“Rather vague, Mercher,” laughed Galban. “I had so many of those. They keep getting worse as they go along. I may look healthy, gentlemen, but actually, I am in hopeless physical condition.”
“Rheumatism?” queried Terry.
“Chronic,” replied Galban. “I am used to it now, however. First I installed the elevator to eliminate the stairs. Since then, I have ceased to descend at all. It is difficult for me to even leave this chair.”
Terry Barliss was opening his briefcase while Eli Galban talked. The young man removed the manuscript which had been his uncle’s prize. Eli Galban received it. Both Harry and Terry could see the gleam that came into the old man’s eyes.
“A forgery!” exclaimed Galban, opening the volume. “That is my specialty, gentlemen — the detection of spurious manuscripts and other items of accepted value. This manuscript—”
“One moment,” interposed Terry. “I have an important question to ask you, Mr. Galban. Like yourself, I am convinced that this manuscript is a fake. In fact, my uncle stated his own belief at the time he died. That, however, is not the point. My uncle was sure that he once possessed a manuscript containing the Fifth Ballad of Francois Villon. He stated that you had seen that manuscript.”
“I did see it.”
“Then tell me. Is this the manuscript that you examined at that time?”
Eli Galban did not reply. He studied the parchment pages of the manuscript until he reached the very end. His head was nodding as he passed the book back to Terry Barliss.
“This,” he declared, “is the very manuscript that I saw at your uncle’s home. It is a forged copy of ‘Les Rondeaux de Paris’ of Francois Villon. It is worthless. It contains the four ballads only; its spurious markings are obvious.”
A DISAPPOINTED look showed on Terry’s face. The young man seemed nonplused. It was Harry Vincent who took up the conversation.
“Mr. Galban,” he questioned, “can you give any reason why Shattuck Barliss would have been convinced that he possessed a unique work when he actually owned a forgery?”
“No,” returned Galban. “That was what perplexed me at the time. I saw forgery in this manuscript the moment that I looked at it. Yet Shattuck Barliss was indignant.”
“Do you think he was deluded?”
“Perhaps. Nevertheless, it is explainable. Collectors sometimes harbor strange opinions. They build up their own love of a treasured book into a sort of mania.”
A pause. Eli Galban became reflective. He pondered for a while, then leaned back in his chair and delivered a new opinion.
“This matter of the Villon ballads is an odd one,” he asserted. “Not long after I examined the manuscript belonging to Shattuck Barliss, I learned that another collector — Wendel Hargate — had purchased what he claimed to be the only copy of Villon’s ‘Les Rondeaux de Paris’ containing a Fifth Ballad. I was naturally curious. I knew Hargate — he is a millionaire in New York — and went to see his manuscript.
“The same story held again. The moment that I looked at his manuscript, I saw signs of forgery. I told him that the work was not genuine. He was furious.
“Does Hargate still own the manuscript?” questioned Terry.
“I imagine so,” stated Galban. “He is said to have paid at least one hundred thousand dollars for it.”
“One hundred thousand!” exclaimed Harry.
“A low figure,” smiled Galban. “A very low figure, for Villon’s ‘Rondeaux’ with the Fifth Ballad.”
“Why?”
“Because I doubt that any such work exists.”
BOTH Harry and Terry looked up in surprise as they heard this statement. Eli Galban proceeded to explain.
“This early work of Francois Villon,” declared Galban, “was extensively copied. The originals — of which there are quite a number — contained only four ballads.
“Somewhere, the rumor of the Fifth Ballad found its inception. It came to be regarded as a fact. Due to the odd arrangement of the verses and their breaks, it was quite possible that some one mistook four ballads for five.
“Obviously, the Fifth Ballad, if it existed in a single manuscript, could not be imitated. Hence collectors like Shattuck Barliss and Wendel Hargate might easily mistake — through a miscounting of the ballads — any forgery of the old four-ballad manuscript for the famous missing version with its five ballads. Is that plain?”
Harry and Terry agreed that it was. Harry, however, still became persistent.
“Suppose,” he suggested, “that Shattuck Barliss possessed the copy of the much-sought manuscript in five-ballad form. Suppose that some one stole the manuscript and substituted this spurious one in its place—”
“Ah!” interposed Galban. “There you have a different story, my friend. Collectors are always in danger of theft. It is quite possible that some one, prior to my examination of the manuscript, could have substituted a false Villon.
“Possibilities, however, are not probabilities. Thieves are alike the world over. They rifle, like vandals. No, my friend, I fear your theory is without basic ground. Substitution is not vandalism. Take for instance the theft of the Mona Lisa. It was deliberately cut from its frame where it hung in the Louvre. There was no attempt at substitution.”
There was conviction in Galban’s tone. Harry Vincent’s interest was dispelled. Terry Barliss was totally discountenanced. Seeing the forlorn expressions on the faces of his visitors, Eli Galban resumed a cheery conversation.
“Shattuck Barliss,” he declared, “was well provided against theft. In addition, he had an imagined prize. No one would have visited his library to steal a forgery.
“My situation is different. Actually, I am no collector; yet certain items have come into my possession. You gentlemen saw my waxworks on the ground floor. They came from the old Antoinette Museum in Paris — an obscure place that has been closed for many years.
“In rooms on the second floor, I have odd bits of statuary, paintings, some books of fair value. I also possess Oriental tapestries. This place would be an easy prey for robbers, except for the precautions that I take.
“My man Fawkes admitted you. He is an odd sort, Corry Fawkes, but he is faithful and he is no dullard. He treats all visitors with suspicion, which is well. Then I have Mercher, who brought you here. He is faithful also. Last but not least—”
As Galban broke off his words, the door of the elevator slid open and a Japanese entered. The man was dressed in American clothes. His manner was quiet, almost servile, as he stepped into the room.
“Sanyata,” observed Galban, with his gentle smile. “I was just about to mention his name when he arrived. Sanyata, gentlemen, is my valet. He serves, also, as a guardian of my household. With Fawkes, Mercher, and Sanyata, I have little to fear.”
“Fawkes is an odd character,” remarked Terry.
“He is indeed,” agreed Galban, shifting uneasily in his chair while Sanyata adjusted a pillow behind his back. “Fawkes is—”
Galban’s voice ended; his lips writhed in intense pain as he tried to settle back upon the cushions. Sanyata sprang to his aid.
It was a few minutes, however, before the old man recovered from the rheumatic twinges that had seized his frame. Harry Vincent stared admiringly as he saw Galban fight to regain his smile.
THE cheery voice was a trifle dry when Galban again took up the conversation. It was plain that he had felt the effort of motion.
“Fawkes,” he said, “is like a huge watchdog. He is powerful, yet cautious. Intruders would fare badly if they fell into his clutches.”
“So Vincent and I decided,” remarked Terry Barliss.
“There is no danger at the front door,” laughed Galban. “You gentlemen — either or both of you — are welcome here. You must expect short treatment from Fawkes; he keeps people waiting on my doorstep. Yet I would prefer him to be blunt.