The Golden Fleece Affair (From The Files Of Lady Dru Drummond Book 2)

by CW Hawes

  “So why are we here, Mr Hall?” I asked.

  “Good question, Lady Hurley-Drummond. You and Karl are here because I want it. You see, I’m very ill. In fact, I’m dying. I know. I’m going to be ninety-one in a couple of weeks. I’m an old man. But who in their right mind wants to die? No one. Certainly not I. I want the fleece because it will heal me of my disease. Owning it will let me live many more years. You and Karl are here because I want you to get the fleece for me.”

  Three

  Mr Hall’s Plan

  The House on the Enchanted Hill

  Late Afternoon

  Thursday, 8 April 1954

  Karl and I were dumbfounded and it must’ve shown on our faces.

  Mr Hall explained. “You two are my star journalists. You know what’s going on over there and if anyone can find the fleece and bring it back, it’s you two. You will be handsomely rewarded. After all, you will be giving me the gift of life.”

  Neither of us said anything. I, for one, had no desire to go back to Russia. Besides, everyone and his aunt and uncle wanted the damn thing. As sure as I love Karl and the sky is blue, there was going to be a lot of shooting and bloodletting over this hunk of wool. Not something I wanted to be in the middle of.

  He looked at us, undoubtedly guessing we weren’t excited about the assignment. He simply said, “I won’t play hardball, Karl, Dru. I am asking you, as a friend, to do this for me.”

  A friend? Walter Ramsey Hall sees us as friends? Wonders never cease. Clearly he was desperate. I looked at Karl. He was lost in thought. He has a much longer history with Mr Hall than I do. For myself, I’d say “no”. I have money. I don’t need more. Karl, though, does have to work for a living. Money could be a motivator for him and I wouldn’t put loyalty passed him, either. I did know this: I’d follow Karl’s lead.

  All was quiet in the room. The minutes ticked by. At last Karl spoke. He said, “I’ll do it.”

  “I’ll go with Karl,” I said. “I want to make sure he comes back and does so in one piece.”

  Mr Hall laughed, then simply and quietly said, “Thank you. You will be well paid for this.”

  “When do we leave?” Karl asked.

  “Tomorrow.”

  “What?” We chorused.

  “We have no time to waste. Eight parties, including myself, want the fleece and I wouldn’t be surprised if there were more. General Forrest said he won battles by getting there first and with the most men. I intend to do the same. I purchased from the Navy the old mothballed and decommissioned USS Los Angeles. I’ve had a team of Germans go over her and bring her up to date as much as possible. She’ll be inflated with hydrogen so I can get the maximum performance out of her. Admiral Charles Rosendahl has accepted my offer to come out of retirement and command the ship and the Navy is providing the crew, except for stewards and cooks. I’ve renamed her Argo.”

  “We’re going to fly to Georgia in a thirty year old zeppelin?” Karl asked.

  “Yes. The Argo has been completely overhauled. New covering, new gas cells, new engines, rebuilt gondola. She’s like a new ship, Karl.”

  “She sounds wonderful, Mr Hall. I’m looking forward to seeing her,” I said.

  “And see her you shall. Tomorrow.”

  “Will anyone else be going?” I asked.

  “As a matter of fact, yes,” Mr Hall replied. “Jake Branson, whom you’ve already met, will go along to assist you on my behalf. The government, because they are not officially involved over there, is sending eight people to ‘assist’ me.”

  “In other words,” Karl said, “we have to not only find the fleece, we have to get it past our own government to you.”

  “Something like that,” Mr Hall said.

  Karl frowned and Mr Hall went on. “In addition to the eight government boys, Doctors Franzen and Rodman will be on board. Their job, along with a Brit you’ll pick up in England, will be to identify the fleece and determine if it is authentic.”

  “Who’s the British fellow?” I asked.

  “Baden Powell Mafeking Smith. He’s an antiquities dealer of some renown in Europe. Helped me secure some of my finest treasures.”

  The name rang a bell for me, although I couldn’t place it beyond that niggle in my memory.

  “Do either of you have someone you’d like to accompany you?”

  Karl shook his head.

  I said, “I’d like my secretary, Klara, to accompany me.”

  Mr Hall said, “Of course.”

  “I would also like my friend, Dunyasha, the Baroness Bobrinsky, to join us if she’s willing.”

  “Ah, she was the Czarist insider you met over there,” Mr Hall said.

  “Yes. She knows the situation. She speaks Russian. And she is a very resourceful woman.”

  “Fine with me,” Mr Hall said. “The telephone is over there. Make your calls and make sure your people are at Lakehurst when Argo arrives. That should be on the eleventh.”

  “If she agrees to go, she’ll be there.”

  “Very good. Now, I’ll leave you two. Supper will be brought to you later on. I apologize for not eating with you. These days, I have little appetite and by eight o’clock I’m exhausted and in bed. In the morning, Jake will get you about six and drive you to Los Angeles, where the three of you will board the Argo. Franzen and Rodman will also join you in L.A. The government boys will join the expedition in Lakehurst and Smith in Cardington.”

  Mr Hall stood, shook our hands, and wished us good luck. We walked him to the door and watched him disappear down the walkway. While we watched, Karl slipped his arm around me.

  “I love you, Karl,” I said and slipped my arm around him.

  “Another adventure and in Russia of all places,” he said.

  “This time, we’ll be together as we should have been last time. Perhaps this is our chance to relive history and get it right.”

  Karl chuckled. “Except we won’t be reliving anything. This is a brand new adventure.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Oh, I think I do, Dru Drummond. I think I do.”

  “What say we try out the Cardinal Richelieu bed before our supper arrives?”

  “I’m glad you’re willing to share.”

  I put on a coy, seductive look, and took hold of his necktie.

  “Mi casa, su casa,” I said and pulled him to the bedroom. And I have to say, the Cardinal Richelieu bed is a very fine bed. Very fine indeed.

  Four

  Pursued

  California, along the coast

  Morning

  Friday, 9 April 1954

  Jake Branson was knocking on our door promptly at six. With him was Jepson to help us with our luggage. Karl and I were ready, having gotten up at five to shower and pack. After supper we’d made love again and, while the kissing, fondling, and copulating were thoroughly exquisite and delicious, we didn’t get in much sleep time as a result.

  The men loaded the luggage into the boot, only the boot was where the bonnet was supposed to be.

  “What car is this?” I asked.

  “A Tucker Torpedo,” Branson responded.

  “Never heard of it,” I replied.

  “Tucker’s had some problems getting the company off the ground. However, it looks as though he’s overcome the obstacles and he’s in business.”

  The car is quite large. There are three headlamps and a chrome grill on the lower half of the front. The engine is in the rear, over the driving wheels. Something like those Czech-designed Tatras. The Tucker is streamlined, with a sweeping aerodynamic back. Again, like the Tatra. The steering wheel is in the middle and the center headlamp turns with the wheels. A very innovative car.

  Branson opened one of the doors for us and imagine my surprise when the seat swiveled out of the way not only so Branson could access the center driving seat, but so Karl and I could get into the rear seat. One of the maids brought us a basket of food. Karl and I got into the car with the basket, Branson got behind the wheel, an
d we were on our way to Los Angeles by quarter to seven.

  I opened the basket and looked at the provisions with which we’d been provided. Hardboiled eggs; freshly baked bread, scones, and croissants; jam; a variety of olives and cheeses; cold ham; fresh fruit; and flasks of coffee and tea. I began passing out food to the men and while doing so asked Branson how long the drive to Los Angeles should take.

  “About four hours, Lady Hurley-Drummond. Barring any incidents, of course,” he replied.

  “What manner of incidents?” I inquired.

  “Could be anything, Lady Hurley-Drummond, from a flat tire to, well, anything,” he answered.

  “Is that why you have an MP40 on the floor next to you?” I asked.

  “Correct,” he replied.

  “What exactly is your role, Mr Branson?” Karl asked.

  “I’m what you might call a Jack-of-all-trades and master of some. I’m to assist you in getting the fleece for Mr Hall. I’m fairly handy with just about anything.”

  “By anything, you mean…?” Karl pressed.

  “Anything,” Branson responded. “I can fly a plane, pilot a boat, drive pretty much anything. I know martial arts, weapons, and rope craft. I’ve done some mountain climbing. A little bit of everything. I was an Airborne Ranger with the Army. In case you were wondering.”

  “Thank you,” Karl replied.

  “Think of me as your Man Friday. I’m here to help,” Branson added.

  “When is Argo supposed to lift off?” I asked.

  “Mr Hall would like us to be underway by noon.”

  I nodded.

  When we were finished eating, I returned everything to the basket and put it in the right side passenger seat in the front of the car. Getting comfortable in the back seat, I took Karl’s hand, he didn’t pull it away, and promptly dozed off.

  The next thing I knew, Karl was calling my name. My eyes fluttered open and I saw concern on his face.

  “What is it, Karl?”

  “Mr Branson says we picked up a tail in Santa Maria.”

  “Where are we?”

  Branson spoke, “About three miles south of Orcutt. See that black sedan behind us?”

  I looked out the spacious rear window. “Yes,” I said.

  Branson continued. “They’ve been closely following us since we crossed Stowell in Santa Maria.”

  The big, bulky black auto, with piles of chrome in the front, was about four or five car lengths behind. One car was between us and the black behemoth.

  “What is that thing?” I asked.

  “The car? A Hudson Hornet,” Branson answered.

  I nodded, though the information didn’t really mean anything to me.

  Branson continued. “I’m going to try to outrun whoever is behind us and then lose them in Los Olivos or Santa Ynez.”

  “Can we out run them?” Karl asked.

  “Car to car, on a straightaway, yes. If we encounter traffic or lots of curves in the road, no.”

  Karl and I watched the cars behind us and they stayed there until we reached Los Alamos, where the one between us and the black Hudson turned off. Branson waited until we’d driven through town and were outside the city limits, then he accelerated. I looked at the dashboard, saw the speedo needle sweep past ninety, and looked out the window. The Hudson was very slowly falling behind.

  The Tucker Torpedo swept into Los Olivos a little past eight-thirty and Branson slammed on the brakes. An antique pickup truck pulled out in front of us and proceeded to move down the highway at a pace to give the snail he was racing a good lead.

  It didn’t take long before Karl said, “Our tail is back.”

  Branson nodded and said, “I see him.”

  A half-dozen cars were lined up behind the Tucker as we followed the truck out of town. Branson edged our car to the centerline. There was a sedan coming towards us about a half-mile away. Branson shoved the accelerator to the floor and pulled into the left lane. The roar of the engine, right behind Karl and I, was deafening as the Tucker shot down the road.

  Pulling out of line of cars following us was the black Hudson. We were around the pickup, the black sedan hadn’t cleared the truck, and the oncoming car was bearing down on the Hornet. The scene reminded me of a game of chicken. Suddenly, the oncoming car took to the hard shoulder and the Hudson moved back into the correct lane just ahead of the antique pickup, which proceeded to turn off on a side road.

  The Hudson was again directly behind us and once more we were slowly pulling away from it. Santa Ynez was a mere four miles away.

  Branson said, “I’m going to try to out run him. We don’t have a large enough lead, once in Santa Ynez, to hide this car. It’s too distinctive and he’s too close. Makes me wish I was driving a Ford or a Chevy.

  The Tucker shot past Santa Ynez, which is just off the San Marcos Pass road, on its way to Santa Barbara and Highway 101, which would take us into Los Angeles. Still behind us, and falling further and further behind, was the Hornet. The landscape was all grassland and clumps of trees, which rolled away from the highway in all directions. Branson pushed the Tucker and it ate up the road. However, we were heading for the mountains and with every passing mile they loomed larger and larger. In the distance was the black sedan, still attempting what clearly seemed to be its vain pursuit.

  Suddenly our Man Friday slammed on the brakes. From the only side road for miles, a car pulled out in front of the Tucker. At the same time, a car was coming towards us from the opposite direction and behind the car was a lorry. We couldn’t pass. The driver of the car in front of us must have thought it was Sunday. Branson let slip a very impolite description of said driver.

  When the lorry went by, Branson pulled out to pass only to find more cars rounding the curve in the road ahead of us. We were stuck and the black sedan was closing the gap.

  “Either of you know how to use a submachine gun?” Our Man Friday asked.

  I said, “I do.”

  In the rearview mirror, I saw him raise his eyebrows. “Okay, then, Lady Hurley-Drummond,” he said as he leaned over and retrieved the MP40. “You get this.” And he handed me the submachine gun. He reached under the right front seat and handed me one, then a second, and then a third magazine. “Just in case,” he said.

  “Mr Weidner…” Branson pulled a pistol from a shoulder holster and handed it to Karl. “You ever shoot one before?”

  “I have,” Karl replied and added, “A long time ago.”

  “A long time ago is better than no time ago. Things might get testy.”

  The black Hornet was now three car lengths behind us. Branson edged over towards the yellow centerline. Suddenly he gunned the big Tucker. It shot out from behind the Sunday driver and raced down the road. Branson then pulled back over to the driving lane, smack dab in front of the car being driven by the day confused fellow. The big black Hudson Hornet was whizzing by when the driver realized what Branson had done. The Hornet fell back behind the slowpoke. Branson jammed the accelerator to the floor.

  Behind us, our Sunday driver started swaying from side to side in the lane. It looked as though he was having difficulty controlling the vehicle. Then his car seemed to lurch forward. The slow poke pulled over to the narrow hard shoulder and nothing was between us and the Hudson.

  We were nearing Lake Cachuma. The road had been cut lower than the ground surface. It was as though we were in a narrow canyon. There were no shoulders to the two-lane highway, only walls of rock, dirt, and scrub brush.

  Up over a rise the speeding Tucker floated and, to our dismay, we found ourselves barreling down upon a lorry. Traffic was coming from the opposite direction. Once again Branson had no choice and had to slow down. The Hudson didn’t and rammed us. The black sedan fell back and then accelerated, hitting us again. Our Man Friday manage to keep the Tucker on the road.

  “Maybe, Mr Weidner, you could try to persuade them to back off.”

  Karl racked the slide, rolled down the window, stuck the gun out, and fired twice
. He missed.

  I pulled back the cocking lever on the MP40 and stuck it out the window. The Hudson hit our car and kept accelerating. The jolt caused me to hit my head and see stars for a moment. Branson was struggling to keep us on the road. I saw a man lean out the passenger side of the Hornet. He had a gun. I pulled the trigger on the submachine gun.

  The windscreen on the black sedan shattered and the wind blew the glass back into the car. The behemoth drifted over to the side of the road, up onto the angled cut through the earth, hit a boulder, flipped end over end, came back down onto the road, and rolled over onto its roof.

  There was no traffic on the other side of the highway. Branson punched it, got around the lorry, and raced down the highway.

  “You’re not stopping?” Karl said to him.

  “No. Nothing we can do for them and we have a deadline to meet. Oh, nice shooting, by the way, Lady Hurley-Drummond.”

  “I had a good teacher,” I said.

  Karl and I looked at each other. At that moment, the enormity and dangerousness of what we’d gotten ourselves into hit us.

  Five

  Argo

  Los Angeles, California

  Mid-day

  Friday, 9 April 1954

  Branson parked Mr Hall’s Tucker in a private garage and, from a pay phone, called our boss and gave him a report on our brush with trouble. When the call ended, we collected our bags, the basket of food, and the MP40, climbed into a taxi, and proceeded to the Los Angeles airport. We arrived with forty minutes to spare. I had a dull headache from when I hit my head and was looking forward to an aspirin and a nap. I promptly forgot all that when I saw the Argo.

  In the ‘20s, when she was built, she was one of the largest airships in the world. She was soon eclipsed by even grander behemoths of the air: R100 and R101, Graf Zeppelin, Akron, Macon, Hindenburg, Graf Zeppelin II. And compared to today’s airliners, she is rather small; being not much more than two football fields in length. Nevertheless, she’s a beautiful ship with her silver skin gleaming in the California sun.