picking up the receiver.
The caller was Sandra Flanders. “I’ve come across something,” she said.
“I’m all ears.”
“There was an eccentric collector named Berthold Cavally who got very interested in the kinds of things that seem to interest you. Amassed quite a collection of artifacts of all kinds, but he had a special interest in lost civilizations, cults, secret societies, and the like. He died in a fire in 1952 and his collection burned up with him.”
“Very interesting, Sandra, but how does this . . .”
“Wait. There’s a bit more. A nephew found one of Cavally’s notebooks in the ashes along with a badly charred fragment of a parchment. Both items had been partially burned, but a lot of it survived. Apparently, it contains Cavally’s translation of a parchment he acquired in North Africa and it mentions this Rā’s al Ghūl character.”
“And how might an earnest young fellow get a look at this notebook?”
“Well, if he’s earnest and rich, he might buy it. The nephew got wiped out in a dot-com fiasco and is selling everything he can get his hands on.”
“Where and when?”
“I hope you have a bag packed. The items are up for sale at an auction tomorrow at ten in New York City, at a place called the Olympus Gallery.”
“I’ll be there—if you’ll give me an address.”
Sandra recited an address on Madison Avenue and Sixty-first Street. Bruce thanked her again and began to call airlines.
Alfred volunteered to learn something about the Olympus Gallery and made a few calls. He reported that it had once been a prestigious venue for acquiring antiquities, but lately had become “decidedly second-rate.”
Bruce thanked him and moved toward the door.
“Another moment?” Alfred asked. He held up the bloodstained clothes Bruce had been wearing at the airstrip in Kathmandu.
“Let’s hang on to them.”
“I doubt they’ll ever be clean again, Master Bruce.”
“They’re souvenirs. Souvenirs don’t have to be spotless.”
“Souvenirs of what, if I may ask?”
“Most people get a diploma when they complete their schooling. I got a sooty, smoky, bloody ninja suit. I think I got the better deal.”
“I doubt that the diploma manufacturers are a bit worried.”
For the next fifteen minutes, Bruce busied himself making more telephone calls. The one he considered most important was to the Wayne Enterprises offices in Wayne Tower. A chirpy-voiced receptionist told him that Mr. Earle was not in and was not expected, but would return from his vacation in a few days and perhaps the gentleman would like to leave his name and call back at that time. The gentleman said he would prefer not to leave his name, thank you, but would be happy to call again.
Bruce wandered into the kitchen where Alfred, wearing a white apron, was feeding something into a blender. When Bruce explained what his problem was, Alfred took a credit card from his wallet. Bruce thanked him and returned to the library and his phone calls. Using Alfred’s card number, he made a round-trip plane reservation to New York City for the following day and a hotel reservation at the Plaza in Manhattan.
At six twenty-five the next morning, Bruce was walking through a terminal at La Guardia Airport in Queens, New York. He remembered liking airports when he and his family had passed through them on vacations, en route to Paris, London, Hong Kong, Buenos Aires, the Caribbean Islands: a different destination every year, and all of them enchanting to a wide-eyed little boy. But this airport, now . . . maybe his time with Rā’s al Ghūl had changed his tastes, or maybe the years he had lived since childhood did. For whatever reason, he found La Guardia at six-thirty in the morning to be depressing. His fellow passengers mostly walked with their heads down, as though moving into a ferocious wind, and carried their tote bags and suitcases and attachés as though they were the burdens of the damned.
It’s early. Maybe
The caller was Sandra Flanders. “I’ve come across something,” she said.
“I’m all ears.”
“There was an eccentric collector named Berthold Cavally who got very interested in the kinds of things that seem to interest you. Amassed quite a collection of artifacts of all kinds, but he had a special interest in lost civilizations, cults, secret societies, and the like. He died in a fire in 1952 and his collection burned up with him.”
“Very interesting, Sandra, but how does this . . .”
“Wait. There’s a bit more. A nephew found one of Cavally’s notebooks in the ashes along with a badly charred fragment of a parchment. Both items had been partially burned, but a lot of it survived. Apparently, it contains Cavally’s translation of a parchment he acquired in North Africa and it mentions this Rā’s al Ghūl character.”
“And how might an earnest young fellow get a look at this notebook?”
“Well, if he’s earnest and rich, he might buy it. The nephew got wiped out in a dot-com fiasco and is selling everything he can get his hands on.”
“Where and when?”
“I hope you have a bag packed. The items are up for sale at an auction tomorrow at ten in New York City, at a place called the Olympus Gallery.”
“I’ll be there—if you’ll give me an address.”
Sandra recited an address on Madison Avenue and Sixty-first Street. Bruce thanked her again and began to call airlines.
Alfred volunteered to learn something about the Olympus Gallery and made a few calls. He reported that it had once been a prestigious venue for acquiring antiquities, but lately had become “decidedly second-rate.”
Bruce thanked him and moved toward the door.
“Another moment?” Alfred asked. He held up the bloodstained clothes Bruce had been wearing at the airstrip in Kathmandu.
“Let’s hang on to them.”
“I doubt they’ll ever be clean again, Master Bruce.”
“They’re souvenirs. Souvenirs don’t have to be spotless.”
“Souvenirs of what, if I may ask?”
“Most people get a diploma when they complete their schooling. I got a sooty, smoky, bloody ninja suit. I think I got the better deal.”
“I doubt that the diploma manufacturers are a bit worried.”
For the next fifteen minutes, Bruce busied himself making more telephone calls. The one he considered most important was to the Wayne Enterprises offices in Wayne Tower. A chirpy-voiced receptionist told him that Mr. Earle was not in and was not expected, but would return from his vacation in a few days and perhaps the gentleman would like to leave his name and call back at that time. The gentleman said he would prefer not to leave his name, thank you, but would be happy to call again.
Bruce wandered into the kitchen where Alfred, wearing a white apron, was feeding something into a blender. When Bruce explained what his problem was, Alfred took a credit card from his wallet. Bruce thanked him and returned to the library and his phone calls. Using Alfred’s card number, he made a round-trip plane reservation to New York City for the following day and a hotel reservation at the Plaza in Manhattan.
At six twenty-five the next morning, Bruce was walking through a terminal at La Guardia Airport in Queens, New York. He remembered liking airports when he and his family had passed through them on vacations, en route to Paris, London, Hong Kong, Buenos Aires, the Caribbean Islands: a different destination every year, and all of them enchanting to a wide-eyed little boy. But this airport, now . . . maybe his time with Rā’s al Ghūl had changed his tastes, or maybe the years he had lived since childhood did. For whatever reason, he found La Guardia at six-thirty in the morning to be depressing. His fellow passengers mostly walked with their heads down, as though moving into a ferocious wind, and carried their tote bags and suitcases and attachés as though they were the burdens of the damned.
It’s early. Maybe
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