From the back of his taxi, Nick Davies dialed his cell phone.
“I got it,” he said. “Like I told you—no problems. The smoke was a nice touch, though. I’ll meet you directly opposite the Lido at Hyde Park in, say, thirty minutes?”
Davies ended the call and leaned back in his seat.
Colophon and Julian walked slowly back to the bank.
“It’s over,” Colophon said. “That’s it. No key, no box.”
“Maybe the bank could open the box without the key,” replied Julian. He did not sound confident.
By the time they reached the bank, the crowd had started to disperse, and only one fire truck remained. Davenport stood outside the front door speaking with a fireman. When he saw Colophon and Julian, he excused himself and walked over.
“I must apologize for the inconvenience,” said Davenport. “It was a false alarm. A prankster set off some sort of smoke bomb in the lobby.” He then noticed that Colophon appeared upset. “Is everything all right?”
“A man stole my bag!” she cried. “It had the key in it. It’s gone!”
“I see,” replied Davenport.
“Can the box be opened without the key?” asked Julian.
“Why certainly,” replied Davenport cheerily. “No one could be expected to hold on to a key forever.”
Colophon and Julian looked at each excitedly. There was still a chance this would work.
“However,” Davenport continued, “it takes a minimum of two weeks to complete the paperwork and have a new key cast.”
The hope drained from Colophon’s face. “So it’s over,” she said. Julian grabbed her hand and held tight.
Colophon looked up and noticed that Davenport had a slight smile on his face.
Smiling? she thought. How could he smile at a time like this?
“Over?” said Davenport. “Hardly.” He pulled a cell phone out of his vest pocket and dialed a number. “Excuse me for a moment.” He walked a few feet away to speak on the phone. He returned moments later, the phone safely back in his vest pocket. “The sun seems to be peeking through the clouds,” he said. “Perfect weather for a brief sightseeing tour of London, wouldn’t you agree?”
Hyde Park
London
Nick Davies sat on a bench overlooking the Serpentine, the long man-made lake at Hyde Park. Across the water was the Lido, the park’s popular summer swimming area. Davies checked his watch.
He should be here any minute.
But Davies was in no rush. It had been a clean getaway. No one had caught a good look at his face. He had discarded the girl’s purse several blocks from the park, and he could feel the weight of the key case in his coat pocket. He had pulled off the job like the professional he was. He was, as far as anyone in the park knew, simply an anonymous Londoner enjoying the view of the lake.
Davies sipped his tea and watched several ducks swim back and forth on the lake.
Not a bad day, he thought.
Davies’s reverie was interrupted by an older gentleman in a pinstriped gray suit. “Is this seat taken?” the man asked.
Davies nodded at the empty end of the bench. “All yours,” he replied.
The man sat on the far end of the bench. “I really hate to bother you,” said the older gentleman, “but may I ask a favor?”
“Pardon?” said Davies.
“A favor.” repeated the older gentleman. “May I ask a favor?”
Davies made a mental note to steal the man’s wallet before he left the park. “Sure,” he replied.
“May I have the key back?”
The question startled Davies. Had the old goat just asked for a key?
“The key,” the man repeated. “May I have the key you stole?”
Davies started to deny any knowledge of any key when a uniformed police officer suddenly appeared behind the older gentleman. Davies looked around. Four other police officers were now in the immediate vicinity. He had nowhere to run. Davies contemplated briefly whether he should attempt to escape by jumping in the lake. The older gentleman gave a slight smile. “The key?” he simply said.
Davies sighed, pulled the black case from his coat pocket, and handed it over.
“Thank you,” Davenport said.
Davenport handed Colophon the black case. She had been convinced that she would never see it again—that the key was gone forever. Her hands trembled slightly as she opened the case and looked at the key inside. “Thank you,” she said.
“Not necessary,” replied Davenport. “Simply part of the job.”
“But how were you able to do this?” asked Julian.
“Modern technology is wonderful. The case has a tracking device in it. I simply activated the device and notified the police. The case has been beaming its GPS coordinates ever since.”
“But why did he steal the case?” asked Colophon.
“Apparently the gentleman who stole your bag is a well-known pickpocket,” replied Davenport. “The police think you were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. They suspect he set off the smoke bomb, but they can’t prove it.”
“And do you think I was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time?”
“What I think does not matter,” replied Davenport. “The police have decided that this is a simple case of theft, and nothing more.” He paused and looked over his thick-rimmed glasses at Colophon and Julian. “However, perhaps it would be best not to discuss the key with anyone else until the appropriate time. You never know who may be listening.”
Trigue James sat on a bench across the lake at the Lido and watched the entire scene unfold. Davies wouldn’t squeal—James was sure of that. He was a professional. He was willing to spend a few months in jail to preserve his reputation, such as it was. It was simply part of doing business. It didn’t matter anyway. The only bit of information that Davies had was a cell phone number. A cell phone, by the way, that would soon be at the bottom of the London sewer system.
As far as James was concerned, the game had played itself out. He didn’t take unnecessary risks for the sake of any client, and this situation had suddenly become far too risky. The smoke bomb in the bank had been enough of a risk—a highly calculated risk,but a risk nonetheless.
Don’t become so confident in your own abilities, James reminded himself, that you start thinking you can’t make a mistake.
This was James’s mantra. He knew he wasn’t perfect, and there was always the possibility that he had left some clue behind.
James would leave soon to take a ferry to Calais and then on to Paris and then on to South America. He intended to be as far away from London as possible within the next twenty-four hours. If Treemont wanted that key, he would have to get it himself.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Regard Him Well
Peachtree Street
Atlanta, Georgia
Monday, December 22
11:35 a.m.
Mull Letterford turned and looked at his son, who stood next to him on the sidewalk. Case, Mull realized with somewhat of a shock, was now taller than he was. And he was handsome. Far more handsome, Mull noted with some pride, than Mull had ever been or could ever hope to be. Case, forgoing his regular attire of raggedy khakis, faded T-shirts, and sandals, had surprised his father that morning by appearing at breakfast in a coat and tie. His normally unruly blond hair was neatly combed back away from his face. For the first time since his son was born, Mull could see in him the future of Letterford & Sons.
“Dad!” Case whispered. “You’re staring at me! It’s embarrassing.”
“Oh, sorry about that,” replied Mull Letterford. “Your tie’s a bit crooked. Let me straighten it.”
Mull reached over and straightened his son’s tie. When he finished, he lightly patted his son on his cheek.
“Ready?” Mull asked.
“Ready,” Case replied.
“OK, here’s the plan. Natasha Limekicker is checked into her hotel under an assumed name. I told her that it was handled
this way to protect her from adoring fans. No one knows she is here except me and you. We are meeting her in the coffee shop across the street from the hotel. If all goes well, we can be finished by noon.”
“Do you think she has seen the video?” asked Case.
“Who hasn’t?” answered Mull, who by this point was well acquainted with the video’s worldwide fame.
“Will it matter to her?”
“I don’t know,” Mull replied. “But there’s only one way to find out.” He looked up and down Peachtree Street.
“What are you looking for?” Case asked.
“Dogs,” Mull replied with a grin.
“Let’s get over to the coffee shop before you get arrested for bad jokes.” Case grabbed his father’s arm and headed across the street.
Mull and Case entered the Steamer Café and Coffee House and proceeded to a table in the back, at which a middle-aged lady with sandy blond hair sipped coffee. Next to her sat a rather dour-looking gentleman in a dark suit.
“Natasha!” Mull said as he approached the table.
“Mull, how good to see you again. Do you remember my agent, Morgan Toombs?”
“Good to see you again,” Mull said as he extended his hand to Toombs. Case noticed that Mr. Toombs seemed less than enthusiastic to be meeting with his father. And judging from his father’s body language, he clearly had not expected an agent to be present.
“This is my son, Case,” Mull said. “I hope you don’t mind if he joins us.”
“No, not at all,” replied Natasha. “Please, have a seat.”
Mull and Case sat down at the table. Mull folded his arms and looked across at Natasha Limekicker and her agent. However, before he could utter a single word, the agent spoke.
“Quite an incident in New York,” Toombs said.
“Yes,” replied Mull. “Well, it’s quite the story. You see, we—”
“No explanation is really necessary,” interrupted Toombs.
“I see,” Mull said.
“My client,” Toombs continued, “has a certain, shall we say, expectation of her publisher.”
Mull looked at Natasha Limekicker. “Is that so?” Mull asked. Natasha Limekicker did not return his gaze.
“And,” the agent continued, “those expectations include not showing up on a video on YouTube covered in mud and being chased by a pack of dogs through the streets of New York.”
Mull looked again at Natasha Limekicker, who kept her gaze firmly fixed on her coffee.
“And,” the agent continued, “those expectations also include not showing up on the front page of the ‘Living’ section of the Atlanta Journal-Constitution under the caption ‘Publishing Is for the Dogs.’ ”
Toombs handed a copy of the morning paper to Mull. Neither he nor Case had seen the article or the accompanying photo.
“I can explain,” Mull said.
“As I said,” Toombs repeated, “no explanation is necessary.”
Toombs took a final sip of his coffee and then stood up.
“Thank you for your time this morning,” Toombs said. “Natasha, shall we go?”
Mull Letterford looked over at Natasha Lime-kicker one last time.
“I’m sorry,” she said. And then she stood and left.
Mull sat back in his chair. He did not appear angry or upset.
“Dad? Are you OK?”
“Tonight’s Monday Night Football,” Mull replied. “How about we grab a pizza and watch the game? Just the guys.”
Case looked at his dad. He did not appear delirious, upset, or mad. In fact, he seemed perfectly at ease with what had just occurred. Case grinned. “Yeah, a football game and a pizza would be great.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
“Come, gaoler, bring me where the goldsmith is:
I long to know the truth hereof at large.”
—William Shakespeare, The Comedy of Errors
The Grand Library
London
Wednesday, December 24
8:30 p.m.
Treemont stood by the fireplace with his back to the fire. The other members of the family—with the exception of Mull Letterford—were scattered around the room. It was silent except for the pop and crackle of the logs in the fireplace. Although the house was filled with the scents of fresh pine and mulled wine, it held none of the sensed joy and wonder that normally accompanied Christmas Eve. Expectation and anxiety filled the room.
The large oak doors of the library opened suddenly, and Mull Letterford entered, accompanied by his wife, Meg, and son, Case. Audrey Letterford, Mull’s sister, followed close behind and closed the doors behind her. Mull stepped to the middle of the room and faced Treemont.
“I was afraid you wouldn’t show up,” Treemont said in a low voice.
“Then you don’t know me very well, do you?” Mull replied.
Uncle Portis walked over to Mull. “Are you prepared to report to the family?”
Mull nodded. Standing straight, he turned and faced the room.
“I failed,” he said. He offered no excuses and no explanations for the series of events that had led to this moment.
“So, it is done,” said Treemont. “The family must now vote.”
Case stood by his father, his eyes red. Mull placed his arm around his son’s shoulder. Meg Letterford grasped her husband’s hand.
“No, it’s not over.”
It was Colophon who spoke. Unbeknownst to the group collected in the library, Colophon had entered the room through the rear door, accompanied by Julian. Colophon walked over to her parents.
“Coly,” said Meg Letterford. “Your father has done everything he can.”
“But Mom, it’s not over,” repeated Colophon.
“Dear—” started Mull.
“What about the family treasure? I know where it is! I found it!” exclaimed Colophon.
Treemont laughed. “The family treasure? The family treasure? Are you delusional, girl? It does not exist! It is a myth perpetrated by men such as Julian, who have little else to do with their time than chase such fancies.”
Mull glared at Treemont. “Do not speak to my daughter in that manner.”
“I am tired of delays,” replied Treemont. “As the new head of Letterford and—”
Mull interrupted, “You may be the head of the company in a few hours, but for now I remain in charge. You will wait.”
Treemont glared at Mull. “You are correct, of course. Enjoy your last taste of ownership.” Treemont sat down in one of the large leather club chairs.
Mull turned to his daughter. “Now, what were you saying about the treasure?”
Colophon paused momentarily to collect herself. She looked at her father. He seemed so tired. “As I was saying,” she continued, “there is a family treasure. And as some members of our family have long believed, the painting of Miles Letterford was the key to it.” Colophon held up the gold key for everyone to see. For the next several minutes, she explained in great detail how she had discovered the clues in the painting, how she and Julian had made their way to Stratford-upon-Avon and barely escaped with their lives, and how they had unlocked the secrets of the tellurion.
“Remarkable!” exclaimed Uncle Portis. “Simply remarkable.” Similar comments followed from other members of the family, with the exception, of course, of Treemont.
“So,” Audrey Letterford asked, “don’t leave us hanging. What does the key unlock?”
“That’s where we hit a snag,” Colophon responded. “Luckily, Julian was there to help.”
Colophon believed that Julian was actually blushing, although it was difficult to tell beneath the five-day-old stubble.
“Well, of course, most of the credit goes to Colophon,” Julian stammered. “Brilliant girl, you know.”
“Quite,” said Mull Letterford.
“I don’t mean to be rude,” interrupted Uncle Portis, “but what about the key?”
“Oh, of course,” replied Julian, who then proceeded to explain how
the key had led them to B&C Bank of London.
“And so,” asked Mull Letterford, “at the risk of repeating my sister—what does the key unlock?”
Colophon and Cousin Julian looked at each other.
“We don’t know,” Colophon said. “The bank would not let us have access. Only the owner of Letterford and Sons is permitted to use the key. But we know the key unlocks something special—the treasure.”
Treemont laughed. “Four hundred years ago something was left with a goldsmith, who later became a bank? Surely you’re not serious! You can’t reasonably expect something to still be there?”
“Actually,” replied Julian, “she’s quite serious. B and C Bank has been the custodian of many important records, documents, jewelry, and other items for hundreds of years. They have the box that this key unlocks. It is quite real.”
“However, you have no idea what is in the box?” Treemont asked.
“We don’t know,” responded Colophon.
“Not a clue,” said Julian.
A look of satisfaction crossed Treemont’s face. “Tell you what. I’ll be owner of this company in, say, a little over three hours. I’ll check on the ‘treasure’ and let you know what it is. Now then, I suppose we should move along to—”
Colophon cleared her throat.
Treemont looked at Colophon with an annoyed expression. “As I was saying—”
Colophon cleared her throat again.
“Yes?” Treemont asked, as he looked down impatiently at Colophon over his glasses.
Colophon walked over to the entrance to the library and opened one of the large oak doors. Walter Davenport entered the room. In his arms, he carried a wooden box.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Colophon said, “please allow me to introduce you to Walter Davenport.”
Davenport nodded politely in the direction of the group.
“Mr. Davenport,” Julian said, “is a representative from B and C Bank, which has graciously allowed him to come here this evening with Miles Letterford’s secure box.”
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