Chapter 14: Oddball

A magazine article I read some time ago stated that if all the gold ever produced were to be brought to one place, melted down and squared off, it would form a cube with sides of only sixty feet. I found that amazing. Of course, a solid base would be needed for a chunk of that size, as it would weigh about116,000 tons.

I’d never thought much about this subject until my involvement in the recovery of Horsehead Mulrooney’s coins, in a little matter I’d settled shortly before the one I have in mind now. As a result of the escapade concerning Horsey’s treasure, I’d been considering the lure of gold. I’d had plenty of time – no further business since the Mulrooney affair. I wasn’t worried about that, as I’d got my fees and, by conduct less pure than the driven snow, a big one from the crime boss. He left us some time ago, so I can say what I like.

It had struck me that there was something perverse about this matter of gold. I mean, doesn’t it seem strange that people expend a prodigious amount of effort grovelling in large holes in the ground to extract the stuff, then reconsign over half of it to other subterranean caverns in the world’s banks? An alien observer would surely wonder about this. I mean, in most fields, such activity might be regarded as boondoggling. I’d pondered on. For goodness sake, if this metal is as versatile as so often claimed, why isn’t it all put to better use?

I’m inclined to agree with the comment of, if I remember rightly, John Maynard Keynes, to the effect that as currency, gold is a barbarous relic. I’d rather invest in a society that keeps its books properly. I have the same attitude toward other so-called precious items, and wouldn’t give a dud penny for the world’s supply of diamonds, unless I could dispose of them instantly. I’d take a modest payoff; just enough to let me retire and spend the rest of my life fooling myself by thinking I was doing something useful. I may be on a wavelength of my own in this matter, since I don’t like acquisitions in general. Sorry to go on, but I just thought you might like to know what I think about these things. Anyway, all this has nothing to do with what follows here. It merely gives an indication of what flows through the mind of a detective when he’s not detecting.

My cogitation on the subject of gold was interrupted on a Monday afternoon, when a woman burst into my office. How do I describe her, having said earlier that I’m not good at this? I saw five-four, a stocky one-thirty or so, a black two-piece costume, white blouse and black shoes with medium heels. The dark-brown hair was shortish, straight and parted in the middle. As to age, I guessed about thirty. But it was the face that caught my attention, and I hope this shows you what an upstanding fellow I am. The mouth sagged open and there was something about the eyes; an odd, somewhat loopy look. Offhand, I couldn’t work out whether the expression arose from desperation or some other form of excitement. If you saw the film ‘The Big Bus’, you may recall the splendid performance by a lady called Stockard Channing, who played the engineer responsible for the nuclear-powered vehicle. The way she maintained that nutty appearance was, in my humble opinion, a tour de force. I was looking at something similar.

The woman’s breathing was shallow and fast. She didn’t wait for an invitation, but parked herself on one of my visitors’ chairs. “You must help me,” she gasped.

“Must I?”

“Yes. They’re after me.”

“Are they indeed?”

“Yes. Both of them.”

“I see. And who are they?”

“My father and that dreadful woman he’s married to.”

“Your mother?”

“No, his second wife. My mother is dead.”

It began to make sense. The old step-parent syndrome. “Calm yourself, Ms... ?”

“Bennett. Laura Bennett.”

I didn’t much like the ‘Laura’ bit, as I’d once had a case featuring a femme fatale of that name, who caused no end of trouble. However, a case was a case. “Right,” I said. Now, you’re safe here. What’s the problem?”

“They want the Carter Stone,” she panted.

My mind went into free-wheel. The Carter Stone! Could this be anything to do with Howard Carter and the tomb of Tutankhamen? “I haven’t heard of the object Ms Bennett” I said. “You’d better explain.”

“Please call me Laura,” she said. “It’s an old family matter. The Carter Stone is an heirloom. The story goes back to England, four generations ago. I don’t know what’s become of the stone, but they think I have it and they’re prepared to kill me to get their hands on it.”

She still had that strange look. The soothing approach seemed best. “Laura,” I said, “and by the way, I’m Cyril, this is twentieth-century America, not mid-Victorian Britain. Take your time, collect your thoughts and tell me all.”

“But what about your fees?” she said. “I don’t know if I can afford to pay.”

“Never mind that. I’m flexible. Just give me the details.”

She clenched her hands. “The Carter Stone was in the family for decades, Cyril. Legend has it that the inscription engraved on it leads to the place where my great-grandfather buried his money. It’s somewhere in Cornwall. You sound like an Englishman, but you say you haven’t heard of it.”

“No,” I said. “It means nothing to me. Go on.”

She shivered, looking around. “I saw it just once, years ago. It’s a thin slab – sandstone, I think – about ten inches by eight. There are some words and marks on it, but they never meant anything to my grandparents or my parents. When my mother died, eighteen months ago, we moved house. Somehow, the stone disappeared. My father remarried soon afterwards. He’d been having an affair with Janet – that’s my stepmother – for years. He’s always hated me because I’m the only child and he wanted a boy. He thinks I hid the stone.”

“And you didn’t?”

“No. It simply vanished. I’ve no idea how or where it went.”

I gave her the wise nod. “All right, Laura. Now, do you live locally?”

That foxed her for a moment, then: “No, I just got here today. I’m from ... Cincinnati.”

“I see,” I said. That’s interesting. I lived there for a while when I first came to the States. I had an apartment on Wesley Street, close to where all those insurance companies have their offices.”

“Oh, yes.”

“I was right next to the old college building. They were about to demolish it and put a supermarket in its place. I guess they’ve done that by now?”

“A supermarket,” she said. “Yes, they have.”

“Okay, Laura. So these people are hunting you. What do you want me to do?”

“I ... I really don’t know. Just stop them.”

“All right,” I said. “Now, where are you staying?”

“Nowhere as yet. I thought you could recommend something. Not too expensive. I can’t pay very much.”

My mind flicked through the possibilities. “Yes,” I said, “I think I can. You could try Hanford’s, on Greek Street. Not pretentious, but quiet and respectable. You might tell them that I’ll be dropping in. Saves complications.”

I knew what Hanford’s charged and told her. She was delighted. I phoned the hotel and booked her in, then we swatted our problem around, concluding that she would call me if necessary, and would otherwise go about her apparently non-existent business. I would snoop, homing in on anyone pursuing her.

Laura departed, leaving me to think. The first point I considered was our talk about Cincinnati. I’d never been to the place and still haven’t. My interjection had been pure inspiration, and in retrospect I was quite proud of it. However, I didn’t know whether the city had a Wesley Street or whether, if there was such a place, it might be occupied largely by insurance companies. Then I thought about my ridiculous long-shot concerning the existence of an old college, recently demolished to make way for a supermarket. Why had she gone along with that?

Next, I considered my fees. I’d finally got around to mentioning them and she hadn’t said anything in reply. That was abnormal. Usually, prospective clients fastened onto the point, no matter how difficult their circumstances were. If they didn’t, it meant either that money was no object or they didn’t intend to pay. Laura Bennett had indicated that she wasn’t in the first category. So, whatever her other attributes, she was an incompetent liar and probably wouldn’t cough up. What was her game?

I wasn’t too churned up about this because as I’ve said I’d nothing else on and was doing well moneywise. I’d agreed to start my surveillance at seven that evening. Laura was vague about her likely movements, saying she would decide them as she went along, but certainly wouldn’t go out until the following day.

Having heard nothing further from my strange client, I attacked a pizza which had more topping than Carmen Miranda’s hat, then drove to Hanford’s hotel. I was pleased about my speed of thought in recommending the place. Though I hadn’t been fully conscious of what had gone through my mind earlier, I had remembered that there was usually plenty of parking space in Greek Street. That always helps. On the debit side, I had no contacts on the staff at Hanford’s.

It was a welcome change to start an evening’s work without having to think about food. One of the pains of a private eye’s life is the irregularity of eating. That was often a problem for me, as I was – and am – very big on bowels. Good movements in the morning set a man up for the day is my motto. I know I’ve indicated elsewhere that I often patronised the local greasy spoon place, and realise that doesn’t quite square with what I’ve just said, but I had my methods. Well, all right, if you want to press the point, the secret is two tablespoonfuls of oat bran with the main meal, plus lots of drinking water every day. Okay?