The Book

The book was thick and black and covered with dust. Its boards were bowed and creaking. I wiped the dust away from the title. It was written in an ancient Greek dialect. I had a limited knowledge of the dialect but I was only able to read one word of the title, "Atlantis". Was this old black book some kind of history of the lost city of Atlantic? I was excited but I was afraid to open the book for fear I would destroy parts of the book. It was very old and I did not want to harm it in any way. I knew it could be very valuable and might even make me rich. Maybe even rich enough to retire and follow my dream to write. I had one major problem. The book wasn't mine. I stole it. I'm a curator in a small New York City museum. The museum had just received a big collection of Greek Art and Artifacts from the estate of a wealthy old lady. She inherited it from her late husband and he had inherited it from his grandfather. I was going through the items and opened an old trunk. Somehow I discover a hidden compartment with the dusty old book inside. It was not logged in as any part of the collection so I figured it would be easy to steal and I was right. I took it to my apartment. I do not know much about ancient Greek but enough to know that it had something to do with the lost city of Atlantis. I did not know what to do with it. I wanted to sell it, but to whom? I had no idea so I decided to trust a friend that was involved in selling valuable art. He told me once that he was sure some of it was stolen but he didn't care as long as he got his commission. I was hoping he would know what to do with the book. I called him that night because I was excited and couldn't wait. He was at my apartment with in the hour. We looked, we discussed but we didn't touch. After about an hour he called someone but would not tell me who it was. He made arrangements for this person to see the book. I let him take the book because I did not know what else to do. He said he would call me the next night and let me know what he found out. I waited until after nine on the next evening and he hadn't called so I called him. A strange voice answered the phone. He said he was Sgt. Mays of the NYPD and wanted to know who I was and why I was calling. I told him who I was and that I was just calling to say hello. He said my friend had been murdered and wanted to know if I knew of any one who wanted to harm my friend or if I knew of any reason he would get murdered. I said I was sorry but I did not know of any person or any reason why someone would want to kill him. -2- Now I was scared. I had just got my friend killed and I might be next. Was it the book?. Did the killer know about me? Did he, or she or maybe they even know about me? I didn't know what to do. If I told the police what I knew then I would have to tell them what I did. I would be fired, Yes, they would fire me and I would be banned from the art world for life. I checkecked the doors and the windows and went to bed. I couldn't sleep. I got up, made some coffee and turned on the late news. They already had the story. "Henri Trumpour, a New York art dealer, was found dead in his apartment this evening. The police are not giving any details but our inside source says that he was murdered. No further details are available." I flipped the channels looking for more news. I paced some more and finally I fell asleep watching the news channels. The phone rang and I almost fell out of my chair. It was just past six. Jesus I thought. Who the hell could that be at this time of the morning? I thought maybe, I shouldn't answer it, but I did. This is Sgt. Mays, NYPD. Is this Donald Rassmusen? Yes, I said this Donald. Well Donald, I am calling about your friend. You know, Henri Trumpour, your buddy that was murdered last nignt. We found a note pad with the word "book" and your name and phone nember written right under it. I was wondering if you had thought of anything that might help us. What is the book all about? Oh my God, my name, my phone number, the book. Did the killer see it? Did he even care? He had the god dammed book, Why would he care about me? Oh Jesus, Holy Mother of God, what if he thinks I know who he is? - to be con't -