Free The Amber Room by T. Davis Bunn Page B

napkin and set it beside his empty plate. “And now, if you would be so good as to come with me, I have something back in the apartment that I wish to show you.”
    Jeffrey rose to his feet. “You left the Polish pieces in your apartment?”
    â€œJust the chalice, and just until tomorrow,” Alexander replied, and led him from the room. “The other pair will arrive closer to the gala event. Security in my building is quite good, I assure you. But in any event, I will settle the chalice into one of our shop’s display cases. That is, after it has been photographed by a professional. I have decided to use it as the centerpiece for my invitations.”
    The wind had abated by the time they left the restaurant. After the chamber’s overly warm confines, the dry, crisp air was invigorating. They strolled at a comfortable pace along quietened city streets, the streetlights’ golden glow splashing against centuries-old facades and creating an aura of different evenings and other eras.
    â€œThe curate at the Marian Church was decidedly one ofthe strangest characters I have dealt with in years,” Alexander told him as they walked.
    â€œHow so?”
    â€œHe had quite the most remarkable eyes I have ever seen. Almost fanatical in their brilliance.”
    â€œYou didn’t call him weird just because of the way he looked at you.”
    â€œI did not say weird at all, and no, it was not just his eyes. There was an aura of strangeness about the man. Something I can’t quite put my finger on. As though he dwelled in worlds that no other mortal could fathom.”
    Jeffrey smiled. “I hear another story in the making.”
    â€œIndeed. My entire encounter with the gentleman was quite remarkable.”
    ****
    The Marian Church’s rectory was a centuries-old stone cottage, connected to the cathedral and to Cracow’s main plaza by a broad cobblestone way. Alexander used his umbrella handle to rap sharply on the stout oaken door, which was swiftly opened by the curate himself.
    Curate Karlovich was a wild, Rasputin-like figure. A man of astonishing intensity, he was tall and slim, with thick black hair disheveled as the beard that cascaded in unruly curls down his front. He was dressed completely in black—black sweater, black trousers, black thick-soled shoes. On his left hand he wore an enormous gold ring, which he tapped on whatever surface was nearest in accent to his words. There was a disturbing aura about the man, evident from the first moment of their contact.
    â€œMr. Kantor! Greetings, greetings!” He bustled forward with outstretched hand. “Dr. Rokovski told me I should expect you this morning. Indeed, I cannot tell you how very opportune your visit is.”
    â€œThank you. I imagine Dr. Rokovski explained—”
    â€œYes, of course! I am sure a man of your discernment willvery much appreciate what I am about to show you. Please follow me.” The curate turned and hurried through an arched wooden door, down an ancient stone-lined hallway, and into the Marian Church. He led Alexander to the center of the nave, genuflected slightly, and waved Alexander toward a massive pillar in the left corner.
    An elaborately carved staircase encircled the front half of the pillar, leading up to one of the church’s three medieval podiums. Karlovich unlocked a small door that had been hollowed from the back of the same pillar, the wood bowed so as to fit the pillar’s gradual curve. He switched on a dim light and pointed Alexander down a set of very steep, very narrow stairs. Alexander lowered his head and made his way gingerly downward. Above and behind him, Karlovich slammed the door with a resounding boom, locked it, and hastened down to the cellar landing.
    â€œPlease come this way,” Karlovich announced. He moved swiftly along a cavelike passage carved from the solid stone upon which the church stood.
    â€œHow old is this