The man in the tan mackintosh, plodding through the driving rain, believed himself neither evil nor cruel. Ambitious, impulsive, greedy, and sometimes excessive… yes. Thoughts of sharing two million Sterling and a tad of academia’s limelight had propelled him into this night's work. Only Fraume stood in his way. The impending confrontation called for extraordinarily persuasive measures. His conscience knew brute force or worse shouldn't be the solution. But sometimes anger ruled, drove him. Temper! Temper! He must contain the wild emotional swings.

         Struggling across the wet cobblestones of Upper Parke Crescent, the man revisited all his arguments one by one. A howling gale swirling counterclockwise, heaved him sideways. His hand clutched at the mackintosh collar as he leaned forward to compensate. Twenty-six attached brick homes followed the arc of the crescent--identical facades except for their wood trim entranceways. A six-foot wrought-iron fence separated the individual stone stoops from the curving sidewalk. The gate at number nineteen had been left open. An invitation? Perhaps, but not for Professor Emil Kravitz.

         Emil mounted the granite steps to an oak door with a tiny octagon window. Rapping the brass knocker several times elicited no reply. He tried twice more, then peered through the stained-glass octagon to see a dim light at the end of a long hall and little else. Under the shelter of the stoop roof, the caller ran the back of his forefinger along his mustache, wringing it free of rainwater. Damn it! Kravitz thought, the old goat's in there. Fraume knows who's calling and he's ignoring me.

         Until now, Emil had broken no actual laws. At this point, he wasn't sure how far he'd go to attain wealth and fame. Professor Kravitz lusted after the finer amenities in life. The man fancied himself a historian of note and a collector of dated artifacts, but knew he lacked the diligence and finances to pursue these endeavors honestly. Despite abhorring his role as an educator and seeking any means to improve his station, he made a conscious decision not to step too far over the line unless absolutely necessary.

         Kravitz scanned the street behind him to be sure no eyes had happened along in the meantime. Undoing the buttons of his mackintosh, he withdrew several dental-like instruments from a bi-fold case. The case and tools he'd rescued from a pawn shop. The technique he'd acquired from one of his more enterprising students. The very idea that he’d purchased and brought them along had startled him. Why? His subconscious had known all along it would come down to this.

         Emil inserted two slim tools into the keyway and followed with a series of jiggles, lifts and twists. The simple lock yielded to his deft tinkering, and the door swung inward as soon as the knob responded to his twist. He stowed the instruments in the same inside pocket and removed a mag-light torch from an outer coat pocket. Stepping inside the dark and empty front room, Emil shed the dripping mackintosh, leaving it in a heap on the carpet. He listened for any response to his intrusion. He heard none.

         A long hallway, the main artery of the house, fed a succession of dark rooms. The pale light he'd seen from the stoop emanated from the last room, four doorways from where he stood. He swung the beam of his torch into each room as he passed: a sitting room, smelling of tobacco; a bedroom, unmade with soiled clutter and body odor; a small kitchen with several meals' dishes in the sink and the garlicky aroma of lasagna; and a loo that reeked of unlaundered towels and aftershave. Approaching the last doorway, a floorboard creaked, and Kravitz flattened himself against the wall until he assured himself that he remained undetected.

         Flicking off and pocketing his mag-light, Emil pulled on a pair of thin leather gloves and sidled into what was obviously an office. A bookish fog of stale air attacked his nostrils, and he suppressed a sneeze. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases lined every wall except for a window at the rear. Dusty tomes, hand-scribbled notes, and cartons of books lay scattered in disarray across the floor, leaving only a narrow path for walking. The sole illumination came from a study lamp with a brass base and green glass shade that confined most of its selfish glow to the desk in the farthest corner of the room.

         The intruder heard an animal-like noise and stopped short. Then a smile crept across his face: he'd heard snores, sometimes explosive and mixed with murmurs. Emil moved into the room and saw the old man asleep, on the desk, his head cradled over crossed arms. He sized up the sleeping old man, Professor Abner Fraume. Thick-lensed glasses lay beside the shiny, balding pate. A generous helping of liver spots stood out amid the scant wisps of soft white hair.

         Friendly persuasion should be enough, the intruder thought. At most, a little arm twisting. After all, the good Professor Fraume stands to gain as well, and I'll be doing all the legwork. Emil knew that selling the sixteenth-century typefounder's artifacts would bring him certain wealth, and the accompanying papers would bestow undoubted academic acclaim. A wealthy private collector had agreed to the purchase already. Now, within Emil's easy reach, lay the means. All he has to do is convince the stubborn professor.

         Emil reached for a large volume under Abner's left elbow and tried to dislodge it. The old man snorted and stirred. Emil pulled back, then tried again. Gently lifting the elbow, he studied the title: A History of Sixteenth-Century Medicine, edited by one of the old man's colleagues. Not exactly what Emil had in mind. He spun around to look elsewhere, but something stopped him. He no longer heard the heavy breathing, the rhythmic snore, the mumbling. He turned back to the desk. Two gray eyes squinted back at him.

         "Who's there? Whoever you are, what're you doing in my home?" The old man fumbled for his glasses. He slid one wire temple over each ear and pushed the bridge up his pock-marked nose. After staring at the intruder for several moments, recognition suddenly came to him: the bushy beard and mustache. "Emil Kravitz, how the devil did you get in here? And why?"

         "Yes, it's me, Abner. And you know full well what I've come for--Herr Koenig's matrix molds, his chase, and your research manuscripts. I mean to have them. You should have agreed to my generous terms the last time we met. It would have been a profitable collaboration for both of us. Now... well it's still not too late, my dear Abner."

         "Don't 'dear Abner' me, you gonif. You'll never lay hands on either the block molds or my research. They're my life's work, more than fifty years' worth."

         "Of course I will. That's why I'm here, Professor Fraume. I'm not leaving without them."

         "You can go straight to hell. The items you want are no longer here, I assure you. I've sent them away for safekeeping."

         "Why would you do that, Professor?"

         "You bloody well know why, Kravitz--your nasty threats, that's why. There are some things in this world more important than money. And I'm not afraid of any bodily harm. There's nothing you can inflict on me that hasn't been tried before." An involuntary tremor shimmered through his aching body, visibly shaking his hunched shoulders. "Remember, I've been through the Holocaust."

         "These are not idle threats, Professor. I grew up on Chicago's South Side. I've learned a few nasty tricks along the way. They're not very nice, Professor." Emil's emotion fed on his own words, and his heart drummed to an unintended furor.

         "Get out of my house before I call the police."

         Abner reached across the desk for the telephone, but Emil's left hand fell on it first, holding the receiver down while his right hand tore the gray plastic cord from the phone's base. As an afterthought, he tore the opposite end from the wall socket. Abner pushed with his feet to roll the swivel chair away from the desk and tried to stand, but Emil darted behind him and slammed the frail body back down into the chair. Winding the phone cord into an eighteen-inch loop, he snapped the coil on the desk twice to get the old man's attention. Neither of them paid a mind to a pencil rolling off the desk and landing on the floor.

         Abner Fraume froze in disbelief as Emil wrapped the phone cord around his neck and pulled tight. Fraume's arthritic fingers tugged at the cord as his weakened lungs struggled for precious air.

         Emil loosened the cord momentarily. "Where are they, Herr Professor? I've no patience for your child's play. Are they in there?" He kicked toward several boxes lined up against the wall. "What did you do with them?" No answer. Emil tightened the cord, his pulse racing as his temper gathered steam.

         Abner called up a reservoir of strength. His fists pounded Emil's forearms, then groped at the sleeves of his attacker's tweed sport jacket, trying to force them downward. The victim's glasses fell off, revealing red-veined, protruding eyes. Beneath the desk, Abner's feet in carpet slippers pushed back against Emil. They continued to kick and flail until Fraume's whole body went limp. The rage consuming the old man's face slowly faded as the muscles relaxed in death's release.

         The inflamed intruder wiped sweat off his brow with the back of his hand. Emil hadn't meant to kill Abner. Why did the rotter have to be so obstinate and taunting? Why couldn't he have just taken the money and shared in the academic kudos? The taiko drum inside his chest slowly subsided, and a fresh sensation, euphoria, took its place. A new unrepentant Emil Kravitz had emerged.

         Kravitz propped the body up in the chair and rolled it back under the desk to keep Abner upright. Then Emil began his search. He sought three items. First, were the sixteenth-century typeface matrix sets--pouring molds to manufacture large decorative typeface blocks used in printing the initial letter of an illuminated manuscript text. Second, an engraved and hallmarked antique metal chase that clamped the blocks and moveable type together. And third, Abner Fraume's manuscript documenting the elaborate history of these typefounding treasures.

         Three hours later, a frustrated Emil Kravitz sat on a corner of Abner's desk, scrutinizing the office one last time. He'd examined every room in the house, but hadn't found a single trace of Herr Koenig's artifacts or Abner's manuscript. Scattered notes and an arbitrary reference here and there, but nothing worthy of his efforts. Ignoring its title, he'd even flipped through the volume he'd taken from under Abner's elbow.

         Emil's hands felt clammy inside the gloves. His empty stomach craved a steak and mushroom pie. He wanted to be done with this mess. The first light of morning squeezed through the Venetian blinds. He knew he had to leave before the streets outside stirred with morning activity--neighbors taking in newspapers or bread-earners heading off to work.

         As he threw on his mackintosh and gabardine cap, he noticed a letter sealed, stamped, and ready to be posted, on the half-round table next to the front door. The address read:

                           Mrs. Edythe Bender
                           The Olde Victorian Bookstore
                           123 East Franklin Street
                           Annapolis, Maryland 21401 U.S.A.

         Emil slid the letter into his outer pocket, reset the latch, and pulled the oak door closed behind him.