“Six thousand.”
The auctioneer’s eyes raked the crowd and waited.
“Seven thousand” came Simon’s reply.
“Eight,” Malone quickly added.
“Ten.”
A new voice.
From behind.
He turned to see Matt Schwartz, standing, his arm raised to identify himself.
Simon spotted the newcomer, too, then said, “Twelve.”
Malone decided to see how bad the Austrian, and the Israelis, wanted the book. “Fifty thousand.”
Auctioneers were usually noted for their poker faces, but he’d clearly caught this one off guard. The surprise showed, but was quickly suppressed before he asked, “Any more bids?”
“Seventy-five thousand,” Schwartz said.
“One hundred thousand,” Simon countered.
Apparently they both wanted the book. Okay, let’s make it really interesting. “One hundred fifty thousand.”
Silence.
Neither Schwartz nor Simon countered.
The auctioneer waited thirty seconds before asking for any further bids.
No reply.
“Sold.”
Malone accepted the book, nestled safely inside a clear plastic bag, wrapped in brown paper. The $150,000 had been transferred into the auction company’s account, thanks to an online account he’d accessed with the password Stephanie had provided.
She was going to kill him.
He’d just dropped a chunk of public money on a questionable purchase.
But at least he had everyone’s attention.
He exited the hall and, before leaving the hotel, detoured to the bathroom. There he entered one of the stalls, carefully opened the package, and passed the plastic-encased book beneath the divider. A hand grabbed the offering, then another book appeared—a French novel bought before arriving—which Malone stuffed into the brown wrapping. He left the stall and the bathroom. Dubois would wait five minutes then do the same, heading home with their prize.
He knew it would not be long and, just as he exited the hotel and followed a lighted path toward the street, someone called out.
“You paid far too much for that.”
He stopped and turned. “And you are?”
“The man you outbid. Zachariah Simon.”
The older man stepped closer but offered no hand to shake. Good. He’d prefer to wring the SOB’s neck.
Simon motioned to the package. “What’s your interest?”
He shrugged. “I collect books.”
“Why that one?”
“You already know the answer to that question.”
“Yet why do I feel that you do not? Which is interesting.”
“Enlighten me.”
Simon pointed out beyond the palms, toward the ocean and an ever-darkening sky. “Not far from here was the first place Europeans settled in their New World.”
“La Navidad.”
“Ah, I see you are not wholly ignorant. Thirty-nine men left by Columbus to search for gold and make a colony. But none survived a year. Slaughtered by the Tainos for their cruelty toward the natives.”
“A rare victory for the good guys.”
Being a bibliophile also meant he was a reader. He’d read plenty about Columbus and the century after his discovery. Cultures that had existed for many millennia were violently extinguished—hundreds of thousands died—all in the name of religion and fueled by greed.
“Who are you?” Simon asked.
“Harold Earl Malone. But everyone calls me Cotton.”
“Interesting nickname. How did you—”
“Long story.” He motioned with the package. “Why did you want this?”
“What do you know of Christopher Columbus?”
A strange answer to his question. “In 1492 he sailed the ocean blue?”
Simon grimaced. “I am not particularly fond of humor. From your accent, I would say you are from the American South.”
“Georgia boy. Born and raised.”
“That line you quoted,” Simon said. “It is from a poem written to commemorate Columbus Day, which for some reason Americans feel the need to celebrate.”
“I think it’s just an excuse to take a day off from work.”
“That actually might be correct, but the poem is fiction. Nearly nothing in it is true. Yet it has been used for decades as a teaching tool.”
“You don’t sound like a Columbus fan.”
“We know nothing of Christopher Columbus.”
This man clearly wanted to talk, which bothered Malone. He’d expected more action. And where were the Israelis? Nearby? He hoped so. For once he was counting on them.
“His birthplace, his parents, where he was raised, educated. His early life. All of that is unknown,” Simon said. “We don’t even know what Columbus looks like. Every portrait that exists was painted long after he was dead by people who never saw him. If you read many books on him, as I have, you would see that every account conflicts with the others. Columbus himself only added to the mystery, as he barely spoke of himself during his lifetime and the few mentions he did make were not consistent.”
“Maybe he had a reason to keep things confused.”
“That he did, Herr Malone. Truly, he did. But that reason is not important to our present situation. What is relevant is the book.”
He decided to stop playing games. “Why did you kill Scott Brown?”
“I suspected there was a connection. I appreciate your directness, so I will answer your question. Mr. Brown stole from me.”
“And what did he steal?”
“The book you bought. I had it in my possession, then Mr. Brown decided to take it, collecting the finder’s fee offered by its owner for its return.”
“So you stole it first?”
“The way of the world, as I am sure you understand. I had employed Herr Brown’s services as an intermediary, to secure the book, but he decided on another course.”
“Not out of character.”
“Indeed. But fatal this time.”
“So you killed him. Or, should I say, your associate killed him.”
“There are consequences to risks taken. I was aware of Herr Brown’s past. I do not do business with people I do not know. But I thought the fee being paid to him for his services would be enough. Sadly, I was wrong.”