by C T Cassana
Lisa’s eyes opened wide until they almost sprung from their sockets. The signs above each book case bearing the names of the subjects were all secured with four fat brass screws. All except the sign bearing the word “History”.
“You’re right,” replied Lisa with a smile. “I’m missing a screw, or several. And I’ll prove it to you when it’s time for the dance.”
Marcus looked up and saw that both his children were smiling. Neither one seemed to be upset with the other, or even slightly annoyed.
“Time for your showers, children,” was all he said as he turned off his computer.
. . .
Friday night finally arrived, and with it the long-awaited arrival of Mrs. Davis. Lisa and Charlie did the same thing they did every Friday night when their parents went to the movies. For dinner they had the hot dogs that Marcus had left for them while they patiently waited for the TV dance competition to start, when their rotund babysitter would take her seat on the couch clutching the remote control and the huge bowl of popcorn that Marcus had also prepared for them.
However, that night, Mrs. Davis decided to change the usual routine without prior consultation. As soon as the children had finished their dinner, she sat down at the kitchen table with the Monopoly box in her hands.
“I challenge you both to a game,” she said.
“What about the dance contest?” asked Charlie in a fluster.
“Oh, my dear!” replied the woman with a mournful tone. “Now that Jenny Bridges is gone, it’s just not the same.”
“But, what about that big-headed Monnie Hudson?” the boy asked, trying to contain his rage.
Mrs. Davis hadn’t paid the slightest attention to them in months, and now, just when they had to find the first annulus, she had decided she wanted to be their friend.
“I’m going to read in the library for a bit,” said Lisa.
“Oh! Wonderful!” replied Mrs. Davis. “If you like, I can read you both a story.”
Lisa shot Charlie a worried look; having their babysitter in the library with them would be the worst thing that could happen, as it would rob them of any chance to search for the annulus.
“Go on, Charlie, you play,” said Lisa. “I’ve got a headache today, but you’re always asking me to play Monopoly with you. Now you have a chance.”
The boy glared at his sister. Why did he have to be the one who had to entertain Mrs. Davis? It was true that he got along with her better than Lisa, not because he liked her, but because he knew how to handle her. In reality, the old lady’s way of talking to them annoyed him too, and he thought her just as much of a pain in the neck as his sister did.
“Alright, Mrs. Davis,” he said, giving Lisa a look that made it clear that she owed him one. “But don’t complain if I win everything and leave you without a pound to your name.”
“Good heavens, my dear!” replied the woman, feigning embarrassment. “What a cheek you have!”
While Charlie and the babysitter fought it out in the kitchen for ownership of London’s main streets, Lisa slipped into the library. The sign with the word “History” was quite high up, so she would have to bring the step ladder over to reach it. She lifted it up to move it a few yards, to the sound of the hysterical laughter of Mrs. Davis, who had just bought Trafalgar Square. Lisa felt sorry for her poor brother and did her best to hurry so that she could go to his aid as soon as possible. The ladder was heavy, so she simply leaned it against the shelf of the history book section, without fitting its safety hooks to the iron cross bar that ran along the top of the bookcases.
One rung, two rungs... Charlie had just landed in jail and the babysitter was celebrating the fact with a malevolent laugh. Three rungs, four rungs...
“Oxford Street!” squealed Mrs. Davis. “I’ll buy it!”
The sound of the old lady’s delighted exclamations set Lisa’s blood boiling. She seemed to forget she was playing against a child and was gloating over her good fortune. Lisa cocked her head to listen, waiting for her brother to throw the dice: if he got doubles, he would get out of jail. She was so focused on listening to the game that she didn’t realize that she had placed all her weight on one side of the ladder and that it wasn’t properly secured.
Just as Charlie threw the dice, a loud bang came from the library. Mrs. Davis made to get up, but Charlie was faster than she was.
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Davis,” he said, gesturing for her to stay where she was. “Lisa probably just dropped a book, but if it’s something more serious I’ll let you know.”
“Alright, dear,” replied the woman, remaining seated.
Charlie rushed into the library and found Lisa trying to put the ladder back in place.
“What happened?” he asked as he helped her. “Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine. Help me lift it to put it in place properly.”
The two siblings raised the ladder a little and latched the hooks onto the bar. Lisa began climbing again.
“Lisa, Mrs. Davis is having such a good time that I’m worried she’s going to want to play Monopoly with me every Friday...”
“I know, Charlie, I know,” she said, as she reached the top rung.
“I can put up with it tonight,” he went on in a mournful tone, “but what’s going to happen when we have to look for the other annuli? We have to get her back into the dance contest somehow, or I’m going to miss out on all the discoveries.”
“Don’t worry,” responded Lisa, who was now trying to lift up the “History” sign, without success. “As soon as I find the annulus, I’ll go turn on the contest and start screaming about how exciting it is so she’ll come and watch it. I’m sure she’ll fall for it.”
“Charlieeee!” they heard Mrs. Davis call from the kitchen. “Is everything alright, children?”
“Go back to the kitchen, Charlie,” said Lisa. “Or she’ll come in here and start snooping around.”
“I’m coming, Mrs. Davis!” called Charlie, turning to go back to the game. “God, I feel like I’ve been condemned to the galleys.”
His sister was still at the top of the ladder, trying to move the sign from one side to the other.
“Lisa,” remarked Charlie before leaving the room, “the professor would have made sure that nobody could find it by accident, while dusting or something. There must be some kind of mechanism, a special way to open it, maybe in the desk or the compartment where the cape was.”
Charlie left the room and went back to his seat at the kitchen table.
“Your turn, dear,” said Mrs. Davis impatiently. “Was anything wrong?”
“No. Lisa just dropped a book,” answered the boy, his eyes fixed on his opponent’s large pile of 100-pound notes. He could have sworn that it had grown in his absence.
Back in the library, Lisa decided to follow her brother’s suggestion. She pushed the sign first to one side, then to the other, then upwards and then downwards, all without result. She then tried pressing each corner, but the sign would not move. Then she placed two fingers on each of the two lower corners and pressed.
Clack!
The sign came off in her hands, revealing a small rectangular hole. Charlie had been right. Lisa stuck her hand in slowly and found a dust-covered envelope, which she took out carefully. She shook off the dust and held back a sneeze. Then she put the sign back in place, moved the ladder across to another bookcase, and slipped up to the attic to hide the latest finding in the desk. She would open it later, when she had her partner with her.
She went back downstairs, sat down in front of the TV, and turned up the volume so that it would be audible from the kitchen. That night the contestants had prepared some amazing numbers and the audience was applauding wildly. In little more than three minutes, Mrs. Davis was sitting in front of the TV set, with the remote control in one hand and the bowl of popcorn on her lap.
Lisa and Charlie sat with her. They had to make sure that their babysitter would choose a new favorite from among the contestants, preferably one
who was likely to last all the way to the end of the season.
CHAPTER VII: You Knew Each Other?
As he did every Monday, Max Wellington left his office at exactly 10 a.m. His personal assistant, Simon Bennet, helped him ceremoniously to put on his overcoat, handed him his soft black leather gloves, and escorted him to the elevator while they went over Mr. Wellington’s agenda for that afternoon.
This was a ritual that was invariably repeated every Monday, from 10 a.m. to 12 noon. And of all the activities that formed part of Max’s routine, this one was possibly the most intriguing to Simon, mainly due to its frequency and its bizarre punctuality.
He had therefore made some inquiries about these Monday morning outings and had discovered that wherever his boss went he did so alone, because the services of his chauffeur were never called for.
From the office window, Simon would watch him walk down Fifth Avenue, blending in with the crowd until he was out of sight, almost always by the time he reached the corner of 45th Street. The furthest he had ever managed to keep his eye on Max’s slender form was one sunny spring morning when he saw him reach 44th Street before he vanished completely.
On each of these mysterious outings, Simon felt tempted to run after him and follow him through the streets of Manhattan to find out whether he walked all the way to a particular destination, if somebody came by to pick him up or if he hailed a cab. The truth was that he had a hard time imagining Max Wellington using any form of transportation other than his luxurious black limousine.
As obsessed as he was with these strange outings, Simon never worked up the nerve to follow Max, and this day was no exception. He dared only to fix his gaze on the form of Mr. Wellington as he walked briskly along Fifth Avenue, until he was lost in the crowd.
He then went back to his desk and went over his long list of tasks, waiting for the routine check-up call from his boss. He always called at the same time, on a number that he used exclusively for when he was away from the office, always with the excuse of giving him some errand or asking some question that he had forgotten, which was always sufficiently trivial as to leave Simon in no doubt that, in reality, Max’s only purpose was to ensure that he was still at his work station.
At exactly 10:07 a.m., the black phone rang. Simon waited until the end of the second ring before picking up the receiver of the primitive device, which had no call-diversion or call-waiting features.
“Yes, Mr. Wellington,” he said as he wrote something down in his notebook. “Don’t worry, I’ll call right now.”
Max smiled slightly while he put his cell phone back in the inside pocket of his jacket. Then he picked up his pace to get across 43rd Street before the traffic light changed.
. . .
On Monday afternoon, Charlie and Lisa were finally able to hold a meeting in their headquarters. The weekend had been filled with family outings and plans organized by their parents, particularly Maggie, in an effort to compensate the children for all the time their parents had been spending working lately. Under normal circumstances, the children would have been delighted to go out to the movies, or ride their bikes through the park, but now all these family activities held up their investigations to a point that was almost annoying, and they couldn’t wait for the weekend to end so that their parents would go back to their usual busy work schedules.
They opened the letter and, just as Professor Conwell had said, inside it they found a ring-shaped device—the first annulus—together with the instructions for its use and a new poem in Latin that would provide them with the clues to find the next one.
“‘Locus anulus’,” read Lisa as she held the little ring between her fingers. “According to the notebook, this one is for traveling in space, to go from one location to another.”
“The place annulus,” her brother baptized it.
Lisa examined it carefully. It was quite thick and heavy, and inserted into it were some small dials with engraved numbers that could be turned to choose a particular combination.
“They look like the little locks you see on briefcases that need a secret code to open them,” remarked Charlie.
“Yes, here it says that it’s to put in the coordinates of the place where you want to go. First the latitude, then the longitude.”
“Why do you think the old guy would have chosen this annulus to be found before all the others?”
“I don’t know. I guess he would have had some reason, and that we’ll find out when we translate the poem.”
Charlie picked up the sheet with the handwritten text in Latin. This time there was something new: the drawing of a circle with an open book and some words written inside, which he read aloud:
“‘DOMIMINA NUSTIO ILLUMEA’. Isn’t this the book that’s on the coat of arms on the library window?” he asked, showing the drawing to his sister.
“You’re right. Why would he have drawn it?”
Lisa took the Latin dictionary out of the wardrobe and tried to translate the words.
“Nothing. I can’t find any of those three words,” she said, slamming the book shut. “Well, we’re off to a good start, aren’t we?”
“So what do we do now?”
“If we ask Dad for help with the poem, he’s going to wonder why we keep finding all these poems in Latin and he might want to come up to the attic to poke around in the professor’s things. And that would not be good for us.”
“What if we ask Mum?” suggested Charlie. “We haven’t asked her for help yet.”
“Alright. But we’ll do it at the museum so that Dad isn’t around.”
“So then, let’s go see her. It’s still early and Dad won’t care if we go.”
. . .
Max Wellington entered the post office on Eighth Avenue and went straight to the area where the post boxes were located.
Sally Straw smiled blushing at him from the counter and nodded gently by way of greeting. She had spent the whole morning waiting for 10:35 a.m. so that she could see him arrive, just as he did every Monday and every Thursday at the same time. Like a lovestruck teenager, she waited for that attractive and charismatic man to pass by, knowing that their relationship was unlikely to ever go further than a brief greeting twice a week.
Although she had only ever exchanged a few words with him, Sally knew quite a lot about Max Wellington. Her colleague Dave had revealed to her the identity of the mysterious visitor, further feeding her fascination for him. According to Dave, although Max Wellington looked like any other Manhattan executive, he was in fact a distinguished business mogul, the owner of the great business empire Aurum. He was also an important philanthropist, though too modest to make a show of it. Indeed, few people knew about the many cultural projects that Mr. Wellington had financed, including countless archeological digs in different parts of the world.
Dave also admired him and had always been particularly impressed that a person as immensely rich as he was would come to collect his mail in person, a fact he felt was yet another sign of his unassuming nature.
When Sally asked him how he knew so much about the man, Dave explained that years ago his son had worked as a copy editor for a magazine. One of the many jobs the young man was assigned was to do a report on Max Wellington and his business empire. He worked hard on the job, but in spite of his efforts he couldn’t find much information on him. Just when his expertise as a journalist began being called into question, his editor-in-chief received a call. It was Richard Spencer, Aurum’s press officer. He explained that he knew that the magazine was working on an article on the corporation, and that a reporter was asking its employees and clients about the company and about Mr. Wellington. He also made it clear that it would be extremely difficult to find enough information to run a report on him.
Just when the editor-in-chief expected a warning of dire consequences if they didn’t drop the project, Richard Spencer told him that he would gladly meet with the young journalist the following morning to offer him all the help and information he needed.<
br />
There was only one condition: he could write about the company’s activities and its support for cultural initiatives, but Max Wellington’s name must not appear anywhere. Not even a single mention of him, by his express request. Max Wellington detested the frivolous celebrity enjoyed by many big business owners and their efforts to grab media headlines; he considered such behavior more appropriate to movie stars than businessmen. In his view, a person with thousands of employees around the world should present an image of responsibility and stability which, he was sad to note, many of his peers very sorely lacked. Of course, his request for anonymity was honored to the letter.
While his admirer recalled all these things as she leaned over the counter to gaze at him, Max removed his gloves and took the key chain out of his pocket to open the silver door of the little box. He then reached in and felt inside.
It was empty.
. . .
The children didn’t take long to get to the museum. Steve, the guard they had seen last time, wasn’t at the door, but Charlie noticed that her sister seemed to know the one on duty that day just as well.
When they reached the office wing, they found Maggie’s office empty. They stood in the threshold for a few moments, staring into the room. Boxes were piled up on the floor and on the chairs. The desk, normally tidy, was buried under a mess of papers and photographs of archeological pieces that their mother must have been studying. It was obvious that Maggie was really very busy.
“So now what do we do?” asked Charlie, without noticing that the door behind them was open. “Who’s going to translate the Latin poem for us?”
“Perhaps I could help you,” responded a voice behind them.
Lisa felt her blood freeze: that wasn’t her mother’s voice. She turned around to confirm her suspicions.
“Miss Rotherwick!” she said with a smile, trying to seem nonchalant.
“Hello, children,” said the woman in a friendly tone.
Charlie also made an effort to act naturally, aware that he had just made a big mess of things.