The Treasure of Stonewycke

by Michael Phillips

  64

  Contact Is Made

  British Airways flight 829 touched down at Ezeiza Airport on schedule. The fine skyline of Buenos Aires, the largest and most cosmopolitan city in South America, was bathed in a luxurious warmth of a humid 72°. Not bad for early December, thought Logan as he collected his suitcase from the conveyer. Allison and he would have to try it sometime for a vacation. But thoughts of pleasant times would have to wait.

  As Allison came to mind, not for the first time in the last days, a knot tightened in his stomach. She was going to be all right, and had already thrown off most of the effects of the poison. But he had to struggle to prevent a bitter anger from rising within him when he thought of Channing’s attempt to snuff out her life. He had to continually remind himself what his true motives were in this attempt—to destroy the cancerous feud, not be drawn into it himself.

  He strode across the tiled airport baggage dock to customs, where his government position allowed him to pass through quickly. Outside, the heat was even more noticeable, but not unpleasant after Britain’s chill. He hailed a cab.

  His instructions from Channing’s man, with Ashley acting as intermediary, were simple: Fly to Buenos Aires, register at the Grand Hotel Royal, and await further instructions. Though the man’s absolute insistence that the Professor’s interested buyer come himself, in person and alone, was an unusual request, they had expected it. Ashley had feigned hesitation when the requirement was made part of the deal. He had taken enough time to fake a call to Logan, and in the end had reluctantly agreed.

  Channing had taken the bait, they had played the little game of being indecisive over his terms, and in the end—once Gunther had relayed his employer’s final message: “You tell him if he wants to buy those relics, he comes to me in person!”—had consented. The deal was set.

  At least half of Logan’s mission—finding the General’s whereabouts—would soon bear fruit. They now knew Channing was in Argentina, probably near Buenos Aires. But this was a metropolis of several million. Even Interpol had come this close. Channing could be anywhere within a fifty- or hundred-mile radius. They still had to get to his door.

  The taxi dropped Logan at the hotel. A bellhop took his luggage at the curb, no doubt expecting a generous tip, which he got. He was escorted to the front desk, where he registered.

  “I’d like a room toward the front,” said Logan, “with a window facing Florida Avenue.” He didn’t know if such precautions would be necessary, but he wanted everything covered.

  He went straight to his room, made two phone calls, then kicked off his shoes and stretched out on the bed. It felt good to relax after the tiring flight and he knew he’d better take advantage of these moments while he was able. He hoped Channing gave him the chance to have a good long sleep before contacting him. But no, Channing would not be so considerate. He would want Logan as frayed and out of sorts as possible. Logan closed his eyes and was soon dozing soundly.

  An hour later he awoke to the sound of a sharp knock at his door. He tensed momentarily, then recalled he had ordered a meal through room service when he registered. The waiter brought in a tray; Logan paid him, then sat down in one of the simulated leather chairs to eat. Hungry, he consumed what had been delivered, despite the fact that the food was poor and he was restless. When he finished he soon found himself pacing the floor of the small room.

  He glanced at his watch. He had been here two hours already. No doubt the hotel concierge was under orders to notify Channing or his intermediary the moment a registration was made under the name Logan Macintyre. How long would he wait before he made contact? No doubt he’ll make me sweat first, thought Logan. But that wouldn’t take long in this heat; the air conditioning in the Grand Royal did not seem to be working.

  Logan paused in his pacing in front of the window. It was midafternoon. In the outlying villages, no doubt, siesta time would have quieted down the pace. But in the heart of Buenos Aires, the streets full of tourists and traffic, one would never guess this to be other than the international center of over five million it had become. He noted the hotel directly across Florida, the Richmond. The view of the street was better from there, but that detail might not matter should Channing’s man decide to come upon Logan unawares. He had to consider that possibility, for he would definitely be taking counter precautions to prevent being followed.

  Logan turned back into the room and continued pacing.

  At half past five, the summons finally came.

  The soft knock on Logan’s door was in itself unportentious, but Logan answered it not without some trepidation, and with a silent prayer on his lips. When he swung the door open, he found himself face-to-face with an unexpected ghost from the past.

  “Gunther!” he exclaimed in true amazement.

  “We meet again, Herr Macintyre.” Gunther’s mouth twisted in a half smile, his delight in Logan’s discomfiture obvious.

  “Where . . . how in the world do you fit into all this?” asked Logan, now remembering that Ashley had mentioned that his late-night caller had spoken with a German accent. Logan had never even guessed that Ashley had been face-to-face with the old double agent with whom he had worked in the war. Had he realized Ashley was going to confront Gunther, he would never have let him pose as the Professor! His estimation of Ashley’s bravery suddenly increased tenfold.

  One look told him that Gunther had not changed much over the years, except for gray hair and a few more wrinkles. His features were still hard, and his countenance as lethal as a steel saber.

  “We can talk over old times later,” said Gunther. “We have a small journey before we reach my employer.”

  “Then it is not you I am to deal with?”

  “I am still only a hatchet man.”

  “For whom?”

  “All in good time, Macintyre.”

  “Von Graff?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “So I heard. Who then?”

  “I do what I must do.”

  “Still working both sides of the fence, eh?”

  Gunther’s eyebrow arched. “Expediency was and is my motto, Macintyre. It has kept me alive, healthy, and financially well off for many years.”

  “I, too, am alive, healthy, and well off, my friend,” said Logan pointedly, “but from following a different creed.”

  “Will you preach to me, Macintyre?”

  “As you said, we have a journey ahead of us. Surely there will be much to talk about.”

  Gunther grunted sullenly.

  “So . . . you cannot tell me who your employer is?” continued Logan.

  “I think he would prefer to remain anonymous a while longer.” Gunther paused. “Get your things. It is time to go.”

  “I will not be returning here?”

  “Not in the near future,” Gunther replied cryptically.

  Logan gathered up the few items he had unpacked, dropped them in his suitcase, latched it, grabbed the handle, and followed Gunther out the door. As they stepped into the corridor, however, he stopped.

  “Wait!” he said. “I forgot my razor.”

  “You can get another.”

  “This was a good one. It will only take a moment.”

  Logan ducked back inside, closing the door behind him. He hurried to the bathroom and retrieved the cheap single-blade razor he had put on the sink counter. Walking back through the larger room, he paused long enough to pull the curtains almost shut, leaving a one-foot gap of open space, then rejoined Gunther in the hallway. He opened his suitcase and tucked the razor inside.

  The two men continued down the corridor to the elevator. As Logan feared, they followed a surreptitious route out of the hotel, keeping to rear hallways, finally exiting through a service door. They continued on foot down an alley, Gunther glancing about.

  “Still the cautious one, eh, Gunther?” chuckled Logan lightly.

  “It has not harmed us yet, Macintyre,” replied Gunther. “Besides, in dealing with a swindler, would you not b
e cautious too?”

  “I see what you mean. But many years have passed since those days. I am now a respectable politician!”

  “A contradiction in terms!”

  Gunther nudged Logan forward. They turned left from the short alley at the rear of the hotel into a semi-deserted street that appeared used mostly for deliveries. Logan glanced about, as if trying to get his bearings. A black Lincoln Continental was parked about half a block away. They walked to it. Gunther paused, took a ring of keys from his pocket, then unlocked the passenger door for Logan. Without pausing to open it, or to help Logan with his luggage, he walked around to the driver’s side.

  As Logan swung his suitcase inside, out of the corner of his eye he noted a young Indian boy, a street waif by the look of him, who had been standing at the farther end of the block eyeing them, dash off and out of sight. Getting his luggage situated, Logan seated himself and closed the door. Gunther started the ignition and pulled away.

  Logan rolled down his window just as Gunther stopped at the first intersection. Then the huge automobile pulled out quickly through traffic, as Gunther wheeled his way east onto a large boulevard.

  “What’s this street called?” asked Logan.

  “Avenue Corrientes, but what does it matter?” snapped Gunther. “Roll up that window!”

  Slowly Logan complied, but not before he had taken a good look up and down the street, spotting the avenue called Florida as they sped across it.

  ———

  Around the corner, only moments before, a woman exited the Richmond Hotel. Though not tall enough to attract attention by it, she was lanky, and her movements were made awkward by the bulky camera bag strung over her shoulder and the bulging Indian-weave tote bag in her hand. Her pink-rimmed sunglasses, in combination with her brightly embroidered peasant outfit, such as were at that moment being offered in any of three dozen bazaars within a mile, marked her as the consummate tourist, probably an American by her ostentatious display of purchasing power.

  She shambled down the hotel steps, paused a moment to speak with a breathless young street beggar, then jogged south along Florida. Her paraphernalia bobbing about, she reached a rented Volkswagen sedan, threw in her gear, then jumped in with surprising ease behind the wheel. As Gunther’s Lincoln cruised by, she started her engine. The VW eased its way into traffic, turned onto Corrientes, and settled into the late-afternoon rush, four cars behind the Lincoln.

  Within two hours she had returned to the Richmond. Leaving her cumbersome baggage in the car, she hurried up the hotel steps, purposefully crossed the hotel lobby to where a bank of pay telephones stood. She inserted two coins into one, then dialed the operator.

  After a moment she spoke into the handset:

  “Overseas assistance, por favor.”

  65

  In the Spider’s Lair

  Fifty minutes after departing Buenos Aires, the black Lincoln pulled through the gates of the villa.

  Logan was quick to note the armed guards posted at the gate. He wondered how many such sentries there were about the place. But his attention was soon diverted to the villa itself. By the look of it, Channing had not made much of a point to showcase his wealth. Men in his position were better off keeping a low profile; perhaps that extended to the security too. Still, armed sentries were probably not an uncommon sight about the homes of wealthy patrons in these third-world republics.

  Gunther braked to a stop. They had not even stepped out of the car before a servant appeared from the house. He took Logan’s suitcase, while respectfully keeping his distance from Gunther. Inside, the entryway to the villa was spacious and well kept, though sparsely furnished.

  Logan found himself wondering what had filled Channing’s years since they had last met—what besides the obvious obsession with vengeance and hate. During the drive Logan had continued to attempt conversation, but Gunther had proved his usual taciturn self.

  “Would you care to go to your room, Herr Macintyre?” Gunther asked formally.

  “My room? I assumed we would make arrangements for our transaction and then you would take me back to the city.”

  Gunther smiled. “I have a feeling your business may take somewhat longer than you anticipated, and that you will be spending the night.”

  Logan eyed him carefully. This could be more dangerous than he planned on.

  “Well then,” said Logan, “let’s do get on with it. I am rather anxious to be about our business—and not a little curious besides.”

  “I thought so,” said Gunther. “My employer is anxious also, and if you were up to it, wanted you taken directly to him. Come this way.”

  Toward the end of a long corridor they came upon closed double doors. Gunther paused and knocked.

  “¿Quien es?” The voice that came from inside was scored with age, but contained no less self-important arrogance than it had thirty years ago when Logan had last heard it.

  “It is I . . . Gunther. I have our guest.”

  “Ah, very good! Come in!”

  Logan entered behind Gunther, and beheld a man standing with his back to the door in front of a marbled hearth. No doubt wanting to make the most of the surprise revelation of his identity, he remained several moments after the door clicked shut exactly where he was. He wore a tan-colored smoking jacket, and was supporting himself with a cane. The back of his head still contained probably half its original quantity of hair, but it was pure white, as was his skin, giving himself away as clearly not at home amid the dark-skinned natives in this climate where the sun shone hot.

  Slowly the lean, wasted figure turned. On his face was plastered a smile of insidious delight, which, notwithstanding his physical impotence, yet emanated a malevolent power.

  “Channing!” exclaimed Logan in disbelief, his stunned tone, now that his eyes actually beheld his adversary, only half an act.

  “Who else do you think would possess the legendary Stonewycke treasure?” returned Channing wryly, hardly able to contain his delight to find Logan Macintyre at last within his resourceful grasp.

  “But . . . but . . . I thought you were dead! I thought . . . I assumed . . .”

  “You thought I had unloaded it, eh? Ha, ha, ha!” croaked Channing, his elation curbed only by the evil in his soul. His laugh did not ring with joy, but rather struck the dissonant chord of wicked vindication. “Ha, ha! That’s a good one, Macintyre!” he went on, savoring the moment. “Surely you didn’t think me such a fool?”

  “So . . . you have kept it all these years?”

  “I once fancied the notion of selling it,” replied Channing, wiping his eyes and still chuckling. “But then I realized the only interested buyers would be one of you fools from that backwater northern province. Besides you cursed sentimentalists, only legitimate historians would take a second look at it. And I certainly couldn’t have pawned it off on any reputable historical buyer without having to answer too many questions. Besides, what could I have gotten for it? Worthless bits of scraps, nothing more.” He sighed purposefully. “But I have over the years grown rather fond of it.”

  “And now . . . what has changed your mind? Why sell it now?”

  Again Channing began to laugh—at first softly, then rising in volume.

  “Excuse me, Macintyre,” he said through his laughter, “but this really is too humorous! You are more of a fool than I took you for!”

  “I merely asked why all of a sudden you want to—”

  “Ha, ha!” roared Channing. “Oh . . . that’s a good one, eh, Gunther? Ha, ha, ha! Sell it! Ha, ha! I have no intention of selling it, Macintyre!”

  “But I thought . . . then why this elaborate ruse to get me here? I thought I was coming here on a legitimate business deal.”

  “Oh, Macintyre! You really must stop! Ha, ha! All this exertion is going to be the death of me! Ha, ha! Don’t you yet get it, Macintyre?”

  “Get it? What are you driving at?”

  “The treasure is not for sale, Macintyre,” replied Channing,
calming.

  “Then why am I here?”

  “Don’t you know, Logan? May I call you Logan? Why, you are my friend. I merely wanted to see you again! Come . . . sit down.”

  Channing waved Logan toward one of the expensive chintz-covered chairs situated before the hearth. “I will have some refreshments brought.”

  Logan sat down, as one recovering from a great shock. Channing took the adjacent chair, then glanced up at Gunther. All humor was gone from his countenance, and his eyes were again empty of life. “See to the refreshments, Gunther,” he ordered in a deprecating tone.

  Gunther made no response, either silent or verbal; he merely turned and exited the room.

  Channing turned fully toward Logan. “I’m certain this change in your plans will be somewhat disconcerting,” he said benevolently. “But we will do our best to make it up to you. Dinner will be served soon. You have been traveling the better part of the day and must be fatigued. So I am having our finest guest accommodations prepared for you.”

  “I assure you that’s unnecessary,” said Logan.

  “It’s not the least trouble.”

  “If you’ll simply have Gunther drive me back to town after dinner, I’d be most—”

  “Please, Mr. Macintyre. I wouldn’t think of it! You are my guest!”

  “I’ve never known you to be so hospitable, Channing,” said Logan.

  “I’ve never before entertained a Member of Parliament in my home.”

  “I see,” said Logan, pausing thoughtfully. “I seem to recall an old proverb to that effect. Something to the effect of, ‘Visit the spider in his own lair before you judge his character.’”

  “Exactly! But you misquote, Macintyre. The saying is in regard to a wolf, not a spider.”

  “I didn’t know you were a literary man, Channing.”

  “I am full of surprises, Macintyre, even at my age. But the point of the saying is well taken. One never knows when one will find the wolf, so to speak, a congenial sort. You’ve read your Kipling, I assume.”

  “Yes, of course. Well, I hope you’re right, Channing.”