“Dr. Heidmann’s sculptures are ruined!” Gail exclaimed. “Look, Professor; the one is broken completely in half. He is going to be pissed.”
“Well, I sympathize, but we could do nothing to avoid it. Never mind the doctor. I am dreading Soula’s response about her pieces!” Helen bemoaned the imminent conversation she would have to have with the wealthy collector who had loaned her personal collection to Helen’s museum. “God, she is going to have a fit!”
“Most of her pieces are intact, Professor,” Burt mentioned, running his torch briskly over Soula’s relics.
“Lucky thing most of her sculptures are solid marble or bronze casts, otherwise the quake would have shattered them too,” Gail remarked.
“That is true. That is a relief,” Helen concurred with an audible tone of gratitude. “But look at this sculpture of Heidmann’s. It is completely destroyed. Even if we could somehow mend the torso and the legs, it would have lost all its value.”
Gail used her cell phone for light, scrutinizing the broken statue. “The thin marble exterior was too weak to support the limestone it consisted of…” she described smoothly at first, but she stopped in mid-sentence. She was sure the lack of light betrayed her eyes, but on closer inspection she was horrified to confirm what she hoped was a trick of the light on crumbled stone.
“Holy shit! This is impossible,” she gasped in shock. “Oh my God, Professor!”
“What is it?” Helen asked, reluctantly making her way to where Gail was examining the broken statue. Gail’s face was ashen and her lost eyes wide with dubiousness.
Burt rushed over to shine his flashlight on the fallen sculpture, illuminating the grey stone that encapsulated calcified internal organs so perfectly shaped and abundant that it could only be genuine. He caught his breath at the sight, “Look. Skeletal structure too.”
Gail hyperventilated at the ghastly discovery that her reason refused to process, no matter how she rationalized it. She looked up at Helen and voiced her disbelief.
“This is no statue, Professor. It was a man, an actual human being!”
7
Dave Purdue rushed to the British Museum after his jet touched down in a private Docklands airfield he owned. Early in the dark hours of the morning, while he was working on a prototype geo-explorer device, he got a frantic phone call from an unknown number. Professor Helen Barry was calling from her assistant’s cell phone to notify him of the catastrophe that took place during the evening. Purdue had switched on his television in the kitchen and found full coverage of the London earthquake on just about every channel.
Being one of the main benefactors of the prestigious museum, he was naturally very concerned about the scale of damage incurred during the natural disaster. As a shareholder, he had to see the condition of the place himself to ascertain the extent of the devastation suffered so that he could proceed with the facilitation of repairs, renovations, and insurance claims. From the airstrip, he summoned a driver from one of the shuttle services in London he owned.
First, Purdue joined the assessors and other shareholders of the British Museum to survey the damage and determine the costs involved. Most of the shattered pottery had to be written off, which was a substantial loss. Helen Barry was home to recuperate from the minor cuts and bruises caused by the ordeal, but she had informed Purdue of the grisly and bizarre discovery Gail had made in the aftermath of the disaster. Gail and Helen had draped a tarp over the broken sculpture that was named ‘Son of Zyklon-B’ so that Purdue would know which artifact to investigate when he arrived.
“Good afternoon, may I speak to Donovan Graham, please,” Purdue said on his phone as his colleagues rummaged through the debris. He moved away a distance so that the contractors, sponsors, and assessors would not be within earshot of his conversation.
Donovan Graham was an anthropologist based in Dundee, who had advised Purdue on numerous occasions before on some smaller excursions the billionaire had completed in Scotland and Scandinavia. In short, Don was the type of academic who would venture across the lines of propriety and law to pursue the truth, the fascinating and the unorthodox. He was the man who first introduced Purdue to Russian guide Alexandr Arichenkov on the Wolfenstein expedition a few years ago.
“Hello, Don. I believe you are in England at the moment,” Purdue said. “How soon can you meet me at the British Museum?”
“You do know there was an earthquake in London last night, right?” Don replied from the other side of the line.
“I do. That is precisely why I need your help. Just for a day or two, tops,” Purdue coaxed.
“Dave, I am in the middle of a book signing tour, and I have obligations to my publishers, you know. I can meet you in a few weeks. That is the best I can do,” Don explained. “So, give me a call by the 25th and we can work something out.”
Purdue did not even flinch at the excuses his old friend spat out.
“I have reason to believe we have found a statue with marble exterior that turns out to be a human who has been turned into stone.”
That was all Purdue had to say.
“Give me an hour,” Don replied instantly.
“I’ll wait for you at Shanghai Six Pub & Grill in Store Street. Apparently it is still standing,” Purdue smirked.
“Done.”
Professor Barry had contacted Dr. Heidmann, but he was already on his way to the museum, having felt the tremors the night before and subsequently seeing the footage on TV. He had always been on the more shaky side of anxious, but today he was positively hysterical. Beads of sweat rolled down his forehead as he travelled to the museum in the back of a taxi. He looked around at all the devastation as the car crept along through road blocks and four-way stops where the traffic lights were out.
EMT’s and police officers had their hands full with injured citizens and assisting rescue workers in locating people who had gone missing during the quake. Dr. Heidmann could not shake the foreboding feeling that rode him like a whiskey-induced nightmare and he could not get to the museum fast enough.
‘I have to get there before they find the statue,’ he thought nervously. ‘Good God, if the museum people only know what is on display there, they’d have me locked up before I can get the money.’
Prof. Barry did not share the horrid information with him, assuming that he knew already. But she thought it best to keep the revelation secret just in case Dr. Heidmann did not know about it. In turn, Heidmann assumed that nobody knew about the true nature of his art works. In her call, Helen Barry did not disclose any problems apart from the fact that the Greek Art artifacts may have been damaged.
The disturbing sight that met him when the taxi crossed the last intersection to the museum shocked him to the core. James Heidmann’s stomach churned at the thought of what awaited him inside the display room. He wiped his moist hands on his coat in the backseat of the taxi as it came to a halt.
He exited the vehicle, eager to get to the hall where his art was being exhibited to make sure nothing happened that would betray his secret.
“Thank you,” Heidmann told the cabbie before he started traversing the ocean of rubble strewn all over the front façade of the grand building. He looked around discreetly to make sure that nobody followed him, flashing his lanyard to the security people to gain access to the museum. Above them the relatively clear sky was polluted with black tufts of smoke in places where the disaster caused explosions and fuel lines were ruptured, catching fire. It dampened the already slight sunlight, giving London a distinct apocalyptic atmosphere.
As Dr. Heidmann entered the dark hallways of the British Museum, a tall figure moved to his right. It was Dave Purdue, a man Heidmann could not pretend not to know among all the people laboring to sort out the mess and record the damage.
“Dr. Heidmann!” the suave billionaire smiled amicably as he approached.
“Good day, Mr. Purdue,” Heidmann replied in his friendliest tone. “My God, can you believe this?”
“I know, right?” Purdue answer
ed as he shook the man’s hand, surveying their surroundings with a shrug. “It is astonishing that something so magnificent could be reduced to such a mess so quickly, but I am sure we will be able to salvage the majority of the relics. As for the building,” he sighed contentedly, “the damage is minimal by our standards, thank God.”
“That is a relief,” Heidmann conceded.
“I suppose you were on your way to your exhibit?” Purdue asked. Dr. Heidmann nodded. “Oh good! I was on my way there now to make sure nothing was too badly wrecked there. After all, we all have a share in the welfare of this display and it is one of the most successful in recent years,” Purdue reported as he proceeded along the wide hallway with the doctor. “Gathered the board of shareholders some good financial incentives as well.”
“I’m sure,” Heidmann agreed, secretly dreading what he would find in the chamber after such a powerful ground shock under the foundations of the extensive structure the museum comprised of. “I also stand to lose just about everything if my statues are destroyed,” he lamented with a clear tinge of worry in his voice. “Jesus, if they are destroyed…” he sighed, “…they are everything I have, you know?”
“I understand,” Purdue replied sympathetically, but in truth, he had no idea what it was like to risk losing everything he owned. It was not a case of affluent arrogance. Purdue had simply never lacked anything, neither had he ever experienced the uncertainty of losing the one thing that was pivotal to his survival, to have no means of acquiring what he needed. What he did possess, on top of all his wealth, was an affinity for the plight of others, to make others feel at ease with his pleasant personality.
The two men entered the chamber, where most of the electricity had been restored. On Soula Fidikos’ side of the exhibition, very few items had been broken, if any. However, the shelves that supported her inscribed plaques had collapsed and let the artifacts in disarray on the floor. Purdue, hands in pockets, leaned over the tarp Helen had told him about, knowing what was underneath, but waiting to see Dr. Heidmann’s reaction. From the man’s reaction, he would be able to construe if he knew or not, and how to handle the matter from there.
On the pedestal next to the fallen piece, the two disinclined figures that were married physically by force of the artist, still stood locked in their permanent restraint. Purdue could not help but wonder what they hid on their part and found himself hatching a plan to get to them as soon as the proverbial dust had settled.
Reluctantly, the academic doctor lifted the tarp, glancing back quickly to see if Purdue was watching. He was met by Purdue’s comfortable stance, arms folded and waiting, flashing him an encouraging smile. Forcing a smile at the billionaire, Heidmann knew he had to pull the covering back sooner or later and any hesitation would seem suspicious.
‘Please God, don’t let it be broken!’ his frantic mind screamed as his hand pulled back the tarp. But his fears crept over his darkening demeanor as gradually the grisly evidence peeked from under the edge of the tarp. Dr. Heidmann held his breath as his heart sank at the vision of petrified organs spilling from the thin chipped exterior of the perfectly sculpted body. He waited for Purdue’s shocked response, but nothing came. Heidmann was unsure if the silence was fraught with alarm or impending arrest.
Gathering his courage, he just turned to look at Purdue’s looming frame. Hovering over him and his revelation, Purdue sighed. He cleared his throat calmly, even though at first sight he had to admit that he found the scene quite disturbing. Seeing the atrocious fate of the stone man without warning from Helen would have been, Purdue imagined, downright traumatizing.
‘Thank God Helen gave me a heads-up or I may well have collapsed at seeing this,’ Purdue thought to himself as he leered down on Dr. Heidmann’s trembling mouth and perspiring forehead.
“Mr. Purdue?” was all Heidmann could utter. It was a summoning to an opinion which he hoped would masquerade as unwitting astonishment. But he did not receive the reaction he aimed for.
Instead, the billionaire simply replied, “Yes, Dr. Heidmann?”
Dr. Heidmann’s breath raced. A million possibilities ran through his mind. Should he kill Purdue, the only witness to his secret? Should he play dumb? Should he claim ignorance or just confess? He stood up and tried to compose himself while having no idea what to do because Dave Purdue's strangely serene response rattled him.
“Dr. Heidmann,” Purdue spoke finally. “Shall we have a few drinks, old boy?”
Heidmann’s knees buckled in relief and doubt at Purdue’s request. But above all he had to admit that whatever the nonchalant Purdue was up to – at least he was not calling for Heidmann’s arrest, and that was worth any risk a few drinks could hold.
8
Down the street, the two men sat down in a corner booth inside Shanghai Six Pub & Grill. The establishment was remarkably untouched by the disaster, although the shelves had been cleaned up of the shattered bottles and glasses. Apparently the kitchen suffered a minor gas explosion from one of the cylinders that rolled into a crevice caused by the breaking of one of the interior walls. Other than those unfortunate problems the place was in operation as per usual.
In the dim pub with its old school ambiance, the sound of classic rock on a low volume was just enough to liven up the place without drowning out the conversations of its patrons. Fortunately, it was just the right volume for secrets to be shared confidentially, such as those that Dr. Heidmann was to share with Dave Purdue.
“Whiskey?” Purdue asked his companion.
“I’ll have what you have,” Heidmann said.
“Three single malts, please,” Purdue ordered. Dr. Heidmann looked confused, but he said nothing. He thought it best just to ease back and see where this strange situation was leading. When the drinks arrived he immediately chugged his down, obviously shaken into an urge to do so by the whole affair that had now transpired.
“And another for the gentleman,” Purdue smiled at the waiter, who promptly delivered another tumbler, this time without bothering with rocks.
“My apologies, Mr. Purdue,” Heidmann asked for forgiveness from his generous benefactor.
“Never apologize for appreciating a good libation, Doctor,” Purdue smiled and lifted his glass. “It is the privilege bestowed by gods and monarchs, after all.”
This time, Heidmann waited for Purdue to drink his before partaking.
“You know,” Heidmann grunted when the alcohol gave him back his breath, “I don’t drink.”
“Excuse me?” Purdue asked in amazement.
“I never drink alcohol. The strongest thing I ever drink is an espresso,” the nervous academic admitted.
“Then why did you not say so, old boy? I can get you a coffee,” Purdue offered. But the anxious Dr. Heidmann protested profusely.
“No, no! Absolutely not. I will drink with you today.”
“Why?” Purdue pressed, truly surprised at the archeologist’s revelation, not to mention his protest against the correction of his preference.
“Why?” he frowned at Purdue.
Dr. Heidmann being a lightweight, was getting hammered by the second. Even a glass of white wine would send him reeling, so the single malts had already loosened his tongue and impaired his strategic thinking. As a matter of fact, it was safe to assume that Dr. James Heidmann was officially sloshed.
“Let us not beat around the bush, Mr. Purdue,” he started his argument with far more confidence than he would ever wield when sober. “You could have had me arrested on the spot there at the museum for what I had. You saw that. You saw what it was, and God knows what went through your mind at the time, but you said nothing. That means one of two things. You are either blind or suffer from some extreme mental complaint…”
He drank down the remainder of his drink before continuing, “…or you know exactly what that is about – that…what you saw in there. You are deliberately ignoring the gravity of what you found under that canvas, hey? Because you are curious, right? Hey? Am I right?”
Before Purdue could reply, a massive figure appeared in the doorway of the pub. Substantial in height and build, the silhouette paused momentarily to survey the establishment before finding what he sought.
“Don! So glad you could make it, son,” Purdue exclaimed.
“Hello Purdue,” the giant anthropologist greeted. “And my whiskey all ready and everything. That’s what I like about you, Purdue. Your expediency and aptitude for anticipation.”
“Good to see you again, Don. This is Dr. James Heidmann, an anthropologist currently exhibiting his collection at the British Museum,” Purdue introduced the two cordially. They shook hands just before Don took a seat and nursed his whiskey.
Purdue thought it was the opportune time to discuss the oddity discovered after the earthquake before Heidmann drank himself into a come from pure nerves. Already Purdue could see that the man was on the brink of a psychotic break.
“I’m elated that I can have both of you in one place here with me because I have recently become aware of a very lucrative and exciting incongruity that I will need assistance with,” Purdue said, keeping his voice low enough to maintain discretion.
Never being the tactful type, Don jumped in impatiently. “So is this about the human turned to stone, Purdue? Otherwise, I have better things to do.”
Heidmann’s inebriated eyes stared at the stranger with apparent horror. Then he looked at Purdue with his mouth agape in amazement.
“You knew,” he told Purdue, leaning on his unreliable right elbow to point at the billionaire. “How the hell did you know? And why is this bloke here? How does he know about my statue?”
Don scowled at Heidmann, deeming his accusation as a reason to question Purdue.
Purdue motioned with open palms for both men to be quiet and wait so that he could properly inform them of what he had in mind.
“Listen to me, both of you,” Purdue asserted. “I think this discovery is absolutely fascinating, and it deserves further investigation.”
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