2005_ _Batman

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The will is everything . . .
He was traveling light today, with nothing but the clothes on his back and a wallet full of currency.
He stood in line for twenty minutes before he could get a taxicab, another indication that he had not yet
fully readjusted to being the wealthy scion of a wealthy family: a wealthy scion would have had a
limousine waiting. He gave the driver the Madison Avenue address and watched the scenery go by. The
cab merged with an army of automobiles, all inching toward the distant Manhattan skyline.
Once the cab had actually crossed the East River into Manhattan, Bruce amused himself by looking at
New York City and comparing it to Gotham: the buildings were, on the whole, taller, yet here there was
none of the oppressive cavernous quality that characterized downtown Gotham. Sunlight actually
reached the sidewalk in Manhattan.
Ninety minutes after it had left La Guardia, the cab stopped in front of a brownstone house that Bruce
estimated to be at least 150 years old and was obviously built by someone who was wealthy a friend
of his grandfather s, maybe? He paid the fare and climbed the steps to the front door. A tasteful brass
plate above the doorbell was etched with the words OLYMPUS GALLERY.
The door opened and a pretty young brunette in a pantsuit gave Bruce a catalog printed on vellum
and escorted him to a long, wide chamber obviously converted from several smaller rooms. The woman
did not recognize him, which relieved Bruce, but did not surprise him. Thomas Wayne had discouraged
journalists from publishing photos of his family; the last picture of Bruce to grace the public prints was
taken when he was barely fourteen, before he had even attained his full growth, much less been
hardened by his travels. He no longer looked much like that cherubic adolescent.
The room was crowded with rows of chairs occupied by a diverse array of men and women, all well
dressed, most of them speaking in murmurs to companions. At the far end was a raised platform and a
lectern, flanked by paintings on easels and a few statues. The young brunette offered Bruce coffee, tea,
chocolate, scones, and pastries. Bruce asked for coffee. A minute later she returned with some in a
dainty china cup. She told him that the rooms around them had an interesting variety of works of art and
suggested that he might want to examine them after the auction. Bruce thanked her, both for the coffee
and the suggestion, and received a carefully crafted smile in return.
A tall, cadaverous man with thick glasses and a few wisps of brown hair combed over his dome
moved behind the lectern and welcomed everyone.
He tapped a microphone and winced when a shriek of feedback filled the room, and said, Before we
begin today s proceedings, I have a regrettable announcement to make. On page eleven of your catalogs
There was a rustling as the gallery patrons turned pages. The tall man continued. You see listed
there an item offered by James Cavally, a parchment accompanied by his uncle s translation of its
contents. Unfortunately, we are not able to offer this to you today.
Why not? someone asked.
I regret to say that Mr. Cavally perished in an airplane crash last night and the items described in the
catalog were destroyed with him. We, of course, convey our deepest sympathy to his family and friends
on their loss. Now, if there are no further questions . . . we begin the auction with lot seven . . .
Bruce was pretty sure he was not interested in the oil paintings of sunsets or the marble statues of
nymphs or anything else the Olympus Gallery would sell that day. He got up and made his way to the
door, aware that the brunette was frowning at him, and left the house. He had a return ticket to Gotham
in his pocket and he knew of no reason not to use it as soon as possible. He waved down a passing cab

And stopped, gesturing to the cabbie to keep going. He turned and remounted the steps. By the time
he reached the door, he knew why he had not gotten into the cab, what was nagging at him.
Too much of a coincidence . . . the guy with the R s al Ghkl information dying the night before it
went on sale. That might mean that there s something in the old manuscript actually worth knowing, and
that means I shouldn t give up so easily . . .
With an exasperated look on her face, the brunette again showed him to a seat. She did not offer him
coffee, and her smile this time was glacial.
Bruce sat through an hour s tedium; he had not been so bored since that day in the classroom when
the professor had droned on and on about Jungian archetypes. Toward the end of the auction, Bruce
outbid everyone else and found himself the owner of a marble nymph. He thought that maybe taking the
monstrosity off the auctioneer s hands would incline him to be friendly.
He had no idea what he would do with it. It was too big to be a paperweight . . .
When the sale was finally over, and the art lovers had left, still murmuring to each other, Bruce paid
for the nymph, approached the auctioneer, and introduced himself.
I m Wesley Carter, the auctioneer said, shaking Bruce s hand. I must congratulate you on your
acquisition. A truly fine piece. What do you plan to do with it, if I may ask?
It will occupy a place of honor, Bruce said and added to himself: In a swamp somewhere. I
wonder if I might have a word with you in private.
Wesley Carter scrutinized Bruce and clearly approved of what he was seeing. He almost certainly
recognized that the casual clothing his visitor wore had cost several thousand dollars and told himself
that a person who could afford such plumage was a person who could also afford expensive art. If
you ll come with me, Mr. . . .
Valley. Gene Valley.
Bruce followed Wesley Carter up a steep flight of winding stairs to a small office on the second floor,
probably a maid s room originally. Bruce settled into a leather chair and told Carter what he wanted.
When Bruce had finished, Carter said, Let me be certain I understand you. You re asking if there is
any way to learn the contents of Mr. Cavally s uncle s translation.
As Carter spoke, his eyes shifted down and to the left, briefly but unmistakably.
That s it exactly.
Well . . . Mr. Cavally was an extremely cautious person. That s why he insisted on bringing the
items himself. But I couldn t offer them to our clients without some knowledge of them our patrons
are most discerning. So Mr. Cavally photocopied both the original parchment and his uncle s work on it
and forwarded the photographs to us last week.
Again, the darting glance down and to the left.
I can t tell you how happy I am to hear that, Bruce said. I d like to buy those copies.
I m afraid that s out of the question.
I d be willing to let you name your own price.
Mr. Valley, I would love to be able to accommodate you, I truly would. But until I hear from Mr.
Cavally s lawyers . . .
When will that be?
Well, these matters seldom proceed rapidly. I would guess two to three months, at the earliest.
Did I mention you can set your own price?
Yes you did, Carter said, his tone now frosty. And did I mention that it s out of the question?
Bruce rose and extended his hand. Sorry to have taken up your time.
No trouble, Mr. Valley.
They shook, and Bruce said he could find his own way out. He descended the winding staircase and,
in the short hall leading to the exit, noticed another door. He glanced around. Nobody was near. He
opened the door and was looking at another short flight of steps leading to a cellar.
Oh-kayyy . . .
He left and walked around the block, mentally noting everything about it, from the kinds of awnings [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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