Paper Treasure

by Anne Stephenson

  “Dad once told me Grampa hadn’t spoken to Jack Weir in almost twenty years.”

  “Well they must have made up,” reasoned Lisa, “or he wouldn’t have been planning to see him.”

  “Yeah, but why after all this time?”

  Charlie stared at his grandfather’s familiar scrawl. “I wonder if it has anything to do with the book.”

  “What book?” asked Lisa.

  Charlie filled her in on the missing pages from Rocks and Minerals in Canada.

  “Why don’t you ask your father? Maybe he knows.”

  Charlie shook his head. “Dad left last night for Toronto. He won’t be back until the weekend.”

  “Then why don’t you ask Weirdo?”

  “Hi, guys, whatcha doing?”

  Charlie slammed shut his grandfather’s diary and shoved it to the back of the desk as Joey bounded into the room.

  “I thought you were playing outside.”

  “I was. It started to rain.”

  Lisa glanced out the window. The sun was still shining, but a fine sheet of rain was slanting across the afternoon sky. She looked at her watch.

  “I’d better get going. It’s almost five.”

  Charlie stood up. “I’ll walk you downstairs.”

  “Me, too,” said Joey.

  Charlie gritted his teeth.

  “I’ll tell you what, Joey,” said Lisa, bending down and giving him a dazzling smile, “why don’t you go ahead and see if my mother’s still here.”

  “Okay, Lisa.” Joey raced for the stairs.

  “Smooth move,” said Charlie.

  “I babysit.”

  “Look. If I decide to go and see Weirdo, do you want to come?”

  “I’d love to,” said Lisa. “But don’t you have to look after your brother?”

  Not if I can help it, thought Charlie. “I’ll call on you tomorrow morning,” he said and followed her out of the room.

  The summer was shaping up after all.

  Chapter Three

  The Old Coot

  Essie Lovell was outside sweeping stray chestnut leaves off her porch when a man in his forties seemed to come out of nowhere. He strolled up her front walk.

  “Mrs. Lovell?”

  “Yes,” she answered cautiously.

  “Lovely day, isn’t it?”

  Mrs. Lovell stopped sweeping and took a closer look at her visitor. He seemed vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t place him. He wore glasses with dark, smoky lenses, and was conservatively dressed – probably a salesman, she thought. She’d hear what he had to say, and then politely tell him she wasn’t interested.

  “My name’s Reid,” he said. “I’m visiting Colville on a buying trip. I collect old certificates and papers for antique dealers in Toronto and Montreal.”

  Mrs. Lovell thought it over. “What kind of certificates?” she asked.

  “Old shares, stock certificates, bonds. That type of thing.’

  He edged a little closer to the porch. “You’d be surprised what people collect.”

  “What’s that got to do with me?”

  “I found your name on an old shareholders’ list. I thought maybe you’d have something that might interest my clients.”

  “Well, I don’t know,” said Mrs. Lovell. “My husband used to look after everything like that.”

  She felt a familiar, furry sensation around her ankles. Benjamin Bunny was scratching his chin against the sides of her orthopedic shoes.

  “Nice cat,” said her visitor conversationally. “Is he yours?”

  “Yes,” said Mrs. Lovell, “this is my Benjamin Bunny.”

  She bent down and stroked his flank.

  Benjamin arched his back in response, and padded down the porch steps to sniff out the stranger.

  Reid dismissed the cat with a perfunctory pat on the head, and continued his sales pitch. “Some people toss out their old certificates, thinking they’re worthless, but they’re not. Collectors will pay a few hundred dollars for old mining shares, for example.”

  Benjamin kept rubbing himself against Reid’s leg. Reid brushed irritably at the fur the cat was leaving behind on his slacks.

  “A few hundred dollars?”

  “That’s right.”

  Benjamin lost interest and moved away.

  “Mining shares have a lot of historical value,” continued Reid.

  Mrs. Lovell thought it over. A few hundred dollars would be useful, especially if she planned to stay in the house another winter. The furnace needed work, and there was a small leak in the roof that threatened to get bigger.

  “I’ll have to think about it,” she said finally. Her friend Dorothy had fallen for an investment scheme last year and lost all her money. Essie Lovell intended to be more prudent.

  “How much did it cost you?” asked Lisa as they headed east along King Street.

  “My entire allowance. I promised to take him to the show tonight, and buy him popcorn and a drink – watch out for the sprinkler.”

  A spray of water swung into their path, leaving a pattern of dark splotches in its wake.

  “I’d say your brother has a great future ahead of him.”

  “As what? A con artist or a blackmailer?”

  Lisa giggled. “He’s not that bad.”

  “Yeah? You try living with him seven days a week.”

  Charlie adjusted his backpack and glanced over his shoulder in case they were being tailed by any seven-year-old boys wearing purple reflector sunglasses. The coast was clear.

  “How much further?” asked Lisa.

  “About three blocks,” said Charlie. He’d called the nursing home that morning to get directions and find out about visiting hours.

  Lisa checked her watch. “It’s almost eleven. We’d better hurry if we’re going to see Weirdo before lunch.”

  According to the brass plaque by the front entrance, the Colville Nursing Home had once been a private home, built in 1853 by a wealthy ship owner. He must have watched his ships ply the lake from the top gable, thought Charlie as he craned his neck for a better view of the old stone mansion.

  Lisa was holding the door open for him, so he hurried up the front steps and inside to the main hall. It felt at least five degrees cooler now that they were out of the late-morning sun.

  They crossed the marble foyer to where an official-looking woman sat behind the reception desk. After a moment or two, she raised her head and peered at them over the top of her half-moon glasses.

  “Yes, can I help you?”

  “We’d like to see Mr. Weir,” said Charlie.

  “Are you a relative?”

  “No.”

  “A friend?”

  “Sort of,” said Charlie.

  The woman pursed her lips.

  “He’s actually a friend of my grandfather’s,” Charlie added. “At least he was.”

  “I’ll check and see if he wants visitors today,” said the receptionist. She picked up the phone. “There was a man here the other day, said he was a relative. Mr. Weir got very upset, said he’d never seen him before.”

  “You can’t be too careful,” said Lisa nudging Charlie with her foot.

  The receptionist entered a number and then waited a few moments before replacing the receiver.

  “There’s no answer in his room. He’s probably in the sunroom.”

  She gave them another once-over as if sizing up their sincerity. “I guess you can go ahead.” She pointed down the hall to her right. “Take the staircase at the end of the corridor to the second floor. The sunroom will be on your left.”

  “Thank you,” said Charlie.

  They walked quickly down the hallway before she could change her mind.

  “How are we going to know which one he is?” asked Lisa as they pounded up the stairs.

  “Good point.” Charlie stopped on the landing and thought about it. “My grandfather showed me an old picture once. Taken after
the Second World War. Weirdo was the smallest of the bunch.”

  “They all look like little old men,” whispered Lisa as they hovered uncertainly just inside the sunroom door. “Let’s ask that woman over there.”

  They threaded their way through half-a-dozen residents to where a pink-smocked volunteer was helping an elderly man piece together an elaborate jigsaw puzzle.

  “Excuse me,” began Charlie, “we’re looking for Jack Weir.”

  The woman scanned the room. “That’s him,” she nodded, “over by the window in the corner.”

  The old man was sitting stiffly in his wheelchair, a blanket over his knees despite the heat, staring out at the grounds below.

  “Mr. Weir?” Charlie asked tentatively.

  No answer.

  “I don’t think he heard you,” said Lisa.

  “Mr. Weir?” Charlie tried again, louder.

  “Stop shouting. I heard you the first time. What’s the matter?” Jack Weir swung his wheelchair around and faced his visitors belligerently. “You think I’m deaf or something?”

  “No, sir,” stammered Charlie.

  “Well, who are you? And what do you want?”

  Charlie’s tongue seemed to have swollen about ten times its normal size. He felt like an idiot.

  “I, that is, we, wanted to ask you a few questions…I’m Charlie Bradford and this is Lisa Kirby.”

  “How do you do,” said Lisa.

  “Bradford, Bradford,” muttered the old man. “Don’t know anybody named Bradford.”

  “Actually,” said Charlie, “you knew my grandfather.”

  “Who’s that?” Mr. Weir asked.

  “Malcolm Rossitor.”

  The old man scrunched his eyes warily. “He’s dead.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Charlie. “He died a couple of months ago.”

  “So what’s that got to do with me?”

  “Didn’t you two used to be friends?” asked Lisa.

  Mr. Weir’s expression softened. “That was a long time ago,” he said gruffly.

  “During the war?” prompted Charlie.

  “He told you about that, did he?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Charlie waited for the man to continue.

  “I suppose he told you there were six of us. Me, your grandfather, Herb Lovell, Louis Gagnon, Fraser Hamilton and old Archie Spencer. We were all in the same unit.” He stopped abruptly. “You said you wanted to ask me some questions. What about?”

  “Well, actually I’m not really sure,” Charlie began. “I thought you and my grandfather weren’t…um, weren’t exactly friends anymore….”

  “We weren’t.”

  “But he wrote in his diary that he was planning to come and see you. Why would he do that if you weren’t friends?”

  “Who knows? Your grandfather was a crazy old coot.”

  “Yeah, well he thought you were an old coot too,” replied Charlie hotly.

  “At least he wasn’t stuck in some fool nursing home,” fumed the old man. Then suddenly he started to chuckle.

  Charlie didn’t know what to do. He looked at Lisa. She put one hand on the arm of Mr. Weir’s wheelchair.

  “You see, sir,” said Lisa. “Somebody broke into Charlie’s grandfather’s house and didn’t take anything, just messed the whole place up. Like he was looking for something.”

  Charlie zipped open his backpack and pulled out his grandfather’s copy of Rocks and Minerals in Canada.

  “I found this,” he said, “on the living room floor.” He flipped open the book to where the ragged remains of several pages stood out from the spine.

  “So?”

  Charlie flushed. “My grandfather was really fussy about books. He never would have ripped pages out. I checked the index,” he continued. “I think the missing pages are from a section titled ‘Gold Deposits Found in the 1940s’.”

  The old man reached out and snatched the book from Charlie’s hands. He began leafing through the pages before and after the torn section.

  “Do you think it has anything to do with why Mr. Rossitor wanted to see you?” prompted Lisa.

  Mr. Weir snapped the book shut. “If there’s one thing Malcolm Rossitor and I had in common, it was gold. And it was gold that ruined out friendship.”

  “Then you think the book means something?” asked Charlie.

  “Of course, it means something. Whoever tore those pages out did it so you wouldn’t find out what he was really after.”

  “Which was?”

  Weirdo tucked the book under his blanket and checked to see if anyone was listening. The room was now empty but for one elderly gentleman. He was parked in front of the television with the volume cranked up.

  Charlie watched three bananas sporting false eyelashes and red lips dance across the screen to a reggae beat. He wondered what the old man thought about it all.

  “Old Fred is stone deaf,” said Weirdo. “But when it comes to gold, I don’t trust anybody.” He looked up at Charlie sharply. “Come to think of it, how do I know you’re really who you say you are?”

  Charlie shrugged. “I guess you’ll have to take my word for it.”

  “Humph. Uppity kid, aren’t you?”

  “It’s almost lunchtime,” intervened Lisa. “Maybe we’d better come back later.”

  “No. I want to find out what this is all about. I think Mr. Weir knows what’s going on.”

  The man blinked at him several times. “Then don’t just stand there, wheel me to my room,” he commanded. “I’ve got a story to tell you that’ll knock your socks off.”

  Chapter Four

  Archie Spencer and the

  Treasure Creek Gold Mine

  “Close the door behind you,” commanded Weirdo. “They’re all Nosey Parkers in this place.”

  Weirdo’s room was sparsely furnished but comfortably laid out, with lots of space for him to get about in a wheelchair. A single bed stood out from one wall, with a bureau and easy chair by the window. Piles of books and old magazines were stacked on the nightstand beside the phone.

  Charlie positioned the wheelchair so that Weirdo would have his back to the window, and he sat on the edge of the bed, leaving the chair for Lisa.

  The old man took a moment to gather his thoughts.

  “If you’re going to understand all this, I’ve got to start at the beginning.”

  “During the Second World War?” asked Lisa.

  “That’s right.” Weirdo warmed to his subject. “A guy named Herb Lovell, your grandfather,” he nodded to Charlie, “and I met Archie Spencer on the train in 1942. We were all going to the army training camp near Kingston before they shipped us overseas. The three of us already knew each other. but, old Archie, he’d just come out of the bush, been prospecting for gold in Northern Ontario. The yarns he used to spin….”

  Weirdo chuckled at some long-forgotten memory, and then picked up the thread of the story.

  “They put us in a cabin with Fraser Hamilton and Louis Gagnon. Fraser, he was from a well-to-do family in Toronto, and Louis’ family worked the paper mills in Cornwall. You’d never expect it in those days, but those two were thick as thieves, jabbering in French half the time.”

  “But what about the gold?” interrupted Charlie.

  “I’m getting to that.” The old man blinked at him. “Kids today. No patience,” he muttered.

  “Archie was always a little secretive about what he’d found up there in the bush. Until the day we were pinned down in France.”

  “My grandfather told me about that,” said Charlie.

  “And did he tell you about the gold?” Weirdo swung his chair around to face the bed.

  “No, sir.”

  “Archie made us promise not to tell a soul if we made it out of there alive.”

  Weirdo paused dramatically.

  Lisa leaned forward in her chair.

  Charlie’s heart picked up speed.


  “He said he’d struck the motherlode. Know what that means?”

  “The big find, the centre of it all?” suggested Lisa.

  Weirdo nodded. “What every prospector dreams about. Here, I’ll show you what I’m talking about.” He pointed in the direction of Charlie’s ankles. “My trunk.”

  Charlie slid off the bed and bent down. There was a dusty, khaki-coloured foot locker under the bed, identical to the one in his grandfather’s basement. He grabbed the thick leather grip and pulled it out into the room.

  The trunk’s brass fittings were dull with age, but the old man’s name was still visible: Lt. J. W. Weird.

  Charlie reached for the hasp. It was locked.

  Weirdo fumbled beneath his blanket and produced a worn leather key case. “Here.” He handed it to Charlie “Open it up.”

  Charlie fitted the key to the lock and turned. It clicked open. He pulled the lock from the hasp and lifted the lid. A faint musty odour rose to his nostrils.

  Lisa hunkered down beside him for a better look. Photos and documents lay alongside tarnished silver teaspoons and newspaper clippings. Lisa picked up a framed shot of six men in uniform.

  “That’s my grandfather,” said Charlie pointing to a tall, dark-haired young man. The soldier next to him was short and wiry, and vaguely familiar. Lisa turned to look at Mr. Weir.

  “That’s me,” he confirmed, “next to Malcolm. Archie’s on his other side. That’s Herb Lovell on my left, Fraser and Louis.”

  They all look so young and handsome, thought Lisa. Now Charlie’s grandfather was dead and Jack Weir was in a wheelchair. Lisa carefully returned the picture to where she had found it.

  Charlie was fingering the row of medals decorating the front of Weirdo’s army jacket. It was stored, along with his lieutenant’s cap, in the large middle compartment of the trunk.

  “Underneath the uniform you’ll find a tobacco tin,” said Weirdo.

  The jacket was heavy and rough. Charlie spotted the blue Player’s Tobacco tin nestled among the folds of a faded ivory gown, right where Weirdo had said it would be.

  “What’s in it?” asked Charlie.

  “Give it here,” ordered Weirdo. “I’ll show you.”

  Charlie passed it over. Weirdo grasped the can and gave the lid a twist. He reached inside and pulled out a small drawstring pouch.