by Adrien Leduc
* * *
The following morning. Hotel Grand. Room 404.
Hearing a knock at the door, Dr. Rosenberg rises from his chair by the window (taking care to set down his mug of green tea on the window sill), and makes his way to the door. His suitcase lies open on the bed, half packed, with the remainder of the items due to go inside lying strewn about it.
“Who is it?” he calls as he arrives at the door.
He glances through the peep hole and spies a middle aged man dressed in a smart suit and wearing thick-framed glasses. Tucked under the man’s arm is a fine leather briefcase.
He pulls the door open.
“Can I help you?”
The man smiles. “Dr. Rosenberg…I am glad you haven’t left yet. The kind woman at the desk downstairs said you would be checking out shortly.”
The man speaks with a London accent - the kind found in Chelsea and at upper class boarding schools back in North America.
“Yes, I’ve got a plane in - ” the professor pauses as he glances at his watch, “about five hours. I should probably get a move on.”
The man nods, pushing past him and heading straight for the table by the window. “Well, I shan’t take too much of your time. I merely wanted to express my delight at your presentation of yesterday. I firmly believe that your hypothesis may in fact be correct.”
Somewhat miffed by his guest’s intrusion, Dr. Rosenberg is nonetheless flattered. “Well…thank you. It’s nice to hear that at least one person gleaned something of value from it.”
The man laughs as he sets his briefcase on the table and undoes its fasteners. “Trust me, old boy, your presentation was thoroughly exhilarating.”
Positively beaming now - and not being one to shy away from a compliment - Dr. Rosenberg steps closer to the man, curious to see what’s inside the briefcase. “Er...I’ve got some time yet...before I have to leave...would you like a cup of tea? I’ve only just made a pot,” he adds, indicating his tea cup on the window sill.
“Really? I…that is most…thank you, Dr. Rosenberg.” He laughs again, a vain, guffawing laugh, the kind of laugh you hear in lawyers’ boardrooms and men’s-only cigar shops. “I don’t want to impose,” he adds, glancing at the suitcase on the bed.
“You’re not imposing, Dr…I just realized I didn’t get your name?”
“Nigel Cook. And, alas, unlike you, I’m no doctor. In fact I dropped out of university in my second year.”
“Oh?”
“Yes…I didn’t have the best upbringing you see, despite my accent.” He laughs. “This,” he says, pointing to his mouth, “took eons to acquire.”
“And so…what is your interest in my field of study exactly?” asks Dr. Rosenberg, feeling somewhat perplexed.
“That is an excellent question and if you’ll allow me, I’d like to show you something. May I?” he asks, opening the flap of his briefcase and gesturing toward the chair on the opposite side of the table, the chair Dr. Rosenberg had vacated only moments earlier when he’d gone to answer the door.
“Of course,” says Dr. Rosenberg obligingly, taking a seat.
“Yes, it’s quite…well, I’ll show you in just a moment…I reckon you’ll be rather impressed.”
Dr. Rosenberg nods, only half listening, moving his dirtied breakfast dishes to the farthest end of the table.
“Ah, here we are,” Nigel announces, producing a handful of what appear to be newspaper clippings from his briefcase. “Set your eyes on these wondrous discoveries…I’ll lay them out nicely so you can have a proper look,” he adds, sorting them and spreading them out across the length of the table.
Dr. Rosenberg, having deposited the mess from the table on the kitchen counter, returns to the table and peers at the faded and yellowed newspaper clippings.
“1,200 year old Viking stash found at Aldershot” reads one.
“Ancient Celtic burial ground uncovered at Cardiff” reads another.
“So what exactly am I looking at?” asks Dr. Rosenberg after a minute, his eyes scanning the headlines and skimming the articles. The one at his fingertips reads: “Boudicca’s Booty?: Ancient treasure stash found at Surrey believed to have belonged to medieval Briton queen”
“You, Dr. Rosenberg,” Nigel begins proudly, “are looking at my history. My work history that is.”
“Are you trying to tell me you discovered all of these?”
The man’s eyes are positively gleaming now. “And more.”
“There are more?”
“Many. Not from England. I have a strict rule about reporting my finds in England. That, and the authorities are quite diligent here. Moreso than in countries like Hungary and Macedonia.”
Dr. Rosenberg’s jaw drops involuntarily. “You’ve found treasures there as well?”
Nigel emits a mighty guffaw. “Among other places.”
“So, let me get this straight. You travel around the world searching for long lost treasure, and when you find it, you don’t report it? Are you just…are you keeping it for yourself!?”
Nigel’s face darkens. “Do you have a problem with that?”
“I most certainly do have a problem with that!” Dr. Rosenberg replies angrily. “For one thing, it’s not yours. For another, such treasures and artifacts belong in museums where everyone can benefit from them - not just wealthy collectors.” He seems to almost spit the word “collectors”.
“For a man with a P.H.D., you are rather naïve. Do you honestly believe that treasure never goes missing from public collections? There was a case here in England, not long ago in fact, where a curator was discovered to have been stealing artifacts from a museum and selling them on the black market. Why should we go to the trouble of finding these valuable treasures only to serve them up on a silver platter for such individuals? Why not simply profit ourselves?”
“Because I’m not in this for profit,” Dr. Rosenberg growls.
There’s silence for awhile - an awkward silence - and then finally Nigel begins gathering up the newspaper clippings. “I really must be going, it appears I’ve wasted your time - or rather, I should say - you’ve wasted my time. I’m sorry to have bothered you.”
“So you should be. I have a right mind to inform the authorities about your activities, Mr. Cook.”
Nigel simply smiles as he takes up his briefcase and heads for the door. “Do as you will, professor.”
“And what if I do?”
But Nigel doesn’t answer. Instead, he flings open the door and exits the room, leaving Dr. Rosenberg stewing over their brief encounter.