The Treasure of Stonewycke

by Michael Phillips

  58

  Pieces Fall Together

  “How I wish I hadn’t been so reluctant to accept grandmother’s revelation,” said Hilary, “so that I would have been able to embrace her again.”

  Logan had taken a chair opposite the divan, and Ashley had left the room, thinking the family should share this time alone.

  “We all had our reluctance and our blindness,” said Logan. “I as much as anyone.”

  “That is all past,” said Allison. “Now we can rejoice that half of Mother’s final wish was fulfilled—for she has indeed now found eternal rest with her Lord.”

  A brief silence followed; then Allison spoke again, voicing a thought that had only just then occurred to her.

  “Mother’s journal is complete,” she said. “I feel as if an era has ended. I cannot help but be saddened. Yet I see now that this journal was Mother’s life’s work. It truly counted for something important, perhaps more than we will ever know.”

  “I have no doubt,” said Logan, “that it will reach into the future and deeply touch yet unborn members of this clan.”

  “Might Lady Joanna have even wanted it to continue beyond her lifetime in a more tangible way?” suggested Hilary. “This journal is so rich, not only in family history, but in a documentation of events to do with this land, with Stonewycke, with the Strathy Valley, and especially in capturing the spiritual perspectives that have been woven in and through the lives of such a diverse range of individuals. Might it not be a legacy, in its own way, to be passed on to the two of you, in order to continue the keeping of the family record—an ongoing tribute to Grandmother’s dream?”

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” Allison replied.

  “It’s a great idea!” said Logan. “Hilary, you are the writer. I think Joanna’s journal would be best left in your hands. She passed it on to you for a reason. A good one, I think. Who knows how many lives might be blessed by the events recorded by Joanna through the years if you were able to chronicle the story in a more organized way.”

  “Do you really think so?” asked Hilary, thrilled at the very prospect. “But I have been so removed from events for so long. I wonder if I am qualified?”

  Allison again took Hilary’s hand in hers. “For years,” she said, “an unusual phenomenon has operated in this family. I have thought about it often and have wondered why it has been so. When I question the Lord concerning it, He repeatedly drives me back to the principle in Scripture of the desert as symbolizing the purifying time of preparation. Moses was exiled in the desert to ready him to lead his people out of bondage. Then the children of Israel spent forty years in the desert to prepare and humble them for the taking of the promised land. After his conversion, Paul spent years in the desert as the Lord prepared and strengthened him for his ministry. And before His public preaching and teaching began, Jesus spent forty days in the wilderness.”

  As she spoke, Allison’s countenance took on a distant look, as if she were gazing down the long span of history. “All this may seem far removed from Stonewycke,” she continued, bringing her attention back to the present, “but the principle still applies. I am the only woman since Atlanta who has lived here at Stonewycke, or even in Scotland, continuously since birth. And even I was emotionally separated from my heritage for several years. Maggie and Joanna were in America for large parts of their lives. You spent thirty years in London, separated even from the knowledge of your roots. But I believe God uses those times of exile to strengthen the legacy of what this family has come to represent, to deepen within us our love for the land, and especially to cement our faith in a mighty and loving God.”

  Allison paused, gazing deep into her daughter’s eyes with a look of love that had not before now passed between them, the love not only of a mother but also of sisterhood. “Hilary,” she concluded, “I think you will find that your separation makes you as much one with us as anything possibly could. However, it is a family characteristic that I pray will be passed on no further.”

  “Thank you, Mother,” said Hilary, tears forming in her eyes again. She leaned over and put her arms around Allison, and both women wept together.

  A soft knock on the door temporarily interrupted the family gathering. Logan immediately stood and answered it.

  “I’m sorry to disturb ye, sir,” said Flora, “but Miss Hilary’s got another telephone call.”

  Reluctantly Hilary rose and followed the housekeeper out. By the time she reached the library, her equilibrium was restored and she was able to present a normal voice to Murry on the other end.

  She returned about ten minutes later to the drawing room. Ashley was now with Logan and Allison.

  “Your associate on the magazine again?” asked Logan when she entered.

  Hilary nodded. “With some additional information. Although none of it makes much sense to me.”

  “Don’t keep us in suspense,” said Logan eagerly.

  “Basically all Murry had for me this time was a list of names.” She turned back a few pages in her notebook. “These are other prominent figures in Trans Global’s hierarchy. If Emil is tied in to TGE, then perhaps other of Jo’s accomplices are as well.”

  “The only accomplices I could think of would be the lawyers,” said Logan. “I had them checked and rechecked, and everything appeared on the up-and-up. But I did not know at the time to investigate whether there might be ties to TGE. That is something we should do immediately. But let me see your list, Hilary. Perhaps something will ring a bell.”

  He reached over, and Hilary handed him the open notebook. Logan sat back and scanned the list of about ten names.

  Suddenly Logan froze, his eyes fastened to the seventh name on the list. After a moment’s hesitation, he shook his head in disbelief, took his reading glasses from his pocket, put them on, and read the name again.

  He stared at the sheet of paper. How could it be? But there the name was in the middle of the list, like a ghost from the past!

  It couldn’t be! No one could possibly know!

  Slowly he looked up and glanced around at the others.

  “This is incredible!” he said slowly. “A mere coincidence, per-haps . . . yet something tells me . . .”

  Still shaking his head, he held the notebook up for them to see, pointing to the seventh entry.

  “This is a name I have not heard or seen for thirty years!”

  “Who is it?” asked Hilary.

  “It is no one,” he replied. “A fictitious nonentity.”

  “Then what did the name mean when you knew of it back then?” asked Ashley.

  Logan drew in a deep breath, then exhaled as he answered, “It was me!” he said incredulously. “Monsieur Dansette, merchant from Casablanca, a man without even a first name, a supposed Nazi sympathizer. The man never existed. It was a cover I used during the war while I was in France . . . a cover conferred upon me by an officer in the SS . . . a general!”

  “Logan, what are you saying?”

  “Perhaps I am making a quantum leap here, based on mere speculation. But instinct tells me differently. The name is just as we used it back then! Yet, why would he resurrect that name? You would think he would make every attempt to erase all possible links to the past.”

  “Who, Logan?” asked Hilary.

  “His name was—or is?—Martin von Graff. SS officer and escaped war criminal. If he is still alive, he’d have to be in his late seventies, early eighties . . .” He stopped and thought for a moment. “But now that I recall,” he went on, “I remember reading a report from the Israelis several years ago listing him as dead. I thought then that that segment of my life was officially behind me completely.”

  “Could he be alive . . . could he have masterminded Jo’s deception?”

  “He certainly would have had motive,” answered Logan. “Motive against me, at least. I’m afraid my activities put quite a black mark on his SS record. I heard that following my escape from France, von Graff was suddenly transferred to the Russian fron
t. He would have had plenty of motive to seek revenge.”

  “There was also the matter of my rescuing you from his firing squad,” put in Allison.

  “And no small caper it was, my dear!” laughed Logan. “Yet I just can’t see von Graff coming against us after all this time. As insidious and subtle as he could be, he was still from the old school. A man of some honor, I always felt, lurked beneath that Nazi skin. Had circumstances been different, I could even have imagined us friends. Had he wanted revenge, I would have thought him the type to choose a more direct approach—pistols at dawn, that sort of thing. After what we did to him, he had every reason to hate us, that is true, but . . .”

  He shook his head. Something still didn’t fit. When he continued, his voice sounded like one debating within himself.

  “The Mossad are pretty thorough about their war criminals. If they say he is dead, then I would think it must be true.”

  “Yet here is a name,” reasoned Ashley, “a major executive in a company with links to a criminal called ‘The General.’ It makes one wonder.”

  “And,” added Hilary, “Emil von Burchardt, Jo’s own accomplice, sits right in the middle of it, with known ties to the Nazis. It would appear von Graff could be behind it. But we must not forget whom we are really after.”

  “I wonder . . .” Logan rubbed his chin, his mind racing with the staggering possibilities. “It is entirely conceivable that Jo is only a soldier, dispatched to perform a task in the cause of the General. If that is the case, then it truly is The General, whoever he is, whom we are after.”

  “I think you may be right, Logan,” said Hilary. “But I cannot forget that look I saw in Jo’s eyes when she discovered me in the gallery. It was just as Lady Joanna described. It was not the look of a mere underling. For some reason, I am sure Jo has a personal stake in all this.”

  ———

  Later that afternoon Logan walked alone into the library.

  He had made several phone calls, one of which had confirmed that his information about von Graff was correct—the Nazi general was dead.

  Where does that leave me? Logan wondered. Where could the name Dansette possibly have come from? What is the connection to this modern-day general? Might von Graff have used the name Dansette before his death, which reports confirmed to have occurred in 1959? Why, then, did the name remain on the company roster? Why had von Graff used the pseudonym at all, if he had indeed used it?

  Logan leaned back in his chair at the library desk, laced his fingers together behind his head, and allowed his mind to wander once more over the discussion of earlier with Hilary, Ashley, and Allison.

  The General . . . Nazis in hiding after the war . . . von Graff . . . Trans Global Enterprises . . . an attempt to infiltrate the estate, their very lives, with an impostor . . . revenge . . .

  How were all these factors related?

  More importantly, how were they connected to Stonewycke, especially with von Graff dead? He seemed the only link tying Dansette and the General to Stonewycke. Yet he had been gone twelve years, and the plot against them hatched only recently.

  Logan’s mind drifted further back. . . .

  SS Headquarters, Paris. . . . There came into his memory the scene of von Graff entertaining his protege Lawrence MacVey. The suave, urbane aristocrat staking his entire reputation as a Nazi on an ex-con man. Yes, von Graff had reason to be bitter . . . but he was dead.

  All at once the panorama of Logan’s thoughts widened.

  They were not alone in that elegant SS office. Another man was there, not dressed in a uniform at all, whose chilly presence Logan began to feel even before he moved out of the shadows of Logan’s memory into view. But as he stepped forward, he seemed to emerge from further out of the distant past than Logan’s thoughts could take him.

  Jason Channing!

  Logan snapped upright in his chair. Could it be possible?

  The notion was unthinkable! Yet Channing always seemed to turn up in the life of Stonewycke, his malicious figure perpetually lurking in the shadows like a tiger stalking its prey.

  Without a shred of proof, without a scrap of evidence, in that moment Logan knew beyond any doubt who was his adversary. It had to be Channing who had leveled this latest attack against his old nemesis. But the man would have to be a hundred years old! Logan would never forget the fire in Channing’s eyes that day he had been foiled in the guardhouse of Fort Montrouge. As love and honor sustain Godly men, so do malice and vengeance possess and sustain men who give themselves over to evil.

  Yes, the whole twisted masquerade of Jo’s deception and attempted poisoning of Allison reeked with the malevolent aroma of Jason Channing!

  There could be no doubt . . . the man was alive!

  He had not forgotten that hideous day which had tormented him for sixty years, when a shy, untried girl had thwarted his greedy scheme and denounced him boldly in front of hundreds of witnesses.

  Channing would never forget! And the memory would goad him until he tasted revenge.

  59

  Parental Vile

  She had almost forgotten what the heat in Buenos Aires could be like at this time of the year. Leaving the winter of northern Scotland to find herself suddenly in the middle of a southern hemispheric heat wave was shock enough. Dread for the reaction awaiting her, however, was an even worse torment.

  Jo dabbed her damp forehead for the third time as Emil wheeled the Jaguar around the final curve of the drive up to the villa. Ahead she could see the tile-roofed main house of the villa’s sprawling complex. Well, she thought with a sigh, home at last.

  The flight from London had been ghastly enough, exhausting after their hurried departure from Scotland, though she should have been grateful to have gotten out of the country at all. Then they had been delayed at the airport due to some mix-up with what little luggage they had. Finally, the ride to the villa had been hot and uncomfortable, no matter that they had picked up Emil’s Jaguar in the city and driven in some elegance. But however she looked at it, home was not a welcome sight. After all, her mission had not been successful. She looked over at Emil, who was now braking in front of the empty fountain that stood before the house.

  “You will go in with me, won’t you?” she asked with uncharacteristic nervousness in her tone.

  He glanced over as if the request surprised him, then gave his moustache a careless pat. He is looking rather superior and smug, she thought, especially for one who has failed no less than I.

  “Well?” said Jo crossly.

  “My dear, you are more than capable of handling this yourself.” He paused to turn off the ignition. “Besides, he will only think less of you if you display weakness now.”

  “And what about you! No last-minute heroics?”

  Von Burchardt smiled. “I do not have as much at stake, now do I, my dear Jo?”

  “I do not want to hear that name again—ever!”

  Angrily she pushed the door open and jerked herself from the car. “Don’t think you will get off scot-free, my dear!” She slammed the door and stalked away toward the house.

  Kicking the dust up toward one of the dry cactus plants that bordered either side of the walk, she approached the door. The servants had seen the Jaguar approach, and now a houseboy opened the door to welcome her deferentially.

  She inquired about El Patron. The boy’s face turned solemn.

  “El señor has taken to his bed, señorita,” he said.

  Jo’s brow creased—whether with concern or disguised relief, it would have been difficult to determine.

  “How long ago?” she asked, increasing her pace.

  “Two days, señorita.”

  “How bad?”

  “Not bad. Only weak. The doctor, he come twice a day.”

  “Send someone out to get my things from the car and then take them to my room. I will want to be alone with El Patron for a while. Comprendes?”

  “Sí, señorita, yo comprendo!” replied the servant, who then hurried o
ff to be about his assigned tasks.

  She continued on her way, traversed a long corridor, arriving at last to a closed door. She paused, took in one last deep breath as if preparing for her fate, then raised her hand to rap briskly on the door.

  “Who is it?” came a weak but still gruff voice from inside.

  Instead of answering, she turned the latch and entered.

  The room was dark, the drawn shades allowing in only tiny splinters of the sunlight from outside. Even though a ceiling fan was churning overhead, the air was stifling—both hot and too well used. Without waiting for her eyes to accustom themselves to the subdued light, she walked straight but calmly to the bed and bent down near the figure lying there with covers pulled up about his chin.

  “I’m back,” she said.

  The notion crossed her mind briefly of giving the wrinkled cheek a kiss, but she thought better of it.

  Jason Channing’s eyes flew open and glared wrathfully at her.

  “How dare you!” he cried, though his fury lost a great deal of its intended menace as it passed through his debilitated, ancient vocal chords. “How dare you come and show your face!” fumed the old man.

  “I’m sorry I failed,” she replied, with attempted contriteness.

  “Don’t put on that sweet vulnerability! I know it is a mere act! Remember, I am the one who paid to give you the best lessons money could buy.”

  “Then, what would you have me do?” she said, a hard edge now in her voice. “Shall I slit my throat for you right here?”

  “For all you have given me, it might be a good start!” Channing’s tone was cold, giving no evidence that his words were anything but what he intended.

  She turned and walked a couple paces from the bed.

  “I should have made my getaway the moment that woman showed up,” she said petulantly. “Everything was going so well until then. But I knew how important this was to you, so I stuck it out—”