“Not a penny.”
“I’m sorry?” Obviously his ears hadn’t popped yet.
Sigurson swallowed egg. “Too steep?”
Cora, the waitress, was taking an inordinate amount of time clearing and wiping down the table nearest the booth. Valentino lowered his voice. “Is there someplace we can talk in private?”
“Son, this here’s the Upper Peninsula. Ain’t no place you can’t.”
They paid for their meals and went out, strolling an empty sidewalk where the parking meters were placed against buildings so as not to obstruct snow plows in winter. The nip in the air had lost some of its edge, but the visitor was grateful for the flannel lining of his windbreaker. He couldn’t understand why his companion’s exposed arms and legs weren’t turning blue.
“Ever hear of Little Bohemia?” Sigurson asked.
“No.”
“How about John Dillinger, ever hear of him?”
“Oh, yes!” He wondered if the old man’s mind was wandering.
“Back in ’thirty-four—before my time, by the way—he and his gang slipped right out from under the FBI’s nose when agents had them surrounded in the Little Bohemia lodge, across the line in Wisconsin. Dillinger split off from the rest, worked his way down to Detroit, then back west. Lots of people know that. What they don’t know, most of ’em, is when he left that lodge he brung along a sack of gold bullion he stole from a bank in Indiana.
“Well, bullion’s heavy, so he did it to keep it from slowing him down, meaning to come back for it later. Only he didn’t get around to it, because a couple of months later the FBI got lucky finally and gunned him down outside a picture show in Chicago.”
“Who told you about the gold?” Valentino was humoring him. Sooner or later even the most determined babblers returned to the subject.
“Everybody around here back then knew the story, even if most of ’em thought it was hooey. There’s always talk of buried treasure wherever a bandit’s been. That man Preminger bought into it. What’s more, he got the gold. Excuse me, son. I’m still breaking in this new hip.”
They’d come to a little patch of park, where Sigurson lowered himself onto a painted bench. Valentino joined him. He was eager to hear the rest, now; implausible tales were meat and mead to a movie buff.
“We had an old town character in them days, called Shorty. I think Short was his real name. Had a face looked like the map of the Upper Peninsula. I think that’s why Preminger hired him as an extra, to make his picture look authentic. You can see him in a crowd scene outside the courthouse.
“Shorty was an old-time bootlegger, had a reputation for helping folks hide out who was on the run from the law, places where he used to stash liquor. He got drunk one day and told me he ought to give up the stuff because it made him talk too much. He said he’d talked himself out of a fortune when he told Preminger he’d harbored Dillinger for a few days after Little Bohemia and Dillinger trusted him to hold his gold till he came back. The Kraut egged him on by pretending he was interested in buying the story from him for a picture.”
“Don’t tell me he told him where he hid it.”
Sigurson nodded. “In the shaft of an iron mine that shut down in ’twentyeight when the ore run out. He kept a still there from ’thirty to ’thirty-three.”
“It had to have been there, what, twenty-four years. What kept him from spending it?”
“Franklin Delano Roosevelt. When FDR took the country off the gold standard he made it illegal for American citizens to own it or spend it. Shorty said he’d done his share of jail time for breaking the Prohibition laws and hadn’t took to it. He was waiting for the government to change its mind, like it done when it said it was all right to go back to drinking.”
“So Otto Preminger wound up with the gold.”
“No, sir, he didn’t. I busted into the Kraut’s hotel room the night before he flew back to Hollywood and searched it top to bottom. I didn’t find so much as a gold filling.”
This evil old man shocked Valentino. “He sent it ahead.”
“I asked the postmaster point-blank if anyone with the picture company had sent any large packages. He wasn’t supposed to answer me, but he knew me since I was a kid, or thought he did. Couple of letters and some postcards was all. There wasn’t no FedEx or UPS then, and the next post office was a forty-minute drive. Preminger never broke more than a half-hour for lunch; just long enough to get that gold and stash it someplace else. If you think he trusted a flunky to ship it out for him, you haven’t listened to a word I’ve said about that bald bastard.”
“Maybe he had better luck than Dillinger and came back.”
“Mister, until that company came to town we hadn’t seen a celebrity since Paul Bunyan. You think he could sneak back in? He figured it was safe where he put it till it was legal to flash it around, just like Shorty. He was still waiting when he died. Shorty’s dead, too, of course. I can hold my liquor and keep a secret. You and I are the only ones know about that gold.”
“Why tell me?”
The baggy face under the Gilligan cap leaned close enough for Valentino to smell the egg on his breath. “You’re going to help me get it. That’s my price for letting you have that home movie.”
Although the air was warming, his years in the desert climate hadn’t prepared Valentino for a crisp autumn in the upper Midwest. Sitting on the bench slowed his circulation and his thinking; he could swear the old man was recruiting him to hunt for hidden treasure. He asked for another change of scene.
“If you can stand an old widower’s shack.” Sigurson rose.
The little house set back from the state highway wasn’t the hermit’s hovel the visitor had expected. It wore a coat of whitewash and the functional shutters on the windows were painted a festive red. The open floor plan included a pair of worn but cozy-looking armchairs, a narrow bed neatly made on an iron frame, a white enamel sink, and a small wood-burning stove that kept the temperature pleasantly in the sixties. It wasn’t a cookstove. His host appeared to depend on the diner for his sustenance.
“Privy’s out back,” he said when his guest looked around for what was missing. “Town ordered ’em all torn down forty years ago, but I’m a beloved local character, so the council don’t see it on purpose.”
Valentino wondered if the members would be so indulgent if they knew the truth about the character. “Actually, I was thinking about your projector.”
“That’s at my son’s place on the lake, the films and the camera, too. I didn’t have the space and I put away the hobby when I blew out my hip. He’s been after me to come live with him, but the plain fact is I can’t stand his wife and she hates my guts. Peppermint schnapps?” He took a flat bottle from the woodbox near the stove.
Valentino shook his head. It wasn’t anywhere near noon. “Won’t mess with glasses, then.” Sigurson tipped up the bottle. It gurgled and he recapped it and put it back. He waved his guest into one of the shabby armchairs and took one for himself. “Sometimes I think I’d still have all the parts the good Lord gave me if I hadn’t spent so much time ducking in and out of mineshafts and climbing down cisterns and digging holes poking around for that gold. I was never much for manual labor. I was an engineer. I helped design Big Mac.”
Valentino had done some research on the area before coming there and knew that Big Mac was not a McDonald’s specialty but the great Mackinac Bridge that had linked the Upper and Lower peninsulas for fifty years, eliminating the need for ferries to carry cars and passengers between them.
Sigurson continued. “Turning point come when I was sweating through a break telling myself I wasn’t cut out for that type of work. Engineers work with numbers, not their backs. So do movie directors, always thinking about how many takes they need to get a scene right and staying under budget and how many pages they can shoot before the labor unions give ’em grief. Preminger’d no more swing a pick or climb a ladder than he’d paint a set.
“Well, sir, that was a revelati
on. A man with a head for figures, a stranger in these parts, he’d rig a hiding place the easy way, someplace where what he hid couldn’t be found except by him, and he’d draw up a plan to jog his memory. But words and drawings take time, and they get lost or stolen. A puffed-up, proud-of-hisself jerk like him thought everything he shot was cut in stone. Anatomy of a Murder, my eye. It was a treasure map.”
Valentino sat forward.
The old man twinkled at the reaction. “I got excited, too, but it didn’t last. At the time I had that brainstorm, the only way you got to see a picture that had had its day was in a revival theater or on late-night TV. I can’t tell you how many miles I drove to see it when it showed up in a listing anywhere around here, or how many times I set my alarm to get up and squint at it on my old Admiral when even the coyotes had went to bed. Mister, I can recite every line from memory. My son thought I couldn’t get enough of it because I was in it. I let him.”
“You don’t trust anyone, do you?”
“Not unless there’s something in it for them when I do, like you.”
“There must’ve been a flaw in your theory, or you’d have the gold by now.”
“Theory’s sound, I know that now. See, back then them reels had been through so many hands there was breaks and splices every place they played, and on TV the station managers butchered ’em to make room for commercials. One time the whole panty scene was missing.”
“Censorship, probably. That scene almost kept the film out of theaters in ’fifty-nine.”
Sigurson looked annoyed. “What I’m saying is a map’s no good when it’s full of holes.”
“You waited twenty years for the video revolution.”
“Longer, as it turned out. Once them VCRs caught on they sold like smoked salmon, and the studios just dumped their stuff onto tape to fill the orders. No extra stuff except sometimes the original preview, and the quality wasn’t always much better than in theaters and on TV. It helped a little, but there was blanks still.
“Then came DVD.”
Valentino nodded. The advent of disc players had opened the floodgates. Demand for more and more material had inspired copyright holders to forage deeper and deeper into the inventory, and the initial release of Anatomy and hundreds of other classics to disc had helped turn nearly every American household into a screening room. From there it was only a short jump to special edition re-releases with restored scenes and hours of documentaries, expert commentary, and interviews with surviving production personnel. It all seemed like some kind of conspiracy orchestrated by this wicked old rustic to lure him to this rocky outcrop on the edge of now here.
“I put my paws on that disc the day it showed up here,” Sigurson said. “I hate to say it, but seeing it the way it was supposed to be seen, the way I hadn’t since it premiered, before I knew what good it could do me, I near got lost in it. The Kraut had a gift. I had to sit through it twice more with a notepad on my knee to get what I needed.”
“If you got what you needed, what do you need me for?”
Sigurson showed his prosthetic teeth in that baggy evil grin. “You ever been snorkeling?”
The friendly clerk at the desk asked the guest if he was going for a walk. “Not much nightlife here, I’m afraid. We roll up the sidewalks at dusk.”
“You’re right about the walk.” Valentino, who had packed for the latitude, pulled on a pair of jersey gloves from the pocket of his windbreaker. A knitted cap covered the tops of his ears. “It’ll be nice to smell something other than auto exhaust for a change.”
“The one thing we have in surplus is fresh air.”
There was frost, and a stiff breeze from the lake that tightened his face and made him grateful once again for the shelter of Leonard Sigurson’s tiny house. The atmosphere, however, was gloomy, with all the shades drawn and only a low-wattage lamp burning on a narrow table.
“Can’t have the neighbors guessing what we’re about,” he said, handing his guest a bundle. “You and my son are about the same size. He won’t miss it; he ain’t dove in years.”
Valentino groped the spongy material of the heavy-duty wet suit. “It’s been awhile for me, too. I was pretty good at it, but I’ve only been down once or twice in the dark.”
“Well, this ain’t daylight work.”
“Is anything about this legal?”
“I ain’t Dillinger just because I busted into a hotel room one time. Statute of limitations on the bank robbery run out years and years ago, and back in ’thirtyfour the accounts weren’t federally insured. It’s okay to own gold again. Whoever claims it, it’s his, provided he makes out all the paperwork and pays taxes on it.”
There was no place for privacy, but the old man had some discretion in his black heart, turning his back to feed the stove while Valentino stripped and put on the suit. He slipped back into his shoes and socks for warmth and tucked the flippers and snorkel under one arm. “How much money are we talking about?”
“Mister, that’s none of your business. A deal’s a deal. The film’s all you get.”
“I don’t want any part of your gold. I don’t believe it’s as aboveboard as you say. If I cared to be rich there are better ways to do it in L.A. than working for a university.”
“You and my son got more in common than just size. He’s a marine biologist.” Sigurson shook his head. “Old Shorty said that bullion was worth fifty grand in nineteen fifty-eight. Figuring in exaggeration on his part, it’s right around a million now. I always wanted to see the world. Now I can do it from a first-class cabin and five-star hotels from here to China. I’ll soak these old bones at Lourdes.”
“What about your son?”
“Oh, I’ll see Roger gets a taste once I’m gone. I don’t intend to leave enough behind to put a smile on that sour puss of his wife’s.”
The native’s only concession to the cold had been to pull on a pair of lined jogging pants and a gray hooded sweatshirt. Outside, he tugged the hood up over his sailor’s cap. He looked like an impious old monk. He carried a battery-operated lantern, but left it off as he led the way over hard, uneven ground toward the lake. Obviously he knew the way in the dark. Valentino stumbled along behind.
“Math, I made my living on it a long time,” said the old man in a voice so low his companion had to strain to hear it against the surging of the inland sea. “Anatomy’s one hundred and sixty minutes long. Divide that by forty-nine scenes—chapters, they call ’em on DVD—multiply it by the number of actors credited in the cast, and you get the number of paces Preminger took from the mineshaft he took the gold from to the shore. Shorty pointed out the shaft for me; no need to keep it a secret once it was empty.
“Just where on the shore stumped me for many months. Give me a hand with this, will you?”
The sky was clear, and although there was no moon, the stars hung low and huge and reflected off the choppy surface like glittering scales. As Valentino’s eyes adjusted, he saw that they’d stopped at a tiny pier glistening with fish slime, and at the point where it jutted out into the water lay an oblong object covered by a canvas tarpaulin. He stooped to help untie the cotton clothesline that secured the canvas and dragged it away from a nine-foot boat of painted aluminum with a small outboard motor attached to the stern.
Sigurson returned to the subject. “I spent a year and plenty of shoe leather working out what was division and what was multiplication and whether addition and subtraction had anything to do with it, but which direction he paced had me stalled till I remembered that there.”
The archivist peered in the direction he was pointing, but saw nothing beyond what appeared to be a pile of rocks a little more regular than the others that had been washed up on shore.
“Ernest and Henrietta Hubbard ran a bait-and-tackle shop on that foundation till it burned down in ’sixty-four. After that they moved back downstate and died there, I reckon. They bought a Dubbaya-Dubbaya-Two landing craft from a feller that got it from surplus to turn into a fishing boat and never
got around to it, chained it up to the building, and painted it red to attract business. Hobby, I called it; they closed the shop three days of the week to comb the beach for Petoskey stones. One day they came back and the boat was gone. The sheriff never did find it, figured some punks from out of town smashed the lock, punched the deck full of holes, and shoved it off to sink out in the lake. Right in the middle of filming, that was.”
“You think Preminger loaded the gold aboard and scuttled it?”
“I know it. He paced out the distance from the mineshaft in a regular goosestep. All them Kraut directors left the Old Country to get away from Hitler and set up their own little Nazi state in Hollywood. Once I figured out this was where he was headed, all I had to do was stick out my legs that same way and this is where I wound up, square on his count.”
It made sense, in a lunatic sort of way. The likelihood of anyone bothering to recover a rusty old piece of war materiel was slight, even if it were ever found. It would wait for Preminger’s return. “But how could he know just where it went down? How could you, for that matter?”
“For him it was easy. All he had to do was stand here and watch. It wouldn’t take long, heavy old barge like that with enough holes in the decking. It was harder for me, but I had global warming on my side. Lake level’s not near what it once was. I spent just a week putting about in my little luxury yacht till I spotted it, anchored on a sandbar just twelve feet down. Water’s clear as glass on a sunny day.”
“Too bad we don’t have the sun to help out.”
“Don’t need it. I know how to take a sighting day and night. Bridge-building ain’t exactly steady work. I put fish on the table between jobs. Took Roger out with me sometimes, that was a mistake. The life aquatic agreed with him. Marine biology pays even worse than part-time engineering.”
As he spoke, Sigurson signaled to Valentino to help him push the boat into the water. They climbed aboard, and the old man tipped down the outboard’s propellers and pulled the cord three times until the motor caught with a cough and a sputter.
Valentino: Film Detective Page 24