Read Online Book of Stolen Tales by D. J. McIntosh - Free Book Online Page A

Morris Acanthus wallpaper of intertwined leaves fit well with the room’s antique furniture. Edwardian lamps with cut-glass shades cast a gentle ambient light. Against the back and east walls handsome walnut display cases held what I presumed were the firm’s published books. They stood on tilted wooden stands to reveal illustrated pages. My eye caught an edition of Hans Christian Andersen’s The Little Mermaid , its gorgeously designed first letter, F , with a mermaid ingeniously curled around its tail.
    Smashed glass on one of the cases reminded me about last night’s violence. Purplish dust lay over many of the surfaces in the room.
    Norris saw me observing it. “Newhouse told you about our burglary, I understand. The police technicians have been over everything for fingerprints. That purple stuff will be the devil to clean off. They’ve cleared it now—the police—and given me permission to get on with things. Not that I have the heart to without Charles, mind you.”
    I smiled sympathetically, imagining how shaken up the old fellow must be. “Arthur Newhouse told me about the break-in. Is there any news yet of Mr. Renwick?”
    The poor man looked as if he hadn’t slept for a week. When he spoke, his lips quivered. “No word. Nothing at all. I’m not quite sure what to do.” His glasses slipped down his nose and he pushed them back with a weary sigh. “Charles was here at the time of the robbery—that much we do know. I spoke to him on the phone right before it happened. He was just putting on his coat, getting ready to leave.” He looked around. “I’ve not been able to touch the floor, although he would be most distressed if he saw this mess.”
    Glancing at the shards of glass on the hardwood, I noticed a rivulet of dried blood in one corner. It ran underneath the display case.
    â€œWe’d best talk in the shop,” Norris said flatly. “I find it too upsetting to stay for long in this room.”
    Norris locked up and led me through a double set of leaded-pane doors. The “shop,” as he called it, yawned in front of us, a vast space at least sixty feet deep. Two massive, antiquated printing presses stood off to one side. Norris explained that a large copper vat sitting on a heating coil was a paper digester. One wall held high banks of narrow metal trays in different sizes. These were shut, so I couldn’t see what they contained. I guessed printing plates and movable type. Several large rectangular tables had been placed side by side and stacked with papers of all kinds, colored leather hides, spools, cutting tools, and implements associated, I assumed, with various elements of the printing process. The place had the vaguely musty but pleasant smell of an old bookstore, the only modern touch, rows of Phantom LED linear lighting strips overhead.
    â€œThose lights are the closest approximation to sunlight we could find,” Norris said when he noticed me looking at them. “Charles abhorred fluorescents. He believed they distorted one’s vision and hence affected the quality of the final printed page. Candescents are just as bad and ultraviolet destroys books.” He looked at me over the top of his glasses. “Before we get started, may I offer you a cup of tea? I’ve just made a fresh pot.”
    â€œThat would be great. Th anks.”
    He went over to a small cabinet that held a sink for washing up, a hot plate with a kettle, and a coffee maker. Something about him bothered me. He seemed familiar but I was certain I’d never met him. And then it struck me. He bore an astounding resemblance to Pinocchio’s Geppetto. The kindly Geppetto with the black brows, glasses tucked on his bulbous red nose, sturdy mustache, and constant expression of delighted surprise. Norris was practically a carbon copy.
    â€œDid Newhouse tell you about the theft when he called earlier? Of the book I won for