Discovery

by Maurice Barkley

  “Okay, we can talk,” M1 said, breaking the spell, as he handed out small flashlights and surgical gloves, “We start from the bottom and work up. You two follow close and keep your eyes open. M2 and I will pull out the drawers and lift the carpet corners.”

  “Alarms?” I asked.

  “The locals deactivated them an hour ago,” M1 said.

  A set of stairs from the kitchen led us to a dark basement. M2 found a light switch that controlled several overhead fluorescent fixtures. We were standing in a complete machine shop. There were lathes, a milling machine, an industrial sized drill press and several more machines I could not identify.

  “My, my,” M1 said, picking up a length of brass bar stock, “one could actually build something here—even, say, a seismograph.”

  “This is still confusing to me,” I said. “How did Carl and Roy connect?”

  “I hope,” M1 said, “the next time I talk to Alice, she'll have Roy's background information.”

  The boys took a good look around. In one cabinet they pulled out drawings of the aforementioned seismograph.

  “See here,” M1 held up a document, “Carl purchased a real antique seismograph and modified it.”

  M2 took some pictures, turned out the lights and we all went back to the first floor. It was all one might expect to see in an expensive house. The kitchen was up to date and well-stocked. There was the usual pantry, living room, dining room, waiting room, tearoom and through a corner archway, a small library built into the base of the tower. They all looked well-maintained and well-used except the study in the tower base. It had books and appropriate furniture, but showed very few signs of wear or use. There were a few older black and white framed photographs on the minimal wall space not gobbled up by windows or bookshelves. Some pictures contained people in stiff, formal poses. Others were more candid shots of golfers and horse people. None had any sort of identification, but M2 was busy taking snapshots.

  Jean, who was standing near a writing desk, pointed at a thin book that lay there and asked M1 if she could look through it. He gave her the okay and returned to his search while I stood still and observed. Watching them at work was interesting and very instructive.

  “James?” Jean called to me.

  “Yes, mum.”

  “You must forgive me, but I just have to say this.”

  “Say what?”

  With that, she turned to face the boys. “Excuse me.” Alice must have told her about that. “This book I have is Mr. Manheim's High School yearbook. His picture is on page sixteen. To my surprise, I found another person's picture here on page fourteen.”

  By that time we were all looking over her shoulder and there he was in all his glory. A man whose face I had never seen.

  “Roy Kilbourne,” we all said in unison.

  Looking back at us defiantly from the book was a young man with dark hair and a chiseled, almost gaunt face. Thin lips and dark, penetrating eyes stared out at us from that moment long ago. All the pictures had a humorous quote under the student's name. Roy's was, “If you value your life, never play golf with this man.”

  “Keep that quote in mind,” M1 said, softly, almost to himself. “If you ever shake hands with him your other hand should be on the butt of your pistol. I don't think I've ever met him.”

  M2 took a picture of the page. “Me neither and I'd just as soon keep it that way.”

  We all looked at Carl's picture. Even in black and white we could tell he was blond and Nordic with probably blue eyes and an outgoing smile. These guys looked to be opposites, but the pictures were going on forty-something years old and much can change in that length of time.

  “Isn't Roy a bit past retirement age?” I asked.

  “If you are valuable enough, you can stay as long as you wish,” M1 said. “For example, I give you our newest hires, Jean and Jim.”

  I had another question. “Do you now have enough information to formulate a hypothesis about their relationship?”

  “Sure, subject to change, of course. Let us say that Carl and Roy were friends in school and they stayed nominally in touch over the intervening years. Carl was busy looking for something in Germany and in Egypt, but it was very difficult. Let's say that when Carl found out that Roy had a significant position at the FBI, Carl took a chance and confided in his old school chum. His hope was that Roy would have access to information unavailable to Carl.

  “Now, this secret was so significant or valuable that Roy made some radical decisions that involved a good deal of risk. He knew that if the FBI got wind of any of Carl's activities, the responsibility for investigation would come to the very department he was heading. That is, the department Alice now heads. This would be convenient, but risky and high on his list is self-preservation. In light of that, he and Carl hatched the scheme for the seismograph and later Roy did something to have himself transferred. Now he would have access to most of the incoming information while remaining divorced from that department. He also couldn't resist the temptation to use other information he learned to our detriment.”

  While he was talking, he and M2 finished their search then the four of us trooped up the broad staircase to the second floor.

  The six large rooms and the small tower space yielded nothing of interest. A smaller, almost hidden staircase led up to the third floor created by the mansard roof. It was obvious that this entire floor was no longer used.

  The corner tower room, unlike the room below it, had a couple of chairs and an old, white painted table. It was not an appealing place. As we stood there looking at what little was before us, Jean commented that the floor looked quite clean for a place that was unused. Her words contained no revelations, but they served to snap me out of the roll of passive watcher that I had assumed.

  “I smell something,” I said. “If you sniff the air, besides dust, you might smell a trace of pipe tobacco. From experience I can tell you that most pipe smokers display considerable evidence of their habit. They leave ashtrays, pipe cleaners, assorted pipes and tobacco jars and ashes all over the place. I've seen none of that up to this point.”

  “You know,” Jean said, “I've heard that many of these old mansions had a secret room. With that in mind, I recall that when we pulled in the driveway I had a glimpse of this tower. I’m sure I saw a band of squat windows above these.”

  As she talked, my companions and I began to look for evidence of a trap door or other entrance going up.

  “Look,” I said, “I can't see Carl hauling a step ladder up here to use a trap door. This archway is the same shape as the ones below except this one is more than two feet thick. The ones below are maybe six inches, more like a regular wall thickness. We should look for a secret panel on either side.”

  Before I finished, the searchers were busy examining the ornate wood paneling on both sides. As luck would have it, Jean noticed some smudging on a piece of intricate molding and gave it a twist. We heard a soft click and an innocent looking panel popped open, a bit like the trunk lid of a car.

  The two young, overweight businessmen I passed on my first trip to the Silver Diner would have had some difficulty climbing the narrow, curved staircase. We all fit quite well, though we had to go single file.

  “Hot Dog!” M2 exclaimed. “Looks like we struck gold.”

  I agreed as I looked around. What I saw I liked. Here was the supreme masculine, private study/reading room/hidey-hole. The centerpiece was an elegant captain's chair with a compass set in one arm and a chronometer set in the other. A floor lamp with a shade made from a nautical map stood near the chair back. Off the port side, an end table held a large humidor, a collection of well-used briar pipes and a beautiful model of a submarine. To starboard, an antique tavern table harbored books, magazines and writing implements.

  “That’s a German U-boat,” M1 said, pointing at the model.

  I could picture and envy Carl, properly provided with a crystal glass of ruby port, a good book and a full pipe, sinking deep into his chair. Ther
e to voyage off to other seas and other lands with no thoughts of returning. If ever I get rich, I will have my own tower room. With some difficulty, I dragged my mind back from the South Seas to finish a quick inventory of this new room. The squat windows were about five feet up from the floor, much higher than normal. This provided both daylight and privacy for Mr. Manheim and his activities. A continuous counter held a small computer, a scattering of books, papers, reading lamps and pencils everywhere. Below the counter was a row of drawers that ran all the way around the room. Above the counter was a shelf packed solid with books.

  Jean and I looked on, as the boys got busy. They swiftly examined my imagined Armada in the center of the room, then turned to the counter space, picking up and examining every item. When they finished, M2 excused himself to go to the van and fetch some equipment.

  M1, while still searching, took time to tell the new recruits what was happening. “M2 will bring in equipment to mirror the hard drive of this PC. We'll take the information with us. He'll also bring a portable scanner and a better camera.

  “Most of these books deal with Germany during World War II and some with ancient Egypt. There are topographical maps of both countries, most dating from the World War II era. I'll bet a nickel Roy provided these maps.” M1 pointed to what looked like a set of student notebooks on the under window shelf. “We'll scan these, but I want you two to take a look at the contents. There's a lot of handwritten information in them and presumably, the author is Carl Manheim.”

  M2 returned with his equipment and started to plug wires into the PC. The room became quiet, as we all got busy.

  Ten minutes later, M2 reported. “This computer is set up the same as the laptop except there's no password needed. It has an Internet connection, but here too there are no bookmarks or history. It does have the same little blue icon, but like the one on the laptop, there's no link to anything. There are also a few computer games installed. They're in the puzzle solving adventure category.”

  I looked at the CDs and saw that I had also played the same games a few years ago. As Jean and I continued to read the notebooks it became clear that the contents were a series of preliminary facts and thoughts. Carl was compiling information for a memoir and the topics related to his family history, his early life and his quest. The frustrating part was that a lot of detail was lacking in his notes about himself. Nowhere was there reference to what specifically he was after and references to places were obscure.

  About two hours later the boys were finishing their last tasks. Jean and I helped M1 photograph the maps, then he took a series of pictures of the entire room. We left things much as they were when we arrived.

  Once outside, I had the privilege to pull the back door shut before stripping off my latex gloves. It was a strange sensation, leaving like that, knowing what we had just done.

  As soon as they saw us, the men in green began to take down the extension ladder and pack up their tools. We left as quietly as we had arrived. Our driver told us he had checked out the large, barn-like garage that sat well back from the house. It proved to be nothing more than a place to keep automobiles and lawn equipment.

  Not having really seen it, we said goodbye to Cleveland anyway, and climbed aboard our chopper.

  CHAPTER 9

  Our helmets were back on our heads and we settled in for a bull session as our transport flapped its way east. M1 called Alice to report on our search.

  When he finished he told us that Alice said authorities in Texas found the white van by accident. “It looks like Carl hid it in a warehouse near the Mexican border. Agents discovered it when they raided the place looking for drugs. It's a sure bet the GPR unit is over the border and heading south with Mr. Manheim. Most likely he's traveling with false papers thanks to Roy Kilbourne. Roy is also among the missing. Not sure when he left town. He kept in touch with his office by phone. This means there's a good chance that Roy, and through him, Carl, knows much of what we know. We made the mistake of not completely isolating Ol' Roy from what we were doing and we now know he was busy asking questions.”

  Our talk then turned to our discoveries at the Manheim mansion as we tried to sort and sequence what we had. Many of his notes were revealing in some aspects, but all too often did not complete the picture. It was more of a loose internal monologue than a series of structured thoughts. It took about thirty minutes, but we did manage to come up with an outline of some events. There were hints of what he was searching for and a few more markers on the faint trail we were following.

  He (Carl) began his notes by recalling events that had happened when he left Puerto Rico for the Panama Canal Zone. For the first time we had someone's name linked to that place when Carl wrote:

  Was my time in the Canal Zone a blessing or a curse? It was where I met Sergeant Gunter Weis, a sad wreck of a man, long gone in the bottle. He spoke Portuguese poorly and Spanish not at all, but his native tongue was German, my second language. I could have, maybe should have dismissed his almost incoherent ravings out of hand, but he was a fixture in the small cantina that was my only refuge. Gradually, I became aware that there was a consistent story buried in his almost incoherent ramblings. I began to listen more closely and eventually managed to gain his trust. Bit by bit I pieced together a most fantastic tale.

  As a member of a wealthy family, Sergeant Weis received an unearned commission as an officer in the German Army. Due to incompetence he soon found himself reduced in rank and removed from the Officer Corps. Gunter complained bitterly and at great length about that perceived injustice.

  He was, by chance, assigned to a secret unit of the SS, but as common labor. He traveled to places in Germany and in Egypt, but did not know the mission details. Much later I learned of the strange circumstances that brought him to South America.

  Over the years since the war, nothing changed for the man. He never said anything about having a job. Early on, I assumed he had family money, but Gunter’s tale was rather more fantastic. Many plans for a return to Germany materialized in a fog of alcohol, but nothing came of them.

  On another page Carl wrote that Gunter told him about a place he called the Hollow Mountain. The old German had no idea where it was other than it was in Germany or one of the bordering countries. He then added:

  It is infuriating to think of the years I wasted in my search for that place. At one time I came close to death in a rockslide, thanks to the fool Russians and their tendency to blow up everything in sight. Eventually, I returned and discovered the missing railroad, which led me to the Hollow Mountain. There I found that Gunter's story was true. The planning began in the Hollow Mountain and most of the plans and maps are still where I found them. Their retrieval and preservation will be my next mission after Egypt. There is still much to explore in that place.

  The last sentence on this page was a single line with a little, stick figure cartoon at the end.

  I do not trust him. I will reveal nothing about the Hollow Mountain to –

  “Look here,” M1 said, pointing at the cartoon. “This is the code of the dancing men. I can't read it, but you'll find the solution in the Sherlock Holmes story of the same name.”

  “I remember now,” M2 said. “I read that story when I was a kid. I'll take a picture and send it on ahead.”

  Further on, Carl wrote of Gunter's admiration for a giant, six-engine aircraft called the JU390.

  He only saw it on his final trip to Egypt and then his view was from a smaller JU290 transport that followed the big plane. He told the story many times, but eventually he revealed that the big plane crashed on landing. There were no survivors, but he did overhear that there were two very important people on board. He also added that he helped bury the wreckage and then moved crates and boxes out of an ancient tomb and onto his transport plane. Gunter did not know the contents, but he did say they left many behind in the tomb. This told me that a treasure awaited anyone who found what they had buried.

  It looked like Carl had ripped out a single l
eaf, but the story picked up on the next page.

  It had to be somewhere on the West Coast of Africa, but Gunter only knew he was on the shore of an ocean. After blowing up their air transport, they loaded themselves and their cargo into a U-boat and began the voyage.

  Gunter quickly lost track of the days. The voyage was boring, but the boredom ended on the night the submarine sank. Gunter only remembered feeling the impact of a large explosion and being engulfed by the water. He found himself floating alone, at night, in an empty ocean with no idea about what had happened.

  The night was dark and terrifying. Gunter said a wooden crate rose up from the depths and he clung to it, though it was mostly awash and threatened to sink with each swell. He spotted some palm trees in the distance, so he spent the rest of the night pushing the crate in that direction. At dawn, Gunter had just enough strength left to beach himself and the box. He bashed open the container with rocks and found it was a chest of gold coins. Later that day he located a nearby village and learned he was in Brazil. Late one night while very drunk he told me that this was the source of his sustenance through all of the intervening years. As proof, he displayed several two peso gold coins, dated 1945.

  One night, I learned something very strange. I asked him how he managed to transport the heavy chest of gold in his travels. He just chuckled and said he had a friend. A few nights later, as we sat talking, he handed me a small package, crudely wrapped in butcher paper. “This is my friend,” he said. “I have two of these. They were in the chest with the coins. One is all you will ever need.”

  I have it. I have used it. I could sell it for a fortune, but more money is not what I need. If I turned it over to the Government, they would not let me walk out the door. They would have many questions for which I have no answers. The last person I will show it to is Roy Kilbourne.

  I don't know that Gunter ever made contact with any South American Nazis, nor do I know how he came to the Canal Zone. I don't know these things and I doubt that Gunter remembers the answers. I do know he did not remember the name of the place where he came ashore.