Free Stoker's Manuscript by Royce Prouty Page A

nodded.
    “Made quite the impression, I see.” He poured a cup of coffee and handed it to me. “Doesn’t look like you slept much last night.”
    “A little.” I thanked him as he poured.
    “Don’t be too worried about the condition of the basement,” Luc said. “Smells down there, I know. It can be modernized.”
    I nodded. “I recommended a cork floor to Mr. Ardelean, but they’d have to pour a concrete floor first. The real issue is controlling the air quality.”
    “Well, between you and me?” He glanced toward the door before finishing. “I think the display is heading to one of the vaults.”
    “Where are they?” I asked.
    Again he looked toward the door. “You were almost there.”
    “Mm-hmm,” I said. I assumed he meant the dark recesses in the basement. Many of my clients chose to hoard and protect their valuables, and as I reflected on Arthur’s less-than-enthusiastic response, I suspected the original might not end up on display. Not hungry, I pushed the food around with my fork. “Have you met him?”
    “Couple times.” He indicated I should eat. “Takes his anonymity very seriously.”
    “Why do you think that is?”
    “They’re the oldest moneyed family on the Continent. They started the bank in Switzerland. Everything they do goes through it, and if you think about it, their secrecy is all they have. When you’re that rich, you’re a target, like it or not. If not for criminals, then for the paparazzi. Reputation is everything to people like that. They can’t afford to let anyone near them who they don’t have absolute faith in.”
    I let the compliment pass. “So being ultra-rich makes you eccentric?”
    “I’d call it shrewd. Pretty amazing, really,” he said. “Look at America—you get one or two generations removed from the great wealth builders and all the offspring are dolts.”
    I nodded, conceding his point. “Drug addicts and social butterflies who bad-mouth the system that feathered their beds.”
    “Right.” Luc grinned, then checked his watch. “Better get ready.”
    After saying good-bye to Arthur at the front door, Luc and I caught the carriage ride to the market for the bus to. We stopped at the same café, and Luc greeted the waitress with a much-heightened familiarity. After assuring him I could make it to my destination, I left him to his pursuits and stood in line at the train ticket window. From my Internet research, I had learned the northbound train went throughand Baia Mare before border transfers, then west to Vienna and finally Munich, my flight’s layover city. I placed phone calls changing my seat to two days later on a flight to Chicago before exchanging my ticket for a northbound rail pass throughand my hometown of Baia Mare.
    The Rapid train rocked and rattled down the hill fromand settled on another valley floor bound for another mountain pass. I displayed my crucifix prominently in the hopes of repelling any armrest neighbor, and it worked. Village after village passed by the window, the train stopping every couple towns, and the farther north, the more in need of paint and more agrarian the towns looked. Every municipality, including the smallest villages, hosted its Christian church, and even when the newer white stucco churches sprung from the ground, the older wooden relics remained.
    Not all vegetation had achieved blossom at this elevation, and the air told why: still alpine cool, downright brisk. I passed a sheep farm and saw shorn wool hanging to dry on fences, the breezes giving the appearance of thick wavy blond wigs hung after a wash. Animals still did the work that Americans delegate to John Deere, with men in black woolen pants and suspenders leaning into their plows, their sons leading the animals. Steep thatch-roofed barns housed animals and their feed, and the farther north, the more rutted the roads. Great arrays of colors were displayed on clotheslines, enhanced by multihued barnyard birds. At least as many women worked