The Gold Pawn

by L. A. Chandlar

  “All right, Finn. I’ve wondered for years why I was left here alive. Yeah, might as well do something besides just survive. It seems hardly substantial, but right now the only lead I can give you is that Rex Ruby worked closely with an architect who did some work in New York City and a few other major cities in America. Rex loved to be in the spotlight. Well, that’s not actually accurate. He didn’t want a lot of attention, but he wanted a lot of credit, like . . . like . . .” Miles rubbed his dirty temple, like he was trying to coax coherent thoughts out of a mind that had just been retrieved after a long and wandering journey. “Like a god. Yeah, yeah, he was a master of manipulation and wanted to be behind everything, wanted everyone to think that he was everywhere at once and you could never, ever get away from his control.” Finn nodded, taking it all in. This was the most information he’d ever gotten about the elusive and powerful Rex Ruby.

  Miles went on, warming to his topic. “So, he would have monuments erected or get the architects of monuments and statues to create little signs woven into their work, like puzzles or clues. Yeah, and then he’d get his kicks out of leaving his mark everywhere; even if it was small, it mattered to him. In fact, it was even better if it wasn’t very obvious and in the open. Like it was more sinister, reminding people that he was always watching, even when you weren’t aware of him. He liked things like that, yeah. He liked things like that a lot.”

  He and Miles had parted, exchanging information on how to reach each other if they thought of anything else. Finn had a new ally. He instinctively liked this man who had transformed before his eyes. He still smelled awful, and his eyes remained haunted, but the man once again had a mission. Finn found him a place to stay and paid for the month. Hopefully some good meals, rest, and a roof over his head would help him become once again the man whom Finn heard about.

  Finn took one last pull of his cigarette as he smiled to himself about that meeting. He heard the loud mew of a cat from between two buildings just ahead and he pulled up the collar of his coat against the growing cold. He’d have an invigorating chat about all these things with Kirkland, Evelyn, and Fio when he got back, that was for sure.

  And Lane. God, he missed her. He’d received a couple of letters from her, but because of his mission he hadn’t been able to get any back to her. He knew she’d understand, but he also knew she loved him enough to be worried about him, which filled him with an unexpectedly gratifying sense of being needed. Something that secured him, grounded him more than he had felt . . . well, perhaps ever.

  That issue of Mr. Hambro disappearing had him concerned; that was so unlikely from a man like him. And he had dire forebodings that a mystery of this caliber would draw Lane and Roarke toward more sleuthing sprees. And he wouldn’t be there to help them out if they got into a spot of trouble. He took courage in knowing that Lane could take care of herself, but he was still uneasy. She had this independent streak that made him wonder what was at the root of it. No, independent wasn’t the right word . . . Too tame a word, for Christ’s sake.

  But her letters were so good to receive, like having her just a little closer. Other than Mr. Hambro, nothing out of the ordinary had been happening. She was on her way to Michigan the last he had heard from her. He wondered if she’d remember much more about her past. He hoped that she wouldn’t uncover more uncertainty, but find something that would bring her some peace.

  Just then, he thought about the moment that they had opened the slim black case from the safe-deposit box, left to Lane by her parents. And inside was that damn silver gun, a deadly gleam to its shiny surface, the scarlet scroll deeply carved into the handle—the gun that had haunted her dreams for years. They didn’t know what to make of it. It had been a sign of malevolence in her dreams, something that she hated and feared. And now to have it inextricably linked to her mother and father was a strange turn of events to say the least. It was Rex’s gun, all right, retrieved when Kirkland and Lane’s father finished him off. But there had always been twin guns like an evil yin and yang. And one was missing. Eliza had dropped it over the Queensboro Bridge and it was gone.

  The scroll. The thought dawned on him like someone had just slapped him across the face. He thought back to opening that package that contained the gun, and took a good look at the mental photograph of those scarlet etchings in the grip of the gun. My God. The scroll. His new friend Miles said that Rex enjoyed making his mark on architectural pieces of the city . . . The Glade Arch Bridge. On a walk through Central Park he and Lane found that exact scroll in the decorative ornament along the cement railings on both sides. A diamond shape with loops at each of the four corners, and in the middle a symmetrical cross with fleur-de-lis at each point. He had to get a telegram to her as soon as possible.

  His mind went round and round about these things as he walked toward the home. The lonely door was up ahead, many windows glowing in the evening darkness. He looked forward to his grandmother’s warm company. He wished he could get her into someplace better than this home, but it was clean and safe despite its lack of grandeur. And the workers loved her; that was the most important thing.

  As he went up the walk, a young lady came out the door and closed it behind her with a smile on her face. He stopped dead in his tracks, and the hundreds of details flowing through his mind went wafting away into the deep fog. She looked up at him, astonished.

  “Oh, my God, Finn! What are you doing here?” she exclaimed in a surprised, but friendly manner.

  “Gwen.”

  CHAPTER 14

  “These are all very strange circumstances . . . but I think I begin to see daylight.”

  At work the next day, we were all occupied with an onslaught of details surrounding a new housing project that Fio developed. He had been hounding Washington and, once again, Roosevelt backed Fio’s plans with some money. Roxy was typing away as fast as her considerable skills allowed, her short blond curly hair quivering in the exertion of the lightning speed of her fingers.

  We hadn’t hired a new secretary to fill in the void that Eliza left when we discovered her criminal activities. Turns out that without her catty friendship to distract her, Roxy got plenty of typing done with time to spare. So Fio left it at promoting Roxy and giving her a nice raise.

  Fio was in the middle of a meeting that was carrying the usual loud talking and yelling that accompanied all his gatherings. He kept his business conferences going at a brisk pace by employing some unorthodox methods. Last year, I discovered that he had some maintenance guys come in and saw about an inch off the front legs of the chairs in his office. No one knew he did it except me; I had walked in on one of the guys sawing away at the legs. With the subconscious discomfort of those chairs, people didn’t dillydally. And when Fio was feeling particularly ornery, he wouldn’t allow me to take people’s coats. So, during any given meeting, people would be overheated and perpetually tipping the slightest bit forward. Fio, Fio, Fio. What was I going to do with him?

  After lunch, Roarke came in for a quick meeting to tell Fio about the article he wrote concerning Mr. Hambro. He walked by my desk, greeting me and then greeting Fio, who had opened the door to his office and waved him in. Fio waved at me to come in as well. I brought my own chair. I kept a small one that I could scoot in and out with ease. I made up some story about having a back problem and that this chair helped. I think Fio knew that I had found out about his enhanced office chairs, but we just kept that little secret to ourselves.

  Roarke was a first-class reporter, and he wrote some articles that pushed back against Fiorello. Fio wasn’t always thrilled with that, but he respected Roarke’s work because of it. He asked Fio whether he thought Mrs. Hambro would be up for another interview. He’d interview Mrs. Hambro whether Fio agreed or not, but it was a polite consideration for him to ask. And Fio knew it.

  Fio nodded his head contemplatively with his hands clasped together, index fingers pointing up and supporting his chin. “Indeed I do, Roarke. Mrs. Hambro is quite competent.”


  “Oh!” exclaimed Roarke. “I also had a chance to speak with Marty, Lane. You won’t believe this, but I just met up with him and when he was talking with those two huge guys in the park, they simply had a message for him, and surprisingly not a threatening one. They told him that their boss said, and I quote, ‘Not to worry about anything.’ He asked them if they knew where Mr. Hambro was, but they said they didn’t. It sounds like, when they caught sight of us they thought maybe we’d been after Marty ourselves, so they ran after us.”

  I asked him, “Did they say who their boss was?”

  “No. And we’re wondering if that message was a real message; that things are under control according to whoever sent the message? Or was it a message to throw us off the trail?”

  “Okay, Fio, what do you think? I can fairly hear the cogs in your head turning about,” I said, sitting back and crossing my legs.

  “Hmmm,” he said ruminatively. “Well, other than not liking that you were running away from thugs through a deserted area of the park, I think I will have to give it some more thought.” And with that, he dismissed us. I was baffled. Fio likes short, efficient meetings because he can’t deal with incompetence. But when there are theories and mysteries afoot, he always has something to say. I wondered what he was up to.

  Late in the afternoon I received a telegram. My eyes went straight to the bottom, and it was from Finn. I read it as fast as I could, devouring it, making sure he was okay.

  GO BACK TO BRIDGE STOP CONXN WITH

  SCROLL AND BRIDGE STOP LOOK FOR

  ANYTHING UNUSUAL STOP SEND GRAM BACK

  STOP MAMBO LOVE FINN END

  I laughed at the addition of Mambo at the end. The telegraph office must have wondered exactly what kind of message this was. I knew it was a word letting me know that he missed, just as much as I did, our dance in Little Italy. It had been to “Mambo Italiano.”

  I enjoyed an enticing little mental picture of him as he wrote this note, his eyes that were greenish gray in the light and almost black at night. I loved making him laugh, sharing inside jokes, enjoying the tiny moments of realizing we knew each other very well.

  I shook my head, getting myself in the game again. I looked up from my daydreaming and there before me, Roxy and Val were leaning up against the doorframe, ankles crossed, faces grinning. I met their eyes, feeling sheepish. Roxy’s eyebrow went up. I could feel my face turning red and then all at once, the three of us cracked up.

  Val’s hands went right to her hips. “All right, girly, what’s the telegram about?”

  “How long have you been standing there?” I asked.

  Roxy said, “Long enough. It’s from Finn, I take it?”

  “Yep. Okay, girls, we have a mission.”

  They both pulled chairs up to my desk and I let them read the telegram. They looked perplexed and since they both had been deeply involved in the previous case, I decided to take them into my confidence. I filled them in on my recurring dream, the gun from my parents, and the bridge in the park that Finn had to have been talking about. I had thought about it from time to time, but so much happened after that walk of ours when I first saw it, I had been occupied with more pressing issues. Like being kidnapped and dangling off a bridge, for instance. Finn must have discovered something about it.

  “What do you two think about taking a little walk through Central Park after work?”

  I saw a self-conscious look flutter across Roxy’s face, and a tiny smile pull at her lips, clearly happy to be invited to the sleuthing. They had brought in their coffee cups, so we saluted the park mission with a clink all around with our three mugs.

  After work, we made our way to Central Park. We decided to take the bus up Madison to 79th and enter in at Cedar Hill. The park was nearing its winter mode. Just like the midsection where Roarke and I enjoyed the Rambles, some leaves were still golden and brown. The gingko fanlike leaves were their magnificent yellows and the oaks had their crispy brown coats that would remain rustling through most of the winter. But the majority of the leaves had fallen and the grass wasn’t its verdant green, but a brownish green hue. Even in the growing starkness, the park held a beauty all its own. The squirrels were growing more and more fluffy and fat as they were busy gathering their acorns for the winter store. The wind blew across us and made my wool coat flutter. I was glad I had worn my dark brown, tall boots.

  I was almost ready for a warm hat. I hated to smash my hair with a winter hat, but this city was all about survival. One winter day at a busy subway stop, I looked around and even though we were far down under the ground, it was a particularly cold station. Every one of us, whatever situation in life—even the women who looked like models—we all had hats on. Warm hats. Not just the cute ones we wore on a regular basis that just perch on your head leaving your hairdo untouched, but warm ones that covered our ears. I knew then and there that New Yorkers were concerned with survival and comfort and we weren’t about to put up with vanity making us uncomfortable. We just bought cuter warm hats.

  I talked with Valerie and Roxy about my walk with Finn that summer day and we took the same route, walking toward the bridge. We walked right to the railing where Finn had stood behind me, putting his arms on the railing, encasing me in his arms, his face next to mine. The feel of his breath on my neck had sent shivers of desire right through me.

  I cleared my throat, getting down to business. “All right, we were standing here, and here is the scroll,” I said, as I pointed to the cement square with that familiar scroll. They were both nodding, their minds clicking away, thinking about everything I had told them.

  Val began, “So, Finn told you to come back here and look for anything out of the ordinary?”

  I said, “Yes. We meant to research this bridge, but a lot happened right after our discovery and it went to the back burner. But clearly it can’t be a coincidence that this is the same scroll as the one on that silver gun. Let’s take a good look at it and see what we can find.”

  We all stepped closer and looked at the cement scroll. There wasn’t anything on it that seemed out of place. We took a small step back and looked around. Several scrolls just like it adorned the railings on both sides. But nothing set them apart from one another when we looked at them up close.

  Roxy decided to take a few more steps back, just off the bridge, getting a larger and wider perspective. “Hmmm,” she murmured thoughtfully. “You know? This might be a stretch,” she laughed, “but those figures that are all along the bridge that support the railing . . . Don’t they kind of look like chess pieces?”

  I stood straight up as my stomach dropped. Turning abruptly, I ran over next to her. I turned back to the bridge, took a deep breath, and got a good look at it. Sure enough, between the scroll pieces, the chunky spindles holding up the railings were actually figures that looked like chess pieces. Pawns, to be precise. Like the one I’d been dreaming about.

  CHAPTER 15

  “I see there is something seriously amiss.”

  “Lane, what’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” said Roxy, her laughter from the moment before completely gone, realizing that maybe her hypothesis wasn’t a stretch at all.

  “That’s exactly what Finn said to me when I saw the scroll here the first time.”

  Val came over. “So, do those figures mean something to you, Lane?” I looked at her for a moment as I got my thoughts together. Her golden, honey-brown hair was done up in a complicated updo, and her navy blue wool coat sparkled like a soldier’s uniform with the bright silver buttons. She wore a heavy wool hat. Smart girl.

  I shot a look to Roxy as well. Roxy had on a hat, too, but it was a stylish little black number, in direct contrast to her white blond hair, that did nothing but adorn her cute head; her ears were red with cold.

  I hesitated. I wasn’t sure I could bring myself to completely reveal why this meant something to me. It sounded so . . . silly and unbelievable.

  “Well . . .” I began slowly, a little nervous as to how m
y statement would be received. “This is the deal: I’ve always had dreams about my childhood. So much of it was cut short. I think my dreams are part of my subconscious remembering details, you know? I’d had memories of Eliza’s mother and that silver gun for years. Well, a few months ago, a new thing entered my dreams, over and over again. It’s a gold chess piece. A gold pawn. And, I’m certain, it’s the exact shape of these figures on the railing.”

  Roxy’s face had at first held a little skepticism that reminded me of her old bitchy attitude, but she caught it, blushed, and adjusted her face to a look of concern. As I talked about my childhood memories, her face absorbed it with a sadness that seeped into her baby-blue eyes, like she very much understood matters such as those.

  “Gosh, Lane,” said Val, “no wonder you look like you saw a ghost. Okay, we better take a really good look at this. Let’s write down everything we come up with.”

  Roxy started counting the pawns. “There are ten pawns in each section, five sections on each side,” she called out.

  I called to Valerie, who had taken out her pad of paper and was jotting down the information, “There are twelve scrolls total, six on each railing on either side of the bridge.”

  Then I walked to the opposite side of the bridge. I carefully assessed the railings, back and forth, on each side. The floor of the bridge was tiled in a harlequin design, but nothing remarkable stood out. Then I went back to examining the railings. There was something there, something different. I looked back and forth, to the right, to the left. That was it. On just one side, the side that overlooked Cedar Hill, the ten pawns in the very middle of the bridge were different from the others. Those ten pawns, in a row, straight as soldiers, were made with a few more turns in the design and slightly wider, making them appear a little bigger and a little more regal than the rest. I told Val and Roxy this and we all crept closer to those pawns. I bent down, so that I was at eye level with them. Yes, ten larger pawns were in the center of the bridge rail.