Batman 5 - Batman Begins by Dennis O'Neil Page B

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 Rā’s al Ghūl 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