, or can appear to be, big old mansion houses."
"How big, exactly?" Jenkins' brow furrowed.
"Well, the hall they've got the auction lots in looks like some kind of Disney ballroom," replied Stone.
"That's big," mused Jenkins. "I'll see what I can find out, but I find it highly unlikely."
A shout from the other side of the room brought Jenkins' attention back to the women.
"I am being reminded to ask you how things are going," he intoned.
"Other than the fact we have found precisely squat and the thief seems to think he's in charge," responded Stone, "we're good."
"I do hope he hasn't annoyed you too much," Jenkins continued to recite in dreary monotone. "I would hate to have to start patching him up again."
"Oh, he's still in one piece, no bruises," Stone assured him. "So far."
"And Mr Carson isn't being too irritatingly intelligent?" Jenkins asked, in the same way Q would ask Bond to bring his car back safely.
"No," Stone was starting to sound curious now. "He had to remind us about his photographic memory, but it's just as well he did: we needed it."
"Good, good," said Jenkins, batting away a list of questions to ask. "I will call you as and when I know more."
He hung up and turned to a Cassandra whose face was bright red with the effort of holding in laughter. "Any more of those and they would have worked out something was going on," he told her, indicating the questions on the sheet. "As it is, Mr Jones remains unbruised and Mr Carson has only reminded them of his intelligence, in the form of his eidetic memory, once. I have no interest to know which bets that wins or for whom, just as I have no interest in bridal bouquets or invitations stationary. I shall try to find out more when I call them back, but in order to do that, I must first find the information they require. Do excuse me."
Without any further ado, he extricated himself from the hive of girliness and beat a hasty retreat up to the mezzanine.