Among the other things, he’d learned was that the collector who owned the lock was a businessman, a real-estate developer, named Ulrich Steele. He was wealthy and well-known to the dealers in antiquities. He not only often bought items from them for his collections but, as in this case, he had sponsored the expedition that located and retrieved them. This lock was among a number of small items his expedition had found, and it was the only one he’d kept. Although he let it be examined, photographed and cataloged, little was known about it. But it clearly meant something to Steele as he appeared to treasure it. He had housed it along with the rest of his collection.
That made getting it a challenge. Steele wasn’t likely to part with it easily. The next challenge was the location. As a collector, Ulrich Steele liked to have his pretty things close at hand. Steele’s company had built a high-rise, upmarket apartment building close to the financial district. He occupied the top two floors. Even before going there, Clarence knew that this was going to be difficult. Stopping at the library to research Steele, he saw newspaper clippings that told him that the top floor of the building was the climate-controlled, heavily guarded home for his collection. It was accessed by a flight of stairs from the floor below, which could only be reached by emergency stairs and a private elevator that didn’t go to other floors—Steele’s own apartment.
This wasn't a place that could be accessed easily, but a museum director told Clarence that Ulrich Steele was proud of his collection. “If you want to see the lock, just call his secretary and make an appointment.”
“It’s that easy?”
The man shrugged. “He’s proud of it. If you have any reasonable excuse to want to see his collection, especially that lock of his, he’ll be delighted to show it off to you. He usually does that personally.”
“What kind of excuse would be sufficient?”
The man chuckled. “Anything like professional curiosity would do the trick. Someone knowledgeable about locks and antiquities would be welcomed with open arms.”
That was what he knew. Now it was time to see the lock, to make sure it was the same one mentioned in the ledger, and see if it was cursed.
So, while Cecilia tracked down lucky gamblers, Clarence returned to the library and spent the morning learning about locks, becoming someone knowledgeable about their history. Fortunately, he was good at assimilating knowledge quickly and was able to grasp the evolution of locks, through the ages.
Then, feeling ready, he made a call, asking if it was possible to see the collection. “I’m just in town for a few days,” he said.
“And what’s your interest in Mr. Steele’s collection?” the man asked.
“I’m a curator,” he said. “I’m fascinated by what I’ve heard of his collection of Pre-Christian Totemic Artifacts from Western European Tribal Cultures. In particular, I’ve heard of an early Egyptian lock. I’ll admit that I have an abiding interest in locks, you see. They are something of a hobby of mine.”
"What museum?" the man asked.
The question caught him off guard. "I beg your pardon?"
"You said you are a curator. What museum are you with?"
"The Smithsonian," he blurted out. When the man asked, that was the only name that came to mind and now he felt like kicking himself for not being prepared. He should’ve expected them to ask that. If they asked to see credentials, he was sunk. He hadn't brought his computer or the other things he'd need to manufacture any kind of ID card.
But the damage was done and now he'd have to bluff his way through using that identity. But what if they called the Smithsonian to verify that he worked there.
“Hold on please,” the man said. After a short wait he was back. “Mr. Steele said he will meet with you. If he likes you, he will show you his collection himself."
Clarence sank into his chair with relief. The game was afoot and, to mix his metaphors, he’d gotten a foot in the door. "Thank you. When would be convenient?"
There was a rumble of voices. "Could you be here this afternoon at two pm?"
"Yes. That would be excellent."
“Do you know the address?”
“No, I’m afraid I don’t.” Even that lie unsettled him but he thought it better if he didn’t seem too prepared.
“Just tell the taxi to bring you to the Steele Tower.”
“All right.”
“When you arrive, go to the front desk and check in with the security guard. It’s a completely secure building. I’ll put your name on their list and security will take you to the elevator.”
Clarence thanked the man then began the essential worrying. He’d slipped into the nail-biting time before the meeting that would give him all the time he needed to imagine everything that might, that undoubtedly would go wrong. Naturally, they’d call the Smithsonian and learn he was a fake. He’d arrive and be arrested. Or they’d simply turn him away.
Unfortunately, even with all the time in the world to prepare, there was nothing he could do to prevent those things from happening. Having cast the die, as it were, all that remained was to show up and try to bluff his way in.
To stop worrying, Clarence went back to studying, making sure he could call on trivia without missing a beat and reminding himself to occasionally get something not quite right, to humanize the curator who wanted to see Steele’s fascinating collection.
Just before two, he stepped out of the library and into the oven that passed for a street and flagged down a taxi. Taxis and casinos were both plentiful in Las Vegas. The taxi dropped him off at an impressive building of concrete and steel, with windows that flashed golden in the bright sunlight.
He walked into the lobby.
“Can I help you, sir,” a uniform guard standing behind a large, hotel-like desk asked.
Clarence noted a heavy steel door behind the desk that looked to be securely locked. A sign told him that it was a security room. “My name is Clarence Copperfield. Mr. Ulrich Steele is expecting me at two.”
“Thank you,” the guard said as he checked his computer console. He nodded, then pushed a button. “Mr. Copperfield for Mr. Steele,” he said. “Right away, sir.” He smiled at Clarence. “Please follow me, sir.”
As the guard came out from behind the desk he led Clarence to a private elevator. He used a key card to open the door and Clarence stepped in. The elevator had only two buttons—penthouse and ground. “Have a good day, sir,” the guard said.
Clarence pushed the button, the door closed, and he was whisked up to the penthouse. When the door opened again a man was standing there. He put out a hand. “I’m Ulrich Steele, Mr. Copperfield. It’s good to meet you. Anyone interested in antiquities is welcome.”
Clarence took the offered hand. As he shook it firmly, he took a good look at the man. Steele was big, powerfully built and surprisingly fit for an antique collector. Most of the ones he’d met spent their spare time indoors, studying their treasures. Steele looked more like a rugged outdoorsman, but one who liked to dress well. He wore an expensive suit and the friendliness in his greeting seemed sincere. The man was comfortable with who he was, confident almost to the point of being smug. Yet there was a tension in his body, as if he was prepared to leap into action at any moment.
As Clarence took him in, he was acutely aware that Steele was sizing him up as well, but in a far more predatory fashion that more than offset his outwardly friendly manner.
"You know, I thought I knew all the curators at the Smithsonian… in my field," he said. He didn't challenge, he inquired, but there was something menacing behind the voice.
Clarence had come up with an angle to deflect this. "I'm new.”
“New?”
“The truth is that… I’m afraid I lied to your secretary.” The ‘I-knew-it smile that flickered across Steele’s face told him that this was the right approach. “I mean, I am employed by the Smithsonian, but I was just hired. I graduated a week ago and I’m taking a vacation before I start there next month. I'm going to be an intern."
"Aha. So this visit is more personal than professional."
"If you can separate the two. I can’t anymore. I took my doctorate in pre-Christian cultures."
"That isn’t the most in-demand sort of degree, I'd imagine. And rather broad. It covers a great deal of ground."
"It does. At first, I focused on ancient Egyptian culture."
"But that love affair didn't last?"
"No. It is a crowded field and oddly even more political than other areas of academia… in my limited experience. So ultimately I found myself drifting into the study of Western European tribal cultures. That was a career move, however, and personally, I admit that I still harbor a soft spot for all things to do with ancient Egypt."
The sparkle that came into Steele's eyes told Clarence he was on the right track. "And you were in town and heard about my lock?"
Clarence nodded. "I was in the downtown museum and talking to some people there. It seems that it’s a rather impressive piece and an important Egyptian artifact. I couldn’t resist taking a chance that I could see it."
"It is both important and impressive. In fact, we think that this lock of mine might well be the very first lock ever made."
"Not to be disrespectful, but that wouldn't be the oldest lock, actually," Clarence told him.
"No? What do you mean?" Steele seemed offended.
"If it’s from the period that is claimed for it, then your lock would likely be between four and six thousand years old, but there is, of course, the lock and key device that was discovered in the ruins of Nineveh, the capital of ancient Assyria."
Steele snorted. "No one knows for certain those clumsy affairs even worked."
"That is true, but then yours, if it is authentic, would be a rather clumsy wooden affair."
"Clumsy? Compared to what?"
"Well, compared to Robert Barronin's double-acting tumbler lock," Clarence told him, happy to have spent the time doing his research. And it was interesting stuff.
Steele considered that and sniffed. "Barronin’s lock was, practically speaking, a modern lock."
"Invented in 1778," Clarence agreed. "I just meant that if you are discounting the Assyrian lock based on functionality, yours would have an enormous key."
"My Egyptian lock is still in working condition," Steele said. "I'll bet you can't say that about Barronin's original lock."
"Probably not."
"You seem quite fascinated by locks."
Clarence had counted on this question. "I grew up with them. My father was a locksmith. He was hung up on the history of the things. He was always going on about the invention of the first modern key."
Steele smiled. "Yes, by Theodore of Samos in the 6th century BC."
"Yes."
"Well, if you are an Egyptologist at heart, something else about my lock should fascinate you. It is ancient, Egyptian, and, reportedly… cursed."
Clarence gave him a big smile. "You certainly have my attention, Mr. Steele. I hadn’t read anything about that."
"I haven’t broadcast that fact, Mr. Copperfield. But there is no reason you shouldn’t know.”
“Is this a deadly curse?”
“It doesn’t seem to be. But enough talking, let me show it to you."
“Wonderful!”
With Steele leading the way Clarence followed to a security door that Steele opened with a pass key. They stepped through the door and went up a flight of stairs to a room basking in sunlight. It rushed in through multiple skylights and was reflected about in a structured way to illuminate the room.
As they walked, Clarence was glancing around, making mental notes, recording details about the place. It was discouragingly secure. He’d expected that but hoped he would be wrong. There were no real windows and as he stared at the skylights, Steele beamed with pride.
“Aren’t they something? My company developed them. I can control the amount of light that passes through them by changing their refractive index. And they double as security windows. They’re made of multiple panes of glass that are embedded with wire that connects to the building’s alarm systems.
“Impressive.”
He grinned. “And it’s good marketing. Customers know that I developed them for my own use and so they want them in their buildings too. The markup on them is incredible, but since they are patented, I’m the only source.” He pointed to a glass case. “Here we are.”
As they stepped up to the case, Steele opened a side panel that was hinged.
Clarence stared. “Beautiful,” he said. And it was. Obviously, it had been painted at some point, and traces of blue, red, and gold remained in the grooves where it was carved. The lock was more massive than he’d imagined and the key huge and unwieldy. "Good thing they've improved them since then," he said. "I'd hate to have a ring of those in my pocket."
Steele gave him an odd look and he reminded himself that collectors took their pieces very seriously. To accommodate them, curators probably had their sense of humor amputated at an early age. You probably had to if you were going to work in a museum.
"Can I take a picture of it?" he asked Steele.
"I suppose that would be all right."
"It's such a beautiful piece and I’d love for my father to see it."
That seemed to make Steele relax. A little at least. So, with the man watching, he took out his phone, snapped a photo and sent it to me.
Steele grinned. "Now I suppose you want to see the rest of my collection."
It wasn't a question… as it was the alleged reason for him being there Clarence knew he had to smile, nod and prepare himself to undergo a torture probably invented by the Spanish Inquisition… a museum tour. And this one was run by a proud owner. "I'd be delighted," he said.
As Steele led him toward an array of glass cases, they were both smiling, but there was something a little sinister, a wolfish quality about the one on Ulrich's face. Clarence wasn’t sure if it had anything to do with him, this visit, or just reflected Steele’s true nature.
Neither alternative was pleasant.
Chapter 11
I spent much of the rest of my day tracking down the mystery woman, the one who'd been gambling with the big winner and had been lucky later. My instincts (yes, them again, Clarence) told me that she was the key to the puzzle. She knew something. If there was an artifact at work, she'd used it to win after the man left.
But she did it right. She didn't go crazy. Whatever she’d done, or understood had, so far, kept her out of the obituaries and off the front page. I needed to know what it was that she was doing that was different. Already I had a hunch part of that was a matter of scale. She hadn't made a big splash in any casino and, equally important, especially to her, she hadn't had some bizarre and improbable accident.
Those two things, taken together, fit into the theory I was forming about the power the curse had… and didn't have. She managed to control it. I thought I could assume that I had more experience with cursed objects than she had (I couldn’t be certain, of course) and might do even better. I hoped so. Clarence’s concerns weren’t totally misplaced… I just thought he underestimated us and our abilities.
A while back, the first time Clarence and I had worked together, we’d chased down cursed spectacles and retrieved them. When I was near them, I'd felt them call to me. It was a strong, seductive, but resistible attraction. When I put them on in an emergency, needing to use their power, I’d really felt it. It had taken a lot more effort to yank them off my face and get away from them.
In that way, the spectacles, the space-shuttle fragment, and now the pair of dice were all different from the pen. They wanted you to use them and learn their purpose. The pen didn’t seem to do anything at all—it was just a connection to Edgar, as far as we could tell.
I’d found the pen in a box, opened it to see what was inside, forgetting for the moment all about curiosity and cats and death, and once I opened the box and saw the pen… well, Edgar was there waiting for a host and it was me �
� I was cursed. Poof. Just like that.
Apparently, I was stuck with the pen, and through it, Edgar, until I was able to give someone else the pen. But there were rules about that. The person had to accept it willingly, so sticking it in the pocket of a passerby wouldn’t work. I’d get about one hundred feet away and then I’d be stopped. Edgar, the pen, and I were bound to each other, although none of us had any idea what the point of that was.
I wondered if that aspect of the curse, that difference had to do with Edgar himself. It was possible that the force of his personality, or even the fact of him being part of it, could make it a different kettle of fish. His power, his existence, could affect the curse and make that quite different from a simple, cursed, but otherwise inanimate object. (Did I just call a cursed object simple? Shows you how experience alters your opinions.)
Not that I minded having Edgar around, most of the time. I’d gotten used to him, and at times there's something to be said for having your own ghost. He’d helped me out more than once (balancing out the times he annoyed me). Even if no one but Enid and Clarence could see him, there was a certain cachet to being haunted. Furthermore, he knew some things about the weird world we were investigating that the rest of us didn’t. Unfortunately, he didn't know as much as I would've thought… or liked.
"What on earth are you doing?" Edgar asked as we walked across the baking hot pavement from one casino to the next. I was making the rounds, hoping that the woman had decided to use her luck in small doses in several casinos. So far, no one remembered her. I'd developed a story that she was my sister and fallen in with some bad people and although people seemed to believe me, it didn't jog their memories.
And now Edgar was putting in his two cents. "What do you mean, what am I doing? I'm chasing down this mystery woman. You heard what Freddy said--she won at the roulette table after the big winner left, so I think she must have gotten the dice from him. I think she's trying to use it in small doses to build up a bankroll without using up her luck. It’s smart."
The Curious Case of the Cursed Dice (Curiosity Shop Cozy Mysteries Book 2) Page 7