Ian Caldwell - The Rule of Four

He called me, Charlie. That's what he said he was going to do.

He admitted he stole it from Curry? I ask. Why would he give you the blueprint now?

Paul, Charlie says, stopping the car. He's not giving you anything.

The way he says it, Paul stops.

Charlie lowers his voice and explains what he learned from the reporter. When the police asked Taft last night if he could think of anyone who might've done something like this to Stein, Taft said he could think of two people.

The expression on Paul's face starts to fade, the excitement of his discovery waning.

The first was Curry, Charlie says. The second was you. He pauses, letting the emphasis stand. So I don't care what the man told you over the phone. You need to stay away from him.

An old white pickup truck rumbles down the road past us, snow crunching beneath its tires.

Then help me, Paul says.

''We will. Charlie opens the door. We'll drive you home.

Paul tightens his coat around him. Help me by coming with me. After I get the blueprint from Vincent, I don't need him anymore.

Charlie stares. Are you even hearing us?

But there are sides to this that Charlie doesn't understand. He doesn't know what it means that Taft has been hiding the blueprint all along.

I'm this close to having it in my hands, Charlie, Paul says. All I have to do is stand up for what I've found. And you're telling me to go home?

Look, Charlie begins, I'm just saying we need to-

But I interrupt. Paul, we'll come with you.

What? Charlie says.

Come on. I open the passenger door.

Paul turns, not expecting this.

If he's going with or without us, I say to Charlie under my breath, leaning back into the car, then I'm going too.

Paul begins walking toward McCosh as Charlie considers his position.

Taft can't do anything if there are three of us, I say. You know that.

Charlie exhales slowly, sending a cloud of steam into the air. Finally he makes a space for the car in the snow and pulls the keys from the ignition.

The walk to Taft's office takes an eternity, pacing up to the gray edifice in the snow. The room lies in the bowels of McCosh, where the hallways are so cramped and the stairs are so steep, we have to descend single file. It's hard to believe Vincent Taft can breathe in here, let alone move. Even I get the sensation of being too big for the place. Charlie must feel like he's trapped.

I look back, just to make sure he's still there. The sight of him behind us, filling the doorways and covering our backs, gives me enough confidence to keep moving. I realize now what I was too bluff to admit before: if Charlie hadn't come with us, I couldn't have gone through with this.

Paul leads us down a final hallway, toward the single room at the end. Because of the weekend and the holiday, every other office is locked up and dark. Only beneath the white door bearing the placard of Taft's name do I see the rich glow of light. The paint on the door is chipped, curling over itself near the edge, where it closes into the jamb. On the bottom of the panel is a faint line of discoloration, the high-water mark of an old flood from the steam tunnels coiled just beneath the basement floor, a stain un-painted since Taft's arrival in the time before time.

Paul raises his hand to knock, when a voice comes from inside. You're late, Taft growls.

The knob squeaks when Paul turns it. I feel Charlie bump up against my back.

Go on, he whispers, pushing me forward.

Taft is sitting alone behind a great antique desk, sunken into a leather chair. He has thrown his tweed coat over the back of the chair, and with shirtsleeves rolled up to his forearms, he is proofing manuscript pages with a red pen that looks tiny in his fist.

Why are they here? he demands.

Give me the blueprint, Paul says, coming right to the point.

Taft looks at Charlie, then at me. Sit down, he says, pointing toward a pair of chairs with two thick fingers.

I glance around, trying to ignore him. Wooden bookshelves line the tiny office on all sides, covering the white walls. Trails run through the dust on their surfaces where volumes have been dragged off to be read. There is a path worn in the carpet where Taft walks from the door to his desk.

Sit , Taft repeats.

Paul is about to refuse, when Charlie nudges him into the chair, wanting to get this over with.

Taft balls a rag in his hand and wipes his mouth with it. Tom Sullivan, he says, the resemblance finally occurring to him.

I nod, but say nothing. There's an old pillory on the wall above his head, mounted with its jaws open. The only hint of light or color in the room is the red morocco of book bindings and the gold of gilt pages.

Leave him alone, Paul says, sitting forward. Where's the blueprint?

I'm surprised how strong he sounds.

Taft tuts, bringing a cup of tea to his mouth. There's an unpleasant look in his eyes, as if he's waiting for one of us to put up a fight. Finally, he rises from the leather chair, forces the sleeves of his shirt up higher, and plods over to a space in the bookshelves where a safe has been built into the wall.

He spins the combination with a hairy hand, then pulls the lever and swings the door on its hinges. Reaching inside, he produces a leather notebook.

Is that it? Paul says faintly.

When Taft opens it and hands something to Paul, though, it's only a typed piece of Institute stationery, dated two weeks ago.

I want you to know where things stand, Taft says. Read it.

When I see the effect the paper has on Paul, I lean over to read it as well.

Dean Meadows:

Pursuant to our conversation of 12 March regarding Paul Harris, herewith the additional information you requested. As you know, Mr. Harris petitioned for several extensions, and has been highly secretive concerning the content of his work. Only when, at my insistence, he submitted a final progress report last week, did I understand why. Enclosed phase find a copy of my upcoming article, Unveiling the Mystery: Francesco Colonna and the Hypnerotomachia Poliphili, tentatively scheduled for fall publication in Renaissance Quarterly. Also enclosed is a copy of Mr. Harris's progress report, for the purposes of comparison. Please contact me with any further inquiries.

Sincerely,

Dr. Vincent Taft

We're speechless.

The ogre turns to Charlie and me. I've worked on this for thirty years, he says, a strange evenness in his voice. Now the results don't even bear my name. You have never been grateful to me, Paul. Not when I introduced you to Steven Gelbman. Not when you received special access to the Rare Books Room. Not even when I granted you multiple extensions on your ineffectual work. Never.

Paul is too stunned to respond.

I won't have you take this from me, Taft continues. I've waited too long.

They have my other progress reports, Paul stutters. They have Bill's records.

They've never seen a progress report from you, Taft says, opening a drawer and pulling out a sheaf of forms. And they certainly don't have Bill's records.

They'll know it wasn't yours. You haven't published anything on Francesco in twenty-five years. You don't even work on the Hypnerotomachia anymore.

Taft pulls at his beard. Renaissance Quarterly has seen three preliminary drafts of my article. And I've received several calls of congratulation on my lecture last night.

Remembering the dates on Stein's letters, I see the long provenance of this idea, the months of suspicion between Stein and Taft over who would steal Paul's research first.

But he has his conclusions, I say, when it doesn't seem to dawn on Paul. He hasn't told anyone.

I expect Taft to react badly, but he seems amused. Conclusions so soon, Paul? he says. To what do we attribute this sudden success? He knows about the diary. You let Bill find it, Paul says. You still don't know what he found, I insist.