Barbara Silkstone - Wendy Darlin 02 - London Broil

by Barbara Silkstone

  “So Benny’s caller is a known criminal?”

  “No. When we ran out of criminals to cross reference, I had them run the voice analysis against all the employees and guest speakers at the museum. The voice perfectly matched that of Victor Veal, a chap from Switzerland. He’s known to be a shady collector of antiquities. We’ve had our eye on him.”

  “Roger said he was meeting a new client, Victor, this afternoon. I saw that Veal guy the night Benny and I went to dinner. He was giving us the evil-eye at the gaming club.”

  Angus smacked his knees and stood up. “You should have told me earlier. This puts a different color on things. You stay here, in case Roger comes home. I’m going to the station to launch a hunt for our friend.” He felt his side and patted a gun that rested in a holster.

  “Don’t worry, we’ll find him. The good professor and I go back a long way.” He grinned. It was inappropriate. He was beginning to tick me off.

  I was about to put him down, when he continued. “Roger and I are brothers in the International Society for the Protection of Antiquities Society.” He put his finger to his lips.

  Now I was dealing with a secret society? I followed him to the door. “Lock up after me.” He didn’t have to tell me twice. Darcy was still unaccounted for.

  As I climbed back in Roger’s bed hugging his pillow, my cell rang. I banged my hand on the night table in my haste to reach for the phone.

  Chapter 38

  It took three words for me to recognize Victor Veal’s voice from that night at the gaming club. My throat constricted; I struggled to breathe as the caller said… “I’ve got Jolley.”

  I sat up as if that would help me hear better. “Say that again.”

  “I know you figured out where the last Lost Boy is; you see… you told me. Roger has no clerk, you daft cow. Bring the last Lost Boy to me, or Dr. Jolley will become the youngest mummy in the British Museum.”

  A cold chill ran through me; my body quaked.

  “You bring in the police, Interpol, or a chamber maid, and your Jolley’s a dead man, suffocated, before you can find him. Bring me the last Shadow. Meet me in the British Museum at the Café in northeast corner of the Great Court at seven. Join me at my table. Leave the Boy on your chair, wrapped discreetly, of course. I’ll take him and leave you directions to find Dr. Jolley. One slipup and his air may not last to sort it out.”

  “Oh, please… tell me where he is. I promise I’ll bring you the Lost Boy. Just let me get to Roger first,” I begged.

  He stepped over my pleas. “I’ll be carrying a green bag from Harrod’s.”

  “I remember what you look like… you don’t need to carry a marker.”

  “Pity, that. You know what I look like. Hmm.” Veal clicked off.

  I started to dial Angus. But the police would only cause Veal to run away. If he disappeared without telling me where Roger was… I couldn’t even consider that. My mind was spinning like a ballerina on diet pills. There had to be a way to surprise Veal. A trick. I needed a trick.

  If I tried a snatch-and-grab of the Lost Boy from under the throne, the Abbey security would call the cops. They would carry me off to Met headquarters or New Scotland Yard. It would be hours before I explained my way out. Roger would be dead by then.

  I needed a substitute for the Lost Boy. Something that would fool Veal long enough for me to get Roger’s location. Each Shadow was made from a single black diamond eight inches tall. They had strange little faces and were dressed in jeweled loincloths and crowns. I was fresh out of black diamonds.

  The idea came to me in a flash of semi-brilliance. Benny’s garden. I saw myself walking with him. We were about to sit. I remembered the stone gnome with the flat funny face. It reminded me of the Lost Boys.

  Chapter 39

  It was close to five when I got to Benny’s house. I approached from the alley in the back and pushed hard on the gate, wondering how much resistance I’d encounter from the big padlock. The gate popped open on the second try. The lock was gone. So that’s how that little fungus Algy Green got in. I strode up the path, hoping the neighbors wouldn’t see me. Sweat stung my eyes.

  The gnome was where I remembered. I picked him up with a plucking sound and brushed off the mud from his tiny cement boots. I headed for Benny’s gardener shed at the far corner of the yard figuring, if it was locked, I’d break it open with my teeth. I was in high rescue mode.

  No lock. The door gave with a gentle squeak. It was so hot you could have smoked a ham in there. Two windows were painted shut, but I forced them open to let out some of the hot air. A cord with a cork dangling at the end brushed my face. I pulled it and a naked bulb came on, casting enough light to see the contents of Benny’s haven.

  Gardening tools hung on hooks next to a clean workbench. Two bags of potting soil stood on the floor. A white cooler sat in a darkened corner. I thought of Samuel’s body in the freezer. The cooler wasn’t body size, but it could hold a head or two. Bracing my feet ready for a sprint, I opened the lid. No beheaded heads, but there were two containers of black spray paint. I guessed Benny planned on using them for his tiny fence painting project.

  Despite being stashed in the cooler, the cans felt hot. I took one outside and, with a tingle of apprehension, popped off the plastic lid. Facing away to protect my eyes, I shook the can, then did a spray test in the air. It worked just dandy.

  I placed the gnome on the ground and sprayed him with a thick layer of shiny black paint. While he was drying, I scrounged up a tube of gunk from the workbench and slathered it on him. Grabbing a fistful of small pebbles I mushed them into the gunk and finished with a final coat of paint.

  Within ten sweltering minutes, the gnome was now a crappy facsimile of a very Lost Boy. Even if I could get the real Lost Boy, I wouldn’t give it up to Veal. It would destroy Roger to lose the last Shadow. Armed with a bit of guile and a small amount of cheating, I called for a taxi and headed for my meeting with the crazed collector.

  Chapter 40

  A minute before seven, I entered the Great Court of the British Museum. I was dripping from the relentless heat. A gaggle of sweaty students took notes as a slender lady in brown addressed them. A flock of nuns walked by, chatting among themselves. I skirted them and bounced into a tour group of senior citizens heading away from the Café in the northwest corner of the Court. I looked toward the Café in the northeast corner. Victor Veal, one of only two patrons, was sitting at a small table. We locked eyes, and I started toward him, carrying the gnome wrapped in tattered cloth and brown wrapping paper.

  “Wendy!” I cringed at the sound. Granddaddy Earl smacked me on the back and grabbed my head, planting a juicy kiss on the underside of my jaw. “You following us, girl?”

  Birdie clung to his arm. They wore t-shirts that read “England Swings!” in white letters on black. “We’re taking a tour. This is downright educational,” she said.

  I pushed Granddaddy Earl away with a pretend laugh. “Great seeing you both again. Gotta run. Meeting somebody!”

  Granddaddy Earl was having none of it. “Look here what we bought. He opened a plastic bag from the gift shop and pushed it under my nose. A small gilt-framed picture of Mona Lisa smiled up at me. “Don’t she look just like Birdie?”

  “Oh, Earl!” Birdie batted his arm and blushed. “I never wear my hair down like that.”

  “Does look like Birdie, except for the hair,” I said, forcing it back into Granddaddy Earl’s hands. I snuck a peek at Veal. He was watching the action with a scowl on his face. A hot poker stabbed my gut. Wherever Roger was, he was running out of air. “Granddaddy Earl, it was great seeing you again, but I’ve got to go!” Just as I stepped around the honeymooners, we were blindsided by the Rastafarian cab driver – my would-be kidnapper.

  The lunatic swooped in, dreadlocks flying, and grabbed Granddaddy Earl’s gift shop bag. The fool must have thought this was a transfer of the last Lost Boy. He grinned at me maniacally, Max Factor Pancake Makeup Tan # 2 smeared, sun
glasses askew. His slip-sliding getaway resembled Fred Flintstone late for lunch.

  Birdie broke into a high-stepping run. The crowds parted like the Red Sea. She yelled in a nasal twang, “Stop, you dadblamed thief!”

  “Look at my wife run!” Granddaddy Earl cackled. “She was a high school champeen. That mophead ain’t got a chance.” He took off after Birdie, ricocheted off a lanky bald guy in Bermuda shorts and pink polo shirt, part of a group of creakingly-old tourists.

  “Earl… you been drinking?” A guy from his tour group tried to right Granddaddy Earl who was standing at a slant, eyeballs twirling from his impact.

  “I ain’t no damn drunk, Hank! Just get back to our group. Can’t you see I’m busy here?”

  The other seniors gathered round as Earl took a wild swing at his bald buddy. Hank ducked, and Granddaddy Earl went air born from his own thrust. He flew over Hank’s shoulder and thudded onto the floor. The mink toupee flew off his head under the foot of a nun who slipped on it, knocking down two other nuns.

  I turned and walked toward Veal still seated at the table, his eyes darting over my shoulder at the chaos. “Quite an entrance, Miss Darlin.”

  Only the thought that Roger’s life was on the line prevented me from swinging the gnome into Veal’s smirking face. Holding the package out of his reach, I slipped into the seat across from the scumbag. His narcissism screamed at me through his elegant English-cut suit that matched his dark grey, carefully-coiffed hair.

  “Where’s Roger?”

  Veal narrowed his eyes, “Hand me the Lost Boy.”

  “My lost boy, first.”

  He extended his paw across the table. “He’s on the fourth floor in the mummy vault room. The Sixth Dynasty section.”

  Veal made a grab for the package. I jerked it away.

  He did the Nicholson thing with his eyebrows. “Dr. Jolley is in a very fitting place, a plain sarcophagus or, to you, a funeral receptacle for a corpse.” Veal stood and hissed, “He’ll soon be out of air.” He yanked the package from my hand.

  I jumped up ready to run, but my brain was still in investigative mode. “Did you kill Darcy?”

  He growled, “I should have killed that cow. I shot her full of 3Ts to find out about this Lost Boy.” He tapped the package. “She went loopy on me. The bitch imagined she was Cleopatra. I dumped her off at a hospital casualty room.”

  “3Ts?”

  His laser-white teeth gleamed, “Truth serum, as in Tell The Truth. Ha!”

  I didn’t have any more time for Veal. I sprinted to a security guard and grabbed his sleeve, almost pulling him off his feet. I glanced back and saw Angus on an interception course with Veal as he strolled toward the exit. I had no idea how Angus knew where to find me – or Veal, but I was happy he did. I looked into the security guard’s eyes. “Accident on the fourth floor!” He followed without question.

  I was panting like an English bulldog when we got to four. Nodding at the Statue of Ramesses II, I whispered, “May your force be with me,” as I raced past it.

  The guard wheezed behind me. “Where is the accident?”

  “Dr. Roger Jolley is trapped in a sarcophagus in mummy storage. Can you find the room and open it?”

  “I know where it is. I can unlock it.”

  We raced halfway down the hall before the guard croaked out, “Here!”

  The guard’s fingers danced over the security keypad. We pushed the safe-heavy metal door and entered a room the size of the Great Court. The space was divided into two long aisles lined with stone coffins and mummies in hermitically sealed cases. The walls behind the burial boxes were covered with zillions of tiny specimen drawers.

  With my heart thumping so violently my chest hurt, I raced along the rows of sarcophagi, slamming to a stop alongside the Sixth Dynasty section. “Over here!” I yelled. “You start at this end. I’ll take the far end. Look for any signs of recent openings… crumbled stone, things like that.”

  There were twenty-one stone boxes lined up side by side and three feet apart. My hands shook as I touched each coffin looking for debris and trying to sense Roger’s presence. Hot tears of desperation burned tracks down my cheeks. The guard and I met in the middle. He shook his head. I’d found nothing on my end.

  “Roger has to be here!” I pushed past him, looking for any dirt he might have missed. Three coffins later, I spotted a dusting of powdery grey substance on the floor. Touching the sarcophagus, I felt fragments of loose stone grate under my hands. “This has to be the one.”

  “Help me slide the top. We’ll push to the right on the count of three. One… Two… Three!” The stone lid didn’t budge.

  “Again!” This time the cover made a grinding sound and moved an inch. I threw my weight into another push, rough stone tearing my palms. With a charge of adrenalin that made my head spin, we tried a third time.

  We freed the lid enough to see Roger’s face. His eyes were closed and he didn’t move.

  Chapter 41

  We worked the lid half way off.

  Roger stretched, then his eyes popped open. “What are you doing here?” he asked, licking his dry lips and appearing as if he slept in coffins on a regular basis.

  “I didn’t have anything else to do, so I thought I’d save your life.”

  That knocked the glaze out of his eyes. “Victor… Veal…” He shook his head and rubbed his temples.

  I put my hand on his cheek. “I think Angus might have nabbed him.”

  The guard, still huffing and puffing, helped Roger clamber out of the half-opened sarcophagus. The musty stench that followed him had me gagging.

  Roger smoothed the back of his head. “Do I have sarcophagus hair?”

  The guard’s eyes grew like cartoon orbs. He tapped his earpiece, “There’s been a shooting inside the main entrance! Please step into the hall. I must secure the chamber door.”

  Roger leaned on me as we exited. “I believe I’ve been drugged,” he said.

  “You and Darcy.”

  “You found her?”

  The guard locked the door and sped off. Roger and I sat on the edge of a rail that ran along a glass display case of hieroglyphics. He was wobbly. I was pretty shaky myself. I kissed his smelly cheek as tears trekked down my face. “You’re alive.”

  “I’m a pretty tough bloke to kill. Many have tried.”

  I wanted to strangle him for being cavalier. Benny’s word for Roger. I sighed. “Darcy’s in a hospital somewhere in London. Veal gave her some sort of truth serum and she went psycho. So he dumped her at an emergency room.”

  Roger braced his hands on the rail and pushed himself up. “I’m okay,” he said looking down at me. “We’ll have the Met find her.”

  I stood, feeling the full effect of adrenalin withdrawal. My muscles ached and I was uber-dizzy. “Let’s see about that shooting.”

  We hustled down the southwest staircase. As we reached the second landing, Roger was steadier, and I was saying silent prayers of thanks to any deities who might be listening. The lobby was filled with museum security and a few professor-types, jackets off and ties askew.

  Roger and I tried to work our way out the doors and down the front stairs, but that’s where the real tumult was. Angus’s red-hair caught my eye as he rose from the body of Victor Veal sprawled in a pool of blood.

  “Don’t look,” I shielded Roger’s eyes. “There’s blood.”

  He looked at the high lobby ceiling, as if counting birds, and spoke to me from the side of his mouth. “Who’s been shot?”

  “Victor Veal. It’s okay to look now. They covered him.”

  Granddaddy Earl, Birdie, and the kidnapping cabbie were part of the crowd. The cabbie’s dreadlocks had slipped down over his sugar-bowl ears. It was Algy Green. Son of a…

  Their eyes as big as ostrich eggs, they stood at the edge of the crowd. Birdie held the gift shop bag. Earl had his arm around Algy’s neck in a half-hearted stranglehold. The makeup on Algy’s face was smeared and his cheek was swollen.


  Angus locked eyes with me. He held the package containing the fake Lost Boy. The detective peeled the wrappings like a banana. He shot me a daggered look… hell hath no fury like an antiquities thief who’s been stiffed with a forgery. I knew whose side Angus was on and it wasn’t the good guys.

  The detective dropped the gnome on the floor as two uniformed Met police came at him. He held up his hands, the gun dangled from his fingers. More police gathered around Angus, shielding him from the onlookers.

  Roger leaned into me. “I feel woozy.”

  I guided him to a marble step at the base of a pillar. “Sit here for a minute.” He sat and I ran.

  I flew to the edge of the crime scene like a hawk on prey. I grabbed the gnome from under shuffling feet. The little guy had done well and was owed a safe return to Benny’s garden. I edged back to Roger, hiding the fake Lost Boy behind my back. I could feel the tacky paint sticking to my hands.

  “Let’s get out of here,” I said, tugging on his arm.

  “I want to speak with Angus first,” Roger said.

  “Trust me. You don’t. Besides, the Met is probably grilling him right now. Even a Detective Chief Inspector can’t shoot someone and walk away. Let’s get a cab. We have a Lost Boy to collect.”

  Chapter 42

  Big Ben struck nine as Roger and I exited the cab in front of the Abbey. The building was locked for the night.

  “Are you positive Thirteen is here?”

  “Beyond a doubt. It’s under the Coronation Chair… near the tomb of Henry V.”

  “I have to call in a big favor. Give me your cell.”

  As I passed my phone to Roger, I wondered how long Angus would be occupied with his Crime Scene people. He had to know I created the forgery and would figure I had the real thing.

  Roger put my phone in my hand. “I reached Michael, the assistant to the Receiver General who handles the security of the Abbey. He’s sending two guards to open up. Michael will join us.” Roger’s eyelids drooped.

  We sat on a bench outside the west door. It was stinking hot. I would have loved a cold beer or a naked moon bath. Neither was in my immediate future.