Chapter 18
A PROFESSIONAL JOB
Toward the end of January, Trench had news from one of his London agents: an ancient book believed to refer to Pythagoras was being offered at auction. Trench then decided to send Jule to London to look into the matter.
“I need you to travel to London and take a look at a book that’s up for auction,” he told Jule over the phone. “You’ll be leaving tomorrow evening. I’ve already made plane and hotel reservations for you. Richter will give you an envelope with addresses and other details. Call me as soon as you know something.”
“Sure”—that was all Jule had a chance to say before Trench ended the call with a polite “Have a good trip.”
Two days later, after having examined the book, Jule called Trench, hardly containing his excitement: “I’m pretty sure our parchment sheets with the mysterious drawings were cut from this book, the owner probably expecting to fetch a higher price by selling them separately. The page size, appearance, and age of the parchment are very similar—not to mention the fact that both manuscripts have to do with the Pythagoreans and have surfaced at approximately the same time.
“The book is written in Arabic. According to the auction notice, it’s most likely a twelfth- or thirteenth-century translation of a much older Greek manuscript by one of Pythagoras’ disciples reporting the tragic circumstances of his master’s death. Although this interpretation may be open to question, the book nonetheless has an undeniable historical value. The bidding will start at one hundred and eighty thousand pounds.”
Trench hesitated for a few moments before reacting, as if doing some mental arithmetic. “I wouldn’t be surprised if it sold for more than three times that sum,” he said at last, “which would be close to one million dollars.” Then he added, with an edge of disappointment: “I’m afraid that’s much more than we can afford.”
“It doesn’t matter. We don’t really have to purchase it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, all we need to do is find out what’s in it; or rather, whether there’s something in it that might help our search for Pythagoras.”
“And how can we do that if we don’t have the book? I don’t suppose they give away photocopies of it.” Trench was finding it difficult to hide his growing frustration.
“Of course they don’t. Potential buyers are allowed to examine the item, but may not take any pictures. They are given only a photocopy of half a page from the book, a brief summary of its supposed contents, and a copy of a lab report certifying the approximate age of the parchment.”
“So where do we go from here?” He had calmed down, sensing that Jule might have come up with some way out of the impasse.
“The fellow who wrote the summary is a professor at Oxford,” Jule began to explain, and as he went on, Trench’s impression seemed to be confirmed. “He must have read and translated the whole book. I wonder whether Laura, as a colleague and author of a book on Pythagoras, may convince him to share with her what he knows.”
“I’d be surprised if he did. You know better than I do how things work in academia. The guy will want all the glory for himself, and we’ll have to wait months until his article about the manuscript gets published.” There was a pause as a thought crossed Trench’s mind. He then said: “I’ve got a better idea. Try to find out all you can about this Oxford professor, where he lives, does he have a family, that sort of thing. What did you say his name was?”
“Elmer Galway.”
Trench was smiling as he ended the conversation: “Thanks, call me as soon as you get the information.” The thought that had earlier crossed his mind was “This is a job for Houdini.”
On a cold and windy February morning, with ominous grey clouds low in the sky above Oxford, Elmer Galway set out to take Slipper for his morning walk. It was their daily ritual, called off only in case of illness or extremely bad weather, and performed with clocklike regularity between 6:15 and 6:45.
For the master, it was an opportunity to reflect on some current problem or project and plan for the day ahead, while the dog, unencumbered with such human preoccupations, was busy barking at other members of his species, chasing a squirrel, lifting his leg, and generally having a good time.
On this particular morning, Galway’s thoughts drifted toward the upcoming auction of the Pythagorean manuscript. He wished the Ashmolean Museum could buy it. Then, as the uncontested expert in pre-Socratic Greece at Oxford, he would be given priority to study it and so ensure his paternity over the discovery of a historical bombshell. But even if someone else bought it, he had little to fear. His annotated translation was almost ready for publication, and Green had assured him that no one else would have access to the book before the auction, in a week’s time—except for a photocopy of half a page that didn’t reveal much of the story. Thanks to his friendship with David Green he had benefited from inside information, and was perhaps guilty of the equivalent of insider trading in financial circles. But that’s life, he thought, and this time it was his turn to get lucky.
He was momentarily distracted from his reflections by a strong pull on the leash: Slipper had spotted a squirrel and started on a hopeless chase for the small animal. But after being dragged a few feet, his master’s firm grip on the leash steadied the dog, while the squirrel sought refuge on the top branch of a leafless tree. As they turned the corner, Galway paid little notice to the small blue car parked on the other side of the street. Its driver, a wiry young man in his thirties wearing a leather jacket, was intently studying a street map.
The squirrel incident over, Galway resumed his train of thought. He could have submitted his article earlier, but had been held up by his—so far unsuccessful—attempt to make sense of some intriguing drawings and symbols that filled the last eight pages of the medieval book. These pages were no longer part of the book now offered at auction. They had been cut by Señor de Burgos and later stolen from his hotel room; for all practical purposes, they were lost. But the Franciscans who had discovered the book in their basilica had photocopied it, and through Sr. de Burgos he had obtained copies of the original photocopies of the missing pages. Their very poor quality made their interpretation all the more difficult. In those elaborate drawings and geometrical symbols, he had hoped to find some clue that would lead to the location of a papyrus scroll supposedly written by Pythagoras himself. The historical value of such a document, a kind of ancient philosophy’s Holy Grail, would be incalculable. He wondered whether whoever stole the parchment pages from de Burgos was also on the trail of Pythagoras’ scroll.
As he approached his home at the end of the morning walk, Galway noticed that the low iron gate leading to a small garden in front of the house was open. He always closed it on his way out. As soon as he opened the front door and stepped inside, he sensed something was amiss: a cold draft was coming from the back of the house. All windows were supposed to be shut at this time of the year. The thought flashed through his mind: someone had broken in. He ran toward his study with a barking Slipper leading the way and found one of the two windows wide open and sheets of paper being tossed around by the chilly wind. Otherwise, the room had its normal appearance. When he closed the window he noticed the perfectly circular hole in the glass pane; it had been cut clean to allow the window to be opened from the outside—a professional job, he thought instinctively. He patted Slipper’s head to calm him down, and went on to check the rest of the rooms. As far as he could tell, nothing was missing from the living room, dining room, bedrooms, or kitchen. Perhaps the intruder didn’t have time to take anything, he thought. It was only when he was back in his study picking up the sheets of paper from the floor that he noticed the empty wooden cabinet under his desk: his computer case was gone.
He then conducted a systematic check of all rooms, beginning with his study. Nothing else was missing. Galway concluded that the thief had specifically come to steal his computer files, or rather some file or files he (or she) was interested in. He had backups for all important files, so the loss of his computer was mostly an inconvenience, except for one thing: his translation of the Pythagorean manuscript was in it. Would that be the information the intruder was after? Regretfully, Galway had to admit that he thought so. It seemed all but certain that he wasn’t the only one looking for Pythagoras’ scroll.