Discovery

by Maurice Barkley

  We turned off our noses once more and went back to the kitchen. Suddenly, a new realization slapped me upside the head. This was not simply an interesting quest. Until this moment it had been an exciting new adventure, but here was mortal danger, people who did not hesitate to kill. In any event, I had a job to do. I would sort it out later. As well, I had brought Jean into this risky investigation. I made a mental note to have a serious conversation with her as soon as possible.

  “Good God,” M1 muttered, “he looks to be every one of his ninety-something years. The miracle is he didn't die thirty years ago from liver failure.”

  I kept my back to Gunter as much as I could while I looked carefully at every object including cracks in the floor, walls and ceiling. I found nothing interesting. Eventually, I came across Gunter's liquor cabinet, the best piece of furniture in the house. It was a hexagonal barrel of simple design with short legs and a flat top. Its single curved door stood open and slightly askew as if to testify to the violence done here. There was evidence of the bottles stored, both on the top and in the interior. The surfaces had a multitude of dried rings of different sizes where Gunter had carelessly set wet glassware, but there were no bottles or glasses on or in the cabinet. All that remained were a few shattered fragments.

  “Look here on the top,” I said. “There’s an inlay in ebony. It’s that odd double cross image that Carl drew in his notebook.”

  M2 took a picture of it and I continued my examination. I was looking at the thick base when my eye traveled down one stubby leg. I saw that Gunter had screwed it to the floor with a small metal shelf bracket. I looked and saw that the other five legs had their own anchors. Gunter did not want this table moved. Perhaps there was a trap door below like the stove in Colonel Klink's office in Hogan's Heroes. I called M2 over to show him. We both took hold of the cabinet, but it would not budge nor could we find any suspicious cracks in the floorboards. The only space not exposed was the interior of the thick base. I took out my Boy Scout knife and pried up. The space revealed was about half full of gold coins.

  “Holy moly,” M2 exclaimed. “We can go to Disneyland.”

  This was the reason for the fasteners. Had anyone lifted this cabinet to move it, the weight of the coins would give away the secret.

  “Now's the time to be practical,” M1 said, as we gazed at the nest of gold. “This is Nazi loot that Gunter will no longer need. Left here, the local authorities will, of course, confiscate it and who knows where it will go. We can't keep it for obvious reasons, but we can put it to good use to buy a barrel full of good will for the future. We'll put them in that dresser drawer over there and you can give it to Bebe.” Looking at the cabinet, he asked, “You checked this over real good?”

  “I think so,” I said.

  “I'll give it a second look. Those floor clamps seem excessive. Maybe there's something more.” He kneeled down and felt under the base. “Don't feel anything here.” Bending down further, he looked at the underside of the much-abused top. “Here's something. Could be a small cigar humidifier. I'll see if I can pry it out.”

  M2 held a small flashlight while M1 got a good grip. I heard a slight rubbing sound as he pulled the object down. His arms went back up in an awkward fashion, then he pulled down again, only it looked like he was pushing down.

  “Oh, oh,” he said. “Something is very weird. This thing wants to float back up. There were no screws holding it in place.”

  “How strong is the pull?” M2 asked.

  “A couple of pounds is all. I can handle it okay.”

  “What's it feel like?”

  “It's small, plastic or metal. It's not hot or vibrating. I'll keep a good grip and pull it out so we can see it.”

  When his hand appeared, I saw an amber, opaque object. It looked like an oval bar of soap with hooks on each end and it still wanted to elevate. I think if he had let go it would have floated up to the ceiling.

  “What in the hell have we stumbled on?” M1 said.

  “I think,” M2 said, “that the importance of our visit has expanded off the chart.”

  “This is wild,” I said. “Even the Nazis were not that advanced.”

  He shifted his grip to show the sunken middle. I saw ten BB-size dots, laid out in a silver dollar-sized circle. All were white except one, which was black. Each dot had fine wiggly lines next to it.

  “The black dot could be the current setting,” M1 said, “but all I see are wiggly lines.”

  “I'm wondering,” M2 said, “if touching the dot to the left will diminish the pull or turn it off.”

  “I'm wondering,” I said, “if that action will cause a loud explosion. Also I'm wondering what the hell it is?”

  “We have found something,” M1 said, “way more important than the gold coins and the GPR unit. We need to know more about Sergeant Gunter Weis.”

  “How will you carry that thing?” I asked.

  After some discussion, we decided to try to turn it off.

  “Here goes,” M1 said, as he touched the dot to his left. “It worked. It's behaving normal, doesn't weigh much.”

  After more discussion, we decided to see if touching the original black dot would turn it back on. It did.

  “How about touching one more dot to the right to see if it increases the pull,” M2 said.

  “Whoa!” M1 said, as his hand jerked up. “That doubled its pull.” He quickly turned it off. “Enough experimenting—I'll put it in my shirt pocket and button it down. For now we'll just call it a bar of soap. It must have one hell of a battery.”

  “Hold on,” M2 said. “Sergeant Weis said he had a friend that helped him carry the coins. Could this be the friend? If so, Carl has one and that could be how he lifted that heavy crate back at GPR. Alice is gonna love this.” He flapped his arms. “Jeez, guys, this is some super serious sci-fi shit. We’ve got to keep a tight lid on this. Think of some of the rat bastards in the agency who would gut us for this little bomb. We won’t be doing Alice that big a favor when we hand it over.”

  “She’ll just pass it on to the director,” M1 said. “Besides, I’ve yet to meet the rat bastard that Alice can’t demolish.”

  It seemed like we should have more to say, but we just stood there looking at one another.

  “Back to work, guys,” M1 finally said.

  We emptied the gold into the small dresser drawer and wrapped it with a dirty towel. M2 picked it up and handed it to me. It was heavy, but I managed as we backtracked to our waiting vehicle.

  M1 walked Bebe back a few yards and told her of finding Gunter deceased. He asked that she take us to the cantina before calling the police. We needed time to complete our investigation. She replied that she saw no need to inform the police. “The neighbors will eventually notice the stink.”

  “How about your driver?” M1 said.

  “Carlos works for me,” she said, “and he too knows how to keep silent.”

  “Very good,” M1 said. “Now, take us to the cantina.”

  I was back in my previously occupied space in the taxi. The towel wrapped box was on the floor under my feet when Bebe crawled in. She saw the object between my feet as she placed her posterior firmly where it had been before.

  “Do I get to see what is in the box?” she said, as our taxi began to move.

  “Better, you get to keep what's in the box.”

  Slowly, she leaned over and pulled up one corner of the towel. She glanced at me then pulled it up even more and felt a few of the coins with her small, slender fingers.

  “How many are there?” she asked.

  “I don't know, but it's awfully heavy. I hope you can trust Carlos to help you.”

  Her arm snaked back up and around my neck. I felt the press of her torso as she leaned into me. “Do you really have to leave in a rush?”

  “I'm afraid so, Bebe. It's always business first with our employer.”

  “You come back. I make it worth the trip.”

  She said nothing else for the entire
ly too short trip, but her movement in my lap said ever so much more than words. My wandering left hand found its way to its new favorite place. This time, Bebe did not remove it. The promise was clear if only I would return. Such an old story, but it was one that was new to me.

  Good grief, I thought, In a few days I’ve gone from a virtual hermit, unable to talk to the woman next door without stuttering, to an elderly version of James Bond. Cool.

  The cantina, nearer to the shoreline, was only about four blocks away from Gunter's residence. From the outside it looked more like a run down two-car garage than a cantina. The faded stucco held only a trace of the original green paint. There was a single red, rusty sign hanging over the door to herald its existence. If one were to call it by the name on the sign, it would be the Coca-Cola.

  “The bartender you are about to meet speaks English rather well,” the lovely and informative Bebe told us. “He is the occasional recipient of my largess.” She paused and smiled. “I am practicing my English. You can trust him to answer your questions truthfully and to then forget all about our visit. Nevertheless, I will start the conversation.”

  I looked around as she led us inside. The interior was old and worn. I felt as though I had entered an annex to Rick's Bar in Casablanca. Antique carved mahogany booths lined the back wall except for an elaborate archway that led to somewhere in the back, perhaps the restrooms. Four round tables surrounded by wicker chairs sat under slowly turning ceiling fans that had the look of an earlier time. Each table held a large, squat bottle with a candle stuck in the neck. Lucky for us, the place was empty of customers at this time of day.

  The man we had come to see sat perched on a stool behind the bar. A glass of something or other was in one hand and the other was holding a newspaper printed in a language other than English.

  “Arnaud,” Bebe sang out, as we neared the bar, “I have some tourist friends who need a nice glass of Coca-Cola, plenty of ice please.”

  As Arnaud, who looked like an elderly Aztec warrior, reached in a cooler for the bottles, she introduced us by our first names. We each got a friendly nod.

  “His name is French,” Bebe said, as she reached for her drink, “but only his mama knows why.”

  Arnaud smiled and Bebe winked at him. By that time we had all bellied up to the bar, enjoyed a swig of Coke and had our elbows planted comfortably of the worn mahogany surface.

  “We are looking for Gunter,” Bebe said, innocently. “Has he been here today?”

  “No,” Arnaud said, with a very pronounced and stilted accent. “He has not been at this place for more than one week. I worry. Perhaps he is sick?”

  “We have just come from his house,” Bebe said, in her offhand manner. “We knocked on his door, but he was not there.”

  Arnaud thought for a moment. “For years he come almost every day. Should we look for him? Should we make a call to the police?”

  Bebe replied, with a shrug. “You can if you want to. Me, I don't want the police wondering about my business. It is best we wait.”

  “You are always right, Bebe,” Arnaud said, with finality.

  She hiked herself up on the brass rail to lean closer to the bartender. “Would it trouble you to talk a little bit about Gunter?”

  “Oh, my, no,” Arnaud said, emphatically. “You know I love to talk.”

  M1, who still had half of his glass of Coke, said, “What kind of a man is Gunter?”

  Arnaud spoke in a thoughtful manner. “Not happy, never happy. Most always drunk, even when he walk in the door. I do not speak German. When he was here he speak Portuguese, but it was very bad Portuguese and he had no Spanish. Most of the time I no understand him. Most of the time he talk, but only to himself. I think it was about old things from long ago when he was young in Germany. Every day was the same. He come in the afternoon, order Rum and Coke and sit at the table near the door. It gave him pleasure to talk to anyone who would listen. It was always the same with him. Every day he come here for as long as I can remember. I was here as a child.”

  “Has he had any visitors lately?” M1 asked. “Anyone who came here especially to see him?”

  “Just one and that was long ago when I was younger. There was a man; I think he was a soldier, who came here many times to talk to Gunter. I have no knowledge of what they talk about. They both spoke German, but I do remember Gunter enjoyed his company. Like so many of my customers, the man went away and did not return.”

  “Think back,” M1, said. “Can you remember any of the things Gunter talked about?”

  “Oh, yes,” Arnaud said, “but very little made sense because of his bad accent and all of that rum.”

  “Tell us what you remember,” M1 urged.

  “Not too much because most times he would talk about the same things over and over. He was lonesome for his homeland, but never said why he could not go back. He often said he was the only survivor of a shipwreck, but would never say where or when. About once a week he would get very drunk and start raving about a Hollow Mountain that was close to his heart. He said what sounded like heart, then he said coração like he was translating. I think that is what he said, but his speech was very bad. I could be mistaken. There is one piece of German I remember because he said it many times. It was Geheimweg. He would sit there at his table, tapping his glass and saying that over and over. One time I ask him what it mean, but he only laugh and said he was the only one who made the journey.”

  Although M1 and M2 had more questions, Arnaud had no more answers and in about thirty minutes we paid our tab and took our leave. Out on the sidewalk, I told the boys that Geheimweg meant The Secret Path. That translation was no great revelation, but it did add a bit to the puzzle. The important item I picked up on was Gunter's reference to his heart.

  “He could have been talking about the Harz Mountains near Nordhausen,” I said. “Considering Gunter's poor Portuguese, I could see Arnaud making that mistake.”

  “That's more like it,” M1 said. “There are old underground facilities there. I read about a rocket factory and a big fuel storage site.”

  “That puts it near Leipzig,” M2 said. “Still a fair sized area, but now we have a chance. I think Wernher von Braun hid some documents in the Harz Mountains, but I forget the details.”

  “We've done all we can do here,” M1 said to Bebe, “Please take us back to our arrival point. We'll discuss it on the way.”

  We loaded up as before. M1 got on his phone to call our airport taxi. M2 called Alice for a discrete report and Bebe found her way back to my lap and jammed herself even closer. Since this was our final ride with her, I made the most of it. Along the way I discovered that she also had freckles on her ear lobes—fascinating.

  We soon arrived back at our starting point near the dock. There was a large pelican perched on an ornate streetlight near where we stopped. The ever-present seagulls strutted nearby, constantly on the lookout for the occasional scrap of food discarded by the strollers.

  I concentrated on the birds to tear my mind away from Bebe who was standing silent, but very close. Life is unfair at times like this. It was goodbye time and neither of us was happy to part. I knew this was an impossible situation. I would leave and never return. True, but then I thought the same about a return visit to the Silver Diner. With that in mind, I decided to make no resolutions about this particular romantic encounter. The future would unfold and what would be would be.

  Things move quickly in this new world I was inhabiting. A small blue sedan pulled to the curb near to where we were standing. The siren was not wailing and no lights were flashing, but painted on the car door in gold letters was the word POLICIA. Two young, well-groomed and efficient-looking officers exited the vehicle and approached us. All I could think of was the derringer tucked into my leg holster. M1 and M2 were in the pickle vat with me, but they showed no concern. I should have known Bebe could handle a situation like this.

  I shifted into my James Cagney stance and watched with my best-unconcerned look as
Bebe took them aside and spoke to them in the local language. When she finished, one of the officers came over to stand in front of me. He looked in my eyes for a moment, then flicked my shirt collar with one finger and said, “La mala suerte de mi amigo.”

  The officers then returned to their car and drove off as they had arrived—quietly.

  “What did you tell them?” I asked.

  “I told them M1 and M2 are bounty hunters from the States. You are a runaway from your very rich wife and they are taking you back. The reward she offered for your capture and return was very large and if they would just let us go, I would see that they would receive a generous share. Those boys know me. We have done business before.”

  “What was it the officer said to me?” I asked.

  “He said, 'Bad luck, my friend.' You see, they bear you no ill will since you are only a runaway from a woman.”

  While Bebe was explaining things to me, our airport cab pulled behind our local taxi. It was time to go. Bebe took my hand and walked me back a bit for a private word. She kept holding my hand and lifted it up under her chin. With her other hand she placed one of the gold coins in my palm then closed my fingers over it.

  “This will bring you good fortune, but it is a loan,” she said. “You must repay this loan and you must repay it in person, do you understand?”

  I smiled back, not knowing what else to do. I saw no way around this conflict. There were no promises I could make. Too much was happening too fast and it was not just my life. Sure, Jean had left me and I could rationalize and justify my behavior, but I'm not that good at kidding myself.

  “I know these things complicate matters,” she said. “Just keep this coin with you and every now and then you will think of me.”