no
hand
exit
down
board
halo
Two
right
exit
sand
black
halo
hand
up
board
As for the engraver’s marks, the variations in the signatures a.t. (the printer, Torchia) and L.F. (unknown? Lucifer?) that corresponded to
I
II
III
IIII
V
VI
VII
VIII
vim
One
at(s)
at(s)
at(s)
AT(s)
at(s)
at(s)
at(s)
AT(s)
at(s)
AT(i)
LF(i)
AT(i)
AT(i)
iXO
AT(i)
AT(i)
AT(i)
AT(i)
Two
at(s)
at(s)
AT(s)
at(s)
AT(s)
AT(S)
AT(s)
AT(s)
at(s)
AT(i)
AT(i)
AT(i)
LF(i)
AT(i)
AT(i)
LF(i)
LF(i)
AT(i)
A strange code. But Corso at last had something definite. He now knew that there was a key of some sort. He stood up slowly, as if afraid that all the links would vanish before his eyes. But he was calm, like a hunter who is sure that he will catch his prey at the end, however confusing the trail.
Hand. Exit. Sand. Board. Halo.
He glanced out the window. Beyond the dirty panes, silhouetting a branch, a remnant of reddish light refused to disappear into the night.
Books one and two. Differences in illustrations 2, 4, 5, 7, and 8.
He had to go to Paris. Book number three was there, together with the possible solution to the mystery. But he was now preoccupied with another matter, something he had to deal with urgently. Varo Borja had been categorical. Now that Corso was sure he wouldn’t be able to obtain book number two by conventional methods, he had to devise a plan to acquire it by means that were not conventional. With the minimum risk to Fargas, and to Corso himself, of course. Something gentle and discreet. He took out his diary from his coat pocket and searched for the phone number he needed. It was the perfect job for Amilcar Pinto.
One of the candles had burned down and went out with a small spiral of smoke. Corso could hear the violin being played somewhere in the house. He laughed dryly again, and the flames of the candelabra made shadows dance on his face as he leaned over to light a cigarette. He straightened and listened. The music was a lament that floated through the dark empty rooms with their remnants of dusty, worm-eaten furniture, painted ceilings, stained walls covered with spiderwebs and shadows; with their echoes of footsteps and voices extinguished long ago. And outside, above the rusty railings, the two statues, one with its eyes open in the darkness, the other covered by a mask of ivy, listened motionless, as time stood still, to the music that Victor Fargas played on his violin to summon the ghosts of his lost books. ‘
