Book of Stolen Tales Read Online Free

have the others just like that one. Don’t you want them back?”
    I’d entrusted my coins to Evelyn, our old housekeeper. She was like a mother to me and I knew she’d never give them up willingly. I grabbed my phone and punched in her New York number. No response. Flames of fear licked at the back of my mind. I put the book out of sight in the coffee table drawer and yanked the hotel room door open in a fury.
    He’d anticipated my anger. He stood in the middle of the hall and held up one gloved hand. “I simply wish to speak with you,” he said.
    I ripped into him. “If you’ve done anything to hurt Evelyn, you’ll pay for it.”
    â€œThe lady is fine,” the old man interrupted. “I’ll warrant she doesn’t even know the coins are missing. And I’ll give you another one if you let me come in to explain.”
    I stood aside to let him in. “Prove you’re telling the truth—now.”
    He gave a slight bow, the kind of courtly gesture people made a couple of centuries ago, odd to see in a budget hotel in modern London. “You’ll simply have to take a gentleman’s word for it.”
    I hit redial on my phone. Evelyn still wasn’t answering. “What happened to the other six coins?” I asked with the phone to my ear.
    He strode into the sitting room and sat in an armchair. Again I was struck by the vitality he seemed to possess for someone of his age. And something else bothered me. He had no limp, none of the slow, measured movements of the elderly or infirm who have problems with balance. Why then did he need the cane?
    â€œLost them I’m afraid. One will have to do.”
    â€œThen compensate me for the rest.”
    With a slight lift of his shoulders—an elegant shrug—he smiled. “Ah. You seek financial returns and here I thought they had sentimental value. We will see. I’d wager, though, you have no real idea of their worth.”
    True. I’d tried a couple of times to have them appraised. New York has some of the best numismatists in the world but the coins stumped them. They couldn’t tell me anything about their origin and, without that, were unable assign an accurate value.
    He tapped the floor with the tip of his cane. “They’re worth a fortune and I’ve given one back to you. I didn’t have to. Surely that indicates I mean no harm.”
    â€œYou rob me and you’re looking for thanks?” I said incredulously. I ran my hand over my close-cut beard and took his measure. The gargantuan nerve of the man floored me.
    His long black coat glistened with raindrops. He removed his hat, shook it to get some of the moisture off, and set it carefully on the floor without answering me. He was short, almost petite, with a thin face and large, dark, alert eyes. I would have called them soulful but his manner was too abrasive for that. His skin, of a reddish cast and puckered like crepe paper, did show his age. I surmised that the color of his hair, cavalier mustache, and goatee, so uniformly pitch black, came out of a bottle. He seemed to give off a kind of repellent dimness, as if his very presence stole the light from the air.
    â€œAgain. What makes you an expert on old coins?”
    â€œLet’s just say I have an appreciation for history so deep that at times I almost feel as though I’m living it.”
    From the moment he’d come through the door I’d felt a kind of sluggishness, as if my blood had suddenly turned to lead. Now my heart beat much harder, laboring strenuously to push the blood through my veins. Although the sensation unnerved me, I shrugged it off and moved away from him to the mantel above the electric fire. I leaned against it to brace myself.
    His smile lacked friendliness. “What is the oldest currency in the world?”
    â€œThe Lydian stater. Handmade from electrum. Stamped with an image of a lion’s