The Treasure of Stonewycke

by Michael Phillips

  63

  The Professor and the Assassin

  Whoever stood outside the door was good. Ashley hardly detected another sound. Had he been asleep in his bed, as was supposed, he would have been an easy target. But Ashley would not be a victim tonight, not if he could help it.

  A faint scraping could now be heard. The intruder was picking the lock. In another minute the door inched open.

  Ashley sat like a statue, daring not even to breathe. When he acted, it had to be fast and unexpected, and perfectly timed. His left hand was poised by the switch to the lamp that would send its blinding light toward the door. His right still held the gun.

  A moment more and a dark figure, tall and rather trim, slowly shouldered its way into the room. It turned to close the door. For a brief moment its back was to Ashley.

  Now!

  He flipped on the switch, bathing the man in light and momentarily disorienting him.

  “Don’t move a muscle!” said Ashley, in the shaky voice of one unaccustomed to such scenes. “Don’t even think of turning around. I am holding a gun on your back.”

  “You are insane if you think you will get away with this,” said the intruder in a menacing Germanic accent.

  “Nearly getting killed sometimes does that to a man,” replied Ashley. “I may be insane, as you say. But that does not lessen the potency of this gun in my hand. Now please, drop your weapon.”

  “So you can kill me?”

  “Good heavens, no!” exclaimed Ashley. “Unless of course . . . but you wouldn’t do that, would you? I do so hate the sight of blood.”

  Gunther hesitated another moment, then dropped the pistol he held onto the floor with a thud.

  “Now, you may turn around,” said Ashley.

  “What do you want?” asked Gunther impatiently as he turned and did his best to take in his surroundings while squinting against the light. He did not like being on this end of an attack.

  “Come in and have a seat. We may as well be comfortable as we talk.”

  “And I suppose you’ll want tea too?” scoffed Gunther.

  “That might be nice, but I suppose we’d best get down to business first.” Ashley motioned with the gun toward a chair directly opposite him.

  Gunther sat down, looking cold and superior despite the fact that an inept professor had so easily gotten the drop on him. As he did so, Ashley rose, moved toward the door while still keeping his visitor in the sights of his gun, retrieved Gunther’s pistol from the floor, then resumed his seat.

  “What is this business you want to discuss?” Gunther asked in a blunt, irritated tone.

  “Well, I expect you have come here to finish the job those other two chaps started.” Ashley paused as if expecting a response from Gunther. But the German remained impassive. “I suppose you want to kill me,” he continued, “before I tell anything to Scotland Yard. Was that your thinking?”

  Still Gunther did not reply.

  “As you can see,” Ashley went on, “I have been out of the hospital for several days, and though I am still weak, I have said nothing.”

  “Why should I believe you?”

  Ashley thought for a moment. “I see what you mean. That does make it a bit sticky, doesn’t it?” He paused. “Well, for argument’s sake,” he went on, “let us just accept that for now, what do you say?”

  Gunther did not protest, when Ashley went on.

  “Good! Now . . . I haven’t talked because, to be perfectly honest, I have my own business interests to protect.”

  “What interests?”

  “All in good time.”

  “And what about the story in the Times saying you had connections to the General? He was very angry to read that!” As he spoke Gunther shifted threateningly in his chair.

  “Sit back please,” said Ashley, gesturing with his gun.

  “He wants you dead, Dodds! He does not like his name appearing in the newspaper!”

  “I do apologize for that. I rather lost my head when I first realized I might be dealing with the General. But you can’t really blame me, can you? I’m afraid I mentioned something to a reporter before I slipped into the coma. Later, when they released me, I denied everything. And as it was the word of a respected Oxford professor—well, actually an ex-professor—against an overzealous reporter . . . well, the poor newspaper fellow was left with a bit of egg on his face.”

  “We try to kill you, and then you turn around and protect us?” said Gunther skeptically. “Why should I believe you? I don’t believe you!” Again he half rose, as if the weapon in Ashley’s hand were a mere toy that concerned him not at all.

  “You really must relax. I’m not at all used to guns, and I wouldn’t want you to frighten me into using this before I have had my say.”

  Again Gunther sat back. His face wore the expression of a caged tiger awaiting the merest momentary lapse that he might spring upon this nincompoop of a dim-witted professor.

  “As I said, I was protecting myself every bit as much as I had any noble notions regarding your employer,” said Ashley. “I saw no reason to jeopardize any of our positions when we could all benefit so handsomely from an alliance that keeps us all healthy.”

  “Just what do you mean by benefit?”

  “Quite simple, actually.” Ashley relaxed, lowering the gun slightly. “I think I have something the General wants. Besides my silence, of course.”

  “What might that be?”

  “The reason he contacted me in the first place was to analyze and possibly dispose of some rare and ancient artifacts.”

  Several days earlier a careful search of Dodds’ flat had turned up a file containing descriptions of several items delivered to the Professor for inspection by two men named Mallory and Galvez. It was easy to assume that this had been the reason for the initial contact between the General and Dodds. But the moment Hilary had read Dodds’ descriptions of the few sample relics, she knew she had seen something of the same sort before.

  Lady Margaret Duncan was one of the few persons in recent times to have ever seen inside the ancient Pict box which had lain undisturbed under the great stones on Braenock Ridge for a millennium. Later in life, after the box had long been lost track of, she described some of the pieces, as best her aging memory could recall, to her granddaughter. These found their way into the journal, and the descriptions were still fresh in Hilary’s mind. When the search of Dodds’ flat turned up the list, Hilary immediately noted distinct similarities. The fact that Channing, the last known possessor of the box, was now mixed up with Dodds seemed to corroborate the correlation. Ashley now planned to use this knowledge as his trump card.

  “Before my unfortunate accident,” Ashley went on in a carefully measured tone, keeping a mistrustful eye on Gunther’s every move, while continuing to nurture the image of an absent-minded buffoon, “I was able to conduct a little research, along with my preliminary tests. I concluded that what your General possesses is extremely valuable indeed, very rare, very ancient. I also discovered an interesting fact that I did not put in my original report.”

  “And what is that fact!” spat Gunther, growing weary of this simpleton.

  “Just this. That it is also—how shall I put it?—very hot. The relics appear part of a collection belonging to the Stonewycke estate in northern Scotland. They were stolen some forty years ago, and besides still being an open case, that theft is connected to an unsolved murder.”

  “What does that have to do with me?”

  “Perhaps nothing . . . perhaps a great deal. I understand that items of this kind pass through many hands over the years. In my business it does not usually pay to look too closely at the histories of the items which I am paid to deal with. But I assume the General came to me because he hoped to unload this cache of his, which no doubt has been a rather difficult undertaking for him due to the circumstances of the theft and the antiquity of the items.”

  “As you said, such things pass through many hands.”

  “And as
I have been trying to say, I have a client who is interested in purchasing this collection of relics, and will ask no questions regarding how your employer came by them. He happens to know that the original—what should I call him—guardian of the goods following the theft is now dead. He is only interested in retrieving them.”

  “You have been quite busy for a man only just risen from his deathbed.”

  “I daresay, Mr.—by the way, I don’t think you mentioned your name.”

  “I didn’t. It is unimportant.”

  “Ah, yes. Of course. Well, as I said, I do have a party interested in the sale, and had already begun initiating these arrangements before the—ah, the shooting. That has, I’m sure you can appreciate, slowed me up somewhat.”

  “Bah! You are a fool!” said Gunther. “There was never any talk of a sale.”

  “Isn’t that what all this was about? I naturally assumed—”

  “The General is not a man to make careless assumptions about! He was merely having the items valued and authenticated. I doubt he would sell them at any price! He is sentimentally attached to the ridiculous things.”

  Gunther paused a moment to reflect on Channing’s obsession. “He lets no one near them,” he went on. “I’ve never even seen them.”

  “Surely he must keep such priceless objects displayed in some fashion?” Ashley lowered the gun unconsciously as he became more absorbed in the interchange.

  Gunther threw his head back and roared, in part hoping to make Ashley drop his guard even further, but also amused at the humor of his last remark.

  “On display! They are so locked away, or buried, no one knows what he’s done with them! Occasionally a peculiar mood comes over him and he goes off in private, sometimes for hours on end—once he was gone all night—muttering all the while about his treasure. But no one goes with him. It’s . . . but never mind all that! No one knows where they are, and wherever they are, they’re not for sale!”

  “Then why contact me in the first place?”

  “I only follow orders—and right now my orders are to kill you!”

  With a sudden movement, Gunther jumped to his feet. He had been watching his captor with the eye of an eagle, and the moment he perceived he had relaxed and grown overconfident, he wasted no time in attempting to seize the advantage.

  He had not counted on Ashley’s quick reaction, however. Nor had he believed this droll professor would have the gumption to use the weapon he had held so inexpertly in his hand. Ashley, on the other hand, had been waiting for a counter-attack. His only surprise was that it had taken so long to come. The moment Gunther lunged forward, Ashley fired the automatic. The slug missed Gunther, as Ashley intended, but it was close enough to make him wonder.

  At the unexpected blast from the pistol, the German fell back. He gaped at Ashley, momentarily stunned that this unassertive professor had the guts to pull the trigger.

  “Dash it all!” yelled Ashley. “Don’t force me to do something nasty! Can’t we approach these negotiations like gentlemen?”

  A dry, hard sound, somewhat resembling laughter that had grown rusty from disuse, escaped Gunther’s lips. “Gentlemen? An interesting idea.” He scratched his head thoughtfully, then eased back into the chair. “Well then, what is on your mind, Professor?”

  “I have a proposition that could make your employer a wealthy man.”

  “Ha!” mocked Gunther. “He will be warmed to hear of your offer! Ha! ha! It will prove to him that you do not know his true identity. For he is too rich ever to see a fraction of his wealth.”

  “Be that as it may, my prospective buyer would be willing to part with a tidy sum to make the acquisition.”

  “I tell you, he will never sell. He will go to his grave with the treasure still in his possession and its location unknown.”

  “Just tell him my buyer is anxious.”

  “How tidy is the sum we are discussing?”

  “In the millions, if the other pieces are of the same quality as those I examined.”

  “What do you want out of this?”

  “I should think my life would not be too much to ask—that, and my usual ten percent, of course.”

  “You are audacious! That is one thing I can say for you.”

  “I am also holding the gun.” Ashley waved it for effect.

  “You cannot sit up nights indefinitely,” replied Gunther. “Your guard will have to relax eventually. When it does, nothing will prevent me from doing what I came here to do—some dark night, long after your business with the General is concluded.”

  “I am fully aware of that possibility,” said Ashley, “and thus I have taken the precaution to invest in a bit of insurance—in the form of a safe-deposit box and a letter containing its key which has been entrusted with a friend. In the box are documents revealing everything I know. Whether or not you and your employer had anything to do with the events that occurred in Scotland forty years ago hardly concerns me. But I think Scotland Yard will find highly interesting the General’s connection to Trans Global, various other crimes and murders that have taken place over the years, the transporting of certain stolen items of great value, as well as your possession of the Stonewycke treasure itself and your part in my own murder. All this will make fascinating reading, and will be made public upon my demise.”

  “You know the General will not be toyed with!”

  “I do indeed, from personal experience.” Ashley patted his stomach as if to indicate his wound. “Believe me, I am not toying. I live, and the General and I benefit mutually. I die and . . . well, we both lose. Simple logic, actually.”

  Gunther leaned back, folded his arms together, and appraised Ashley carefully.

  “All right, Professor,” he said at length, “for the sake of argument—as you would say—let us just assume my employer was interested in selling his precious relics. Who is this buyer of yours?”

  Ashley paused. If the bait was to be dangled, he had to give it just the right touch.

  At last he opened his mouth to speak.

  “Logan Macintyre,” he said matter-of-factly.

  Gunther jerked forward again, but this time in stunned shock.

  “What are you trying to pull, Dodds?” he roared.

  “Logan Macintyre, Member of Parliament,” Ashley repeated. “I see nothing so irregular about a man, if he is willing to pay, attempting to purchase back something of which he was the original owner.”

  Gunther hesitated, thoughts running rapidly through his mind. If Macintyre was involved, questions could not help being raised. . . . Why now, all of a sudden, was he interested in retrieving what had once belonged to the estate which he had inherited by marriage?

  “You had better understand, Mr. Dodds,” Gunther warned, “that if this is any kind of a ruse, you are a dead man—whatever your threats of exposure!”

  “Why would I risk my life unless I am telling you the truth? Really, must we be so barbaric?”

  “It’s a shame my old general is not still around,” mused Gunther. “He would have appreciated your pluck.” A look almost of sentimentality momentarily disturbed Gunther’s iron-like visage. Quickly his features hardened again. “Unfortunately he is no longer here, and you have five minutes to convince me you are on the level. How did you make contact with Macintyre?”

  “On the level is a rather inapplicable phrase for men in our business it seems,” replied Ashley. “But to answer you—this is how he contacted me. Before my accident, I had already put the word out—discreetly, of course—for persons interested in rare artifacts of this kind. I have certain clients who are particularly loyal customers in various categories of merchandise. Thus it got around—nothing that could be traced, you understand—that certain old relics of possible Pictish connection might soon be available. Macintyre is not one of my clients. But apparently he has had his own word out for years now in hopes of relocating his goods. So by way of the underground grapevine he has found me.”

  “Was anything said to
him about the General?”

  “Good heavens no! I already learned my lesson on speaking that name too freely.”

  “Did Macintyre mention any names?”

  “None. He wants the family heirlooms back where they belong and is willing to pay. That’s all he said. He is unconcerned with ownership or specifics of where they have been through the years.”

  Gunther rubbed his forehead, his brow deeply creased. He had not expected this. It would seem Macintyre would have enough on his mind these days, what with phony daughters and attempted poisonings, to concern himself with that treasure.

  But if the Professor’s story was true . . . then all this had been in the works long before Jo and Emil had been forced to flee. It might even be that Macintyre had intensified his search because of the daughter, wanting the restoration of the family wealth to pass on, soon after Jo’s original appearance.

  Dodds would have no reason to lie. For all his stuffy ways, he was a shrewd businessman, with his own profit his major interest. This could be the very thing Channing had desired for years—a prime opportunity to get to Macintyre. The beauty of it would be that Macintyre would walk right into it not even realizing he was stepping into Channing’s stronghold.

  Still, there was the possibility Channing might think otherwise. Gunther had his orders, and Channing did not like his orders disregarded.

  Could he afford to take the chance of not informing him of this new development in the scenario? He didn’t think so. Gunther well knew of Channing’s consuming passion in life—not that he cared anything about it himself; he thought the ancient vendetta was ridiculous.

  But he knew Channing would want to be told of anything regarding the Stonewycke clan. He would not be happy if Gunther acted independently in this matter.

  Gunther looked up at Ashley.

  “All right, Professor, it looks as though you have talked yourself into staying alive for yet a while longer,” said Gunther. “I will relay your proposition to my employer.”