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description confusing. Not because of the detail—their theft alerts were usually quite brief and accompanied by photos of the item in question. As I read the report a second time, I realized not one, but five volumes had been reported stolen, all listed as authored by Gian Alessio Abbattutis. These five separate volumes, each with different stories, made up the complete book. Now I knew why the golden covers seemed much too large for the one volume I had. Four more of them, roughly the same size, would fill the gilded covers nicely.
    Each volume had been published separately and assembled as a complete anthology at a later period. I recognized the frontis-piece of the one I’d won at auction. It was listed as a first edition, the first volume of the five, published by the Neapolitan printer Beltrano in 1634. The second and last volumes were also published by Beltrano in 1634 and 1636, respectively. The middle two had a different publisher—Scorrigio—in 1634 and 1635. That seemed odd. I wondered why two different publishers were used.
    As was customary with Interpol’s theft reports, the brief didn’t name the book’s rightful owner. Maybe no individual name was attached. Often enough these valuable items were assigned to a business for tax reasons. The owner’s name might prove difficult to unearth.
    I sat back in my chair. Breakfast no longer interested me. The fact that four other volumes were listed as stolen by Interpol might help me. I could follow any of those leads if the man claiming to be Gian Alessio Abbattutis threatened the other buyers. And those buyers, I reasoned, might be able to supply useful information for finding Alessio. Visiting Amy at Sherrods had to be my first priority, though, to learn who assigned the book to the auction house in the first place.
    After settling things over the phone with the car rental agency—which meant losing my entire damage deposit—I left a healthy housekeeping tip, checked out of the hotel, and found a bank nearby. I had to haggle with the teller and sign my life away before the man finally handed over the cash. This would furnish me with enough money to manage, whatever lay ahead.
    I rented a safety deposit box and placed my gold coin, along with the cedar box that had contained the book, inside. Knowing Alessio could use my phone to find me, I put it in the safety deposit box as well. I bought a money belt and then went to a discount electronics store for an untraceable burner phone.
    It felt good to walk in London’s crisp autumn air. The strange paralysis I’d experienced last night hadn’t returned. The more I thought about it, the more I believed it resulted from some form of hypnosis. I rubbed my fingers over my neck on the spot where Alessio’s cane had bitten into my skin. It was tender but the skin wasn’t broken. My neck was fine. My imagination was working overtime. My resolve deepened to chase down leads to the other volumes and prove they’d never been auctioned to me in the first place.
    Sherrods was located on the same street as Christie’s—Old Brompton Road. I found my friend Amy Price, a petite transplanted Australian, in her office and able to spare a few minutes. We were on good terms. On my last visit to London we’d shared cocktails followed by a night out and one thing had led, very pleasantly, to another.
    She got up from her desk and I gave her a hug that lingered long enough to be more than friendly. She shook her finger at me in mock disapproval. “Don’t be cheeky,” she said. “I’m at work.” Then her smile faded. “I know why you’re here. I’m so sorry. Very bad luck, John. The police contacted us last night after you reported the robbery. It must have been horrible.”
    â€œAmy, listen. I hate to tell you this but the book I bought here yesterday was stolen.”
    She looked at me with puzzlement. “I know . That’s