A Bitter Awakening
"Inspector?" said a voice that seemed to be coming from a galaxy millions of light-years away. "Inspector, can you hear me?"
Biddle lay unconscious, his forehead pressed on the desk and his hand tightened around the handle of his coffee cup.
"Inspector?" Agent Higgings shook him by the shoulder. "Inspector?"
"Groah!" he finally managed to moan.
"Bad night, eh?"
"Hmm," he confirmed, keeping his head low on the desk – a position he had just decided to adopt for the rest of his life.
"Come on, inspector, we don't have much time!" said Higgings, helping him to get up.
Biddle looked awful. He could barely stand up. His glasses were hanging by the shaft from his ear, his shirt was untucked, his tie was loose, his hair was in uprising and two paper clips were stuck on his forehead. The unimpeachable inspector Horatio Anicet Biddle, immortalized – smiling and proud – in the photos hanging in his office next to worldwide celebrities, seemed to be unavailable at that time.
"Wh-where am I?" he asked, staggering.
"You're in the office, sir," replied the agent, filling a cup of hot coffee and handing it to him. "Here, this will help you to get over it."
"In my office, you say?" He frowned, trying hard to remember something about the previous night. He gave up almost immediately. It was too difficult. "What time is it?" he asked, moving his hand across his face.
"It's already late morning, Inspector," the agent replied, while helping him to put on his jacket and placing a binder in his free hand. "You must have been working late last night."
"Really?" he replied, confused. "I just remember I had a very strange dream..." he confessed, after taking a sip of the awful coffee. "I was in someone's house and there was a lamp on a carpet. I tried to lift it but I couldn't, and then... then I don't remember anything. Only fog."
"It was just a nightmare, Inspector. There's no need to worry," Higgings comforted him. "This case is putting us under pressure."
"Still, it was so darn vivid," said Biddle, dazed.
"Wow! It's very late!" exclaimed the agent, looking at his watch. "Secretary Ferguson has been waiting for almost half an hour in the meeting room."
"The Secretary of State?" Biddle asked, amazed. "What in the world is he doing here?"
"He's here to find out about the progress of the case and – I'm afraid – to reaffirm the disastrous consequences of failure!" said the agent, nervously waving his hand to encourage Biddle to leave the room.
Biddle followed him along the corridor leading to the conference room, avoiding his pitiful reflection on the windows.
"Hey, Higgings!" shouted a policeman sitting at a desk, "They just left this for you." He then leaned his chair to throw a yellow folder.
The agent raised his hand in thanks and flipped through the pages while walking.
"Take a look here, sir!" he said, showing a portion of the report to Biddle.
The inspector read and reread very carefully.
"Of course it could just be a coincidence," said the agent.
"Hmm... it sure could," replied the inspector, not entirely convinced. "It's too bad that I don't believe in chance." He then took the folder from the agent's hands and went running toward the exit.
"Inspector, where are you going?" asked Higgings, puzzled.
"Change of plans!" announced Horatio.
"But what do you want me to do with Secretary Ferguson?"
"I'm sure you'll find a way to entertain him!" Biddle shouted, placing a licorice root in his mouth. "I know!" he exclaimed, snapping his fingers. "Surprise him with one of the mediocre magic tricks you do so well."
"You'll find yourself in a lot of trouble!" the agent forewarned him.
"Higgings, when your instinct starts screaming into your ear, it's not wise to ignore it!" he said winking, then disappeared inside the elevator.
* * * * * * *
"Grandpa!" cried Lord Dott to an old man donning a night cap and bustling around with books. "May I ask what you're doing in the library at this time of the day and still in your pajamas?"
"Oh, Isidore! Dear nephew!" said the man, while kneeling on the floor with his head inside a trunk. "I want to donate some of my precious books to the library."
"Couldn't you first slip into a pair of trousers?" Dott reproved him.
"I have so many lovely things for you. Let me look carefully..." The grandfather began to rummage again in the large trunk which seemed to have appeared from nowhere.
"You must be joking!" howled Lord Dott, without a shred of compassion. "You're not doing me any favors by giving me these worthless books. You have to stop moving your cheap junk in here. Am I making myself clear?" He passed his handkerchief over his damp forehead.
"They're not worthless!" his grandfather corrected him, while lovingly stroking an old planner.
"I don't care!" said Dott, disgusted, snatching the planner out of the old man's hands. "I'm sick and tired of finding your tattered books scattered around the library! It's time to get rid of this trash once and for all. Do you get it?"
"But Isidore... you don't understand..."
"Now, do me a favor: clear everything and vanish out of here!" Dott ordered. "I don't want visitors to see you in this condition. Is that clear?"
"Um... Director..." interjected his new assistant, with bandages on his eyebrow and on his chin.
"What is it now, for Pete's sake?" screamed the lord.
"F-forgive the intrusion, but a police inspector wants to speak to you," he replied fearfully.
"A police inspector?" asked Dott, surprised.
"Yes sir, that's right, sir!" the assistant confirmed, remaining at a safe distance.
"Well, and what are you waiting for? Let him in!" the lord scolded him. "Are you expecting him to get a library card?"
"No, sir. I'll let him in immediately, sir," replied the assistant, rushing off in case the director decided to throw the planner at his head.
"Good morning, Director!" Biddle greeted him friendly, extending his hand. "It's an enormous pleasure to make your acquaintance."
"The pleasure is all yours, I'm sure," replied the lord, deliberately ignoring his hand. "To what do I owe this intrusion?"
"I'm offended," said Biddle faking disappointment. "Can't a policeman be genuinely interested in literature?" He looked at Dott with a sly smile.
"Not on this planet!" replied the director, brusquely. "To be honest, I don't think anyone on your absolutely barbaric police force can nourish the slightest regard for culture at large."
"Are you kidding?" Biddle protested, laughing. "The books and I are one," he explained, giving the lord a friendly shove.
"Really?" asked Dott incredulously, dusting off the area where their two shoulders had touched.
"May my socks be sewn to my feet if I'm not telling the truth!" exclaimed Biddle, placing his hand on his heart. "You might not believe it, but in my living room I have a library packed with books."
"Comic books? Cookbooks? Tourist guides?" asked Lord Dott.
"No-no! Heavy reading. Believe me!"
"I must admit there's something quaint in your trivial way of speaking about books," the gentleman admitted.
"It's all passion, Isidore! All passion."
"Lord Dott, if you don't mind!" said the director, shuddering at those grossly familiar manners. "Inspector, I'm very pleased to hear that books excite you, but something tells me you didn't come here just to share with me your unbridgeable literary ignorance. Am I wrong?"
The smile on the inspector's face withered, giving way to a savannah hunter's glance.
"Let's do each other a favor, do you agree?" Suggested Lord Dott while gently brushing his hand on the cover of an inaccessible third edition in the rare books section. "Tell me the true reason for your visit and we'll spare each other an unpleasant morning."
"I'm in, Dott!" exclaimed Biddle, raising his hands in surrender. "Let's put all our cards on the table," he said, while getting ready to touch an ancient volume on a book holder.
"Don't even think about it!" threatened the director, shielding the book with his body to protect it from that shameful violation.
Biddle raised his hands again. Setting his glasses steadily on his nose, he started to explain.
"You must certainly have heard about the recent events in our city, haven't you?"
"This may shock you, Inspector, but I keep myself informed, just like a good portion of the world population," the director briefed him. "Of course I've heard! That's all we're hearing and reading about these days." To prove his point, he lifted the daily paper from a table.
"And what's your opinion?" asked the inspector, studying the lord's reaction through his glasses.
"My opinion? I'm not paid to give OPINIONS, Inspector..." He paused while he called for rescue. "What did you say your name was?"
"Horatio Anicet Biddle, Chief Inspector of Scotland Yard's Special Crimes Division."
"I leave this type of work to you people at the police station. I believe our taxes pay for this too. Or did you think your pay depended on the length of your name or the amount of coffee you can drink in a day?"
Before Biddle could reply, Harold, Dott's bandaged assistant, arrived with a tray and placed it tremblingly on a pedestal.
"Would you like some?" he said, pointing to the steaming cups of tea.
"No!" the director replied for both. "The inspector was just leaving. I'm sure his morning is as full of engagements as is mine," he added, with a fake, cliché smile.
"Of course ... of course, you're right, definitely," said Biddle, walking toward the exit. He then stopped suddenly. "But... I still have a couple of small questions to ask you," he added, turning around.
The director rolled his eyes, annoyed, waving his handkerchief like a melodramatic actress from the forties.
"What now?" he asked, exasperated. "I just can't understand how the director of a British library might be able to help you with this."
"You care for these books, right, Lord Dott?" asked the inspector, pointing at the volumes around them.
"What kind of question is that? Of course I care."
"And how many are they? Ten million? Twenty million?"
"I'm afraid they're many more than you can count," said the director, enjoying every chance he had to taunt his interlocutor.
Without taking it personally, Biddle continued with his small interrogation. "Can you say you know every corner of this library?" he asked, slowly leading to the most important question.
"It may seem presumptuous... but yes, I can say I do!"
"What if... only hypothetically of course, a valuable book disappeared from your library... would you know immediately?"
"Of course! If it happened, I'd be the first one to be informed," retorted the lord. "But I still can't understand what all this has to do with your case, inspector." He felt his patience was running low.
Biddle looked at him for a moment, then handed him the folder he had in his hands.
"Lord Dott, do you know this text?" The director scanned the title carefully.
"Um... Yes, it's part of our collection," he replied as he handed back the folder.
"And doesn't it tell you anything?" The folder moved back toward the director.
"Not at all!" Dott snapped back. "Should it?"
"Apparently, it's a very special work. It was written many centuries ago by..." Biddle began to read the report, "...by a servus a manu, amanuensis, or scribe, on request by an unknown and wealthy alchemist. There are only two copies: one has never been found and the other is kept in this very library."
"Well, that's not strange. It's not the only rare text owned by the British Library," said the lord, annoyed, as he checked his pocket watch. "Why are you so attracted to this book?"
"Because..." replied Biddle, walking between the tables, "this text, written centuries ago, contains the same identical symbols which have appeared a few days ago on the street of this city."
"Fascinating!" merely remarked the director.
"And do you know what's even stranger? This work seems to have disappeared two days ago from your library and the 'theft' has not yet been reported," said Biddle, slamming his clipboard on a table. "How do you explain that?"
"This is mathematically impossible!" the director objected. "And yet, it's the truth!" exclaimed Biddle. "One of my agents called the library this morning and confirmed that the book is not here."
"There must be a mistake ..." said Dott, wiping his sweating forehead again. "They must have moved it... or... taken it to be repaired. There's certainly an explanation."
"So, you don't know anything about this strange 'disappearance'?" asked Biddle, with a suspicious glance.
"What are you trying to insinuate? You don't think I had something to do with this?" exclaimed the lord. "This is nonsense! If this is the only trail you're following, Inspector..." he concluded, handing him back the folder, "I predict it will be a long investigation."
"So, you've nothing more to say?" asked Biddle. "I'm giving you one more chance."
"Of course I have some things to say... but I don't think you'd like to hear them!" screamed the director.
"You're not proving to be very cooperative, Lord Dott," Biddle reproved him. "I warn you: next time we meet I might not be as willing and as sympathetic as I am now."
"I'm afraid there won't be a next time, Inspector... Harooold!" yelled Dott, snapping his fingers at the same time. "Escort the inspector to the exit, and make sure he doesn't come back to meddle inside this library." Turning to Biddle, he added, "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to leave. I have hundreds of more important and urgent issues waiting for me." Then, turning his back, he left humming with his newspaper under his arm.
"Please, just one more question, to satisfy my curiosity!" the inspector shouted, as Harold pushed him toward the exit. "Your full name is Isidore G. Dott, right? What does the G stand for?"
Lord Dott continued to walk, waving without turning back.
"As you wish, Lord Dott! But we'll meet again," promised Biddle as he left the room.
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