The Book of Air and Shadows - Michael Gruber [221]
The front door slammed open and two of the thugs tromped in—the big one and the long-coated one, who had a pale ill-formed face like the monster Pillsbury Doughboy from Ghostbusters. Then came the man Crosetti knew must be the famous Shvanov. He said something in Russian to his boys and they immediately grabbed Mishkin, beat him to the ground, and started stomping him. As this proceeded, the rest of the boat party entered, pushed along by the Deckhand. Crosetti noticed a number of things at once. First, Mishkin was taking the beating without resistance, although in London Crosetti had watched him toss a big guy through the air like a Frisbee. Next, the children: Imogen very angry, started to go to her father’s aid, and would have, had the Deckhand not grabbed her; there was something wrong with Niko, his head held at an unnatural downward angle, and his hands moving in meaningless little patterns. He seemed to be humming or talking to himself and he smelled of vomit, traces of which smeared the front of his parka. Finally, the woman. She had pushed back her hood on entering the room, revealing neck-length dark hair, not too clean, and her face, upon which was a look of horror at what was being done to Mishkin. The man in the Burberry was also staring at the beating, but not with horror—morbid fascination maybe, or even satisfaction.
This all in a quite short time, which seemed longer, an interval, Crosetti knew, that would be drawn out for well over a minute on the screen. The woman shouted at Shvanov to stop it and Shvanov shouted back at her, but he told his men to stop. They dragged Mishkin to his feet, holding him by his arms. He blinked, he wiped at the blood and saliva issuing from his mouth, he said to his children, “I’m sorry, kids, this wasn’t supposed to happen. Did they hurt you?”
The girl said, “Not really. But Niko was sick on the boat and he’s acting weird.”
Shvanov strode forward and slapped Mishkin hard on the face.
“This is entirely your fault, Mishkin,” he said. “I try to act in a civilized manner to obtain property that is rightfully mine, and what do I get? Respect? No, I have to chase you here, which is a colossal inconvenience, and you require me to also kidnap children. This is unconscionable. Osip Shvanov does not kidnap children, as I have told you before, but you don’t listen. And now we have come to this. So, now, at last, hand me over my property, namely one manuscript of William Shakespeare.”
But Mishkin was staring at the woman. He said, “Hello, Miranda. Why did you change your hair? And your eyes.”
The woman was silent. Shvanov slapped Mishkin on the face again, spraying blood in a wide pattern against the wall above the fireplace. “No, don’t look at her, look at me, you stupid pig lawyer! Where is my property?”
“It’s in the envelope on that table,” said Crosetti.
Everyone in the room turned and stared at him.
“Who is this man?” Shvanov demanded.
“This is Albert Crosetti,” said Mishkin, “the man who found the original Bracegirdle manuscript and sold it to Professor Bulstrode. Or so he claims.”
Shvanov went to the table and removed the contents of the envelope. He gestured to the man in the Burberry, who hurried to his side.
Mishkin said, “While we’re making introductions, Crosetti, that is Professor Mickey Haas, the world’s foremost Shakespeare expert. Or so he claims.”
Haas took the stack of papers from Shvanov, sat at the table, stuck reading glasses on his face, and began to peruse the first sheet. Crosetti could see that his hands were shaking. For almost half an hour, the only sounds in the room were the crackling of the flames, the muttering of the boy, and the rustle of the stiff old paper.
“So? What