The Book of the Lion by Thomas Perry Page B

Spanner was. He was a man of the financial world, and that meant politics and manufacturing and trade and the shrewd application of power, but he had also studied literature with a sincere appreciation and humility. He was at once a man who could own a library where “only fifty feet away” was nearby, and a man who would own a library that size, and know where everything was. Hallkyn heard him pick up the phone again. Hallkyn said, “It’s at the end, after The Parson’s Tale .”
    â€œGot it,” said Spanner. “Oh, yes. ‘ The Tales of Canterbury thilke that sownen into synne; The Book of the Leoun , and many another book … and many a song and many a leccherous lay.’ And The Book of the Lion has never been found, right?”
    â€œRight. This person who called me claims to have a copy on thin vellum in a fine court hand, legible throughout.”
    â€œDo you think it’s possible?” said Spanner.
    â€œI doubt it,” he said. Then he added, “But it’s happened before. People find things, incredible things.”
    â€œWhat is it that you want me to do?”
    â€œI don’t know,” said Hallkyn.
    â€œThat sounds a little disingenuous,” Spanner said. “You called an old friend who is probably also the richest man you know.”
    â€œI’m sorry,” said Hallkyn. “I didn’t mean it to sound that way. I want help of some kind, but I don’t know what I need yet. I haven’t known about this for more than a few minutes. I had to tell somebody, and this isn’t the kind of thing you can tell just anybody. I need an old friend who understands the problem to puzzle this out with me—one who has lived a different sort of life, who can probably smell a fraud coming better than I can. This man— this voice—called me, and said he had the book. Maybe he’s crazy or a hoaxer or a dupe. But maybe he has the most precious lost manuscript in history.”
    â€œYou got this voice on a phone message?”
    â€œYes. He said he had it, but not who he is, or where he is, or what he plans to do with it. Part of me wishes he’d call someone else— and maybe he already has. He might have called Gerald Bethune, and that pompous bastard is scratching his head now.” He paused. “I guess what I really wish is that this man really has the genuine ‘ Book of the Leoun ,’ in a fair court hand on the finest thin vellum, legible in its entirety. That’s what he says he has. And I hope he called me because he wants to know which institution I think he ought to donate it to.”
    Spanner said, “I take it that’s not what you believe is going to happen.”
    Dominic Hallkyn swirled his glass, and watched the amber liquid move around, staring into its deep glow. “Libraries and museums all over the world are full of things that people gave them,” he said. “I’ve seen great acts of generosity, not the least of them from you. I’ve also seen acts of selfishness and deceit that I would not at one time have imagined. I don’t know which this is.”
    â€œOr something in between?” said Spanner. “A simple sale?”
    â€œYes. That too,” said Hallkyn. “Or an undergraduate prank. It might be fun to hire some old bar character to call your professor. For the price of a drink you could talk forever about how the mere mention of a long-lost Chaucer poem made the professor’s hands shake.”
    â€œMaybe,” Spanner said. “So let’s get practical. How should we handle this?”
    â€œWe should think it through, so we’re prepared for the next stage before anything happens. We should expect to wait a long time for the next call, and then when it doesn’t come, to forget the whole thing. That way, we won’t be pining forever for something that was never possible.”
    â€œAnd if the call comes?” said