The Treasure of Stonewycke

by Michael Phillips

  At that moment a servant entered with a tray containing coffee service. He set it on a table and served each man submissively. Logan did not see Gunther again until dinner.

  “So, what became of you after the war?” Logan asked, sipping his coffee.

  “I kept busy. I aided a few of my German friends.”

  “You mean Nazi friends?”

  “Yes, that too. I helped some relocate. I found myself quite out of favor with several Western governments, and it became beneficial to all of us to find a place far from the madding crowd, as it were.”

  “Here?”

  “And other places. We are quite diversified, you know.”

  “So I had heard.”

  Channing cast Logan a quick glance, but let the remark pass.

  “I reorganized my company under a new name, set up a figurehead chairman and major stockholders, while I continued to exercise control. I gave my expatriate friends new identities and positions within the company hierarchy. I even took a couple of new identities myself.”

  “What about von Graff?”

  “Oh yes, him too. He didn’t fancy a firing squad, and he was perfectly suited to operate the U-boat I stole from the German Navy just before the end of the war. He died twelve years ago—a massive heart attack. Never knew what hit him.”

  “At least he deserved that much,” commented Logan. “Von Graff would not have been the type to put up with a long enfeebling illness.”

  “We all get what we deserve, Macintyre.” Channing’s emphasis of the word had a sinister edge.

  “What about you, Channing?”

  “Prosperity and long life . . . just like a saint.” He chuckled dryly. “I wager you never expected me to last so long!”

  “And happiness?” said Logan, ignoring his final comment.

  “Thank God I was never sentimental about such tripe.”

  “Have you known peace, Channing?”

  “Bah! Don’t preach to me, Macintyre!” Channing challenged sharply. “I’ve heard of your grating religiosity and moralism. No doubt you think I’ve been a bad sort and will burn in hell. You have probably even prayed for my soul! Well, you are a fool! I don’t care what happens to my soul—I don’t believe in such rubbish. I’ve had everything I wanted out of life.”

  “Everything?”

  Suddenly Channing’s cup rattled in its saucer while his face turned red. His eyes glared, flashing like sparks from hot metal. The muscles in his wrinkled face twitched violently. All at once he looked old and on the verge of collapse, and his voice weakened into a hoarse gasp from the rage that had seized him.

  “I will have everything before I die!” he spat with choking venom.

  “I hope so, Channing. I truly do.” But as Logan spoke the words, he knew full well that he and Channing were speaking of things as different as black and white, as far removed from one another as heaven and hell.

  ———

  Logan and Gunther dined alone. Channing did not appear. The word was that he had taken to his bed.

  The meal was quiet and uneventful. Logan could not help wondering if he had been wise in allowing himself to be brought here. Channing was unpredictable. He could fly into a rage at any moment and order Logan hanged or shot. He could also die without warning. There were too many variables for Logan to feel entirely at ease.

  After dinner he was escorted to his room.

  Bidding him a cool good-night, Gunther closed the door behind him and walked away. Immediately Logan placed his hand on the latch and turned. It was locked tight.

  He walked across to the only window in the room and pulled aside the faded shade. The window was firmly encased in steel bars.

  Even if he had planned on getting back to the city, now there was little chance left. He had known this might happen, while still praying against it. The reality of the situation was that he was a prisoner in Channing’s home.

  He only hoped he got out of here alive, and hadn’t indeed, of his own volition, entrapped himself right in the middle of the spider’s web.

  66

  L’Escroc’s Curtain Call

  The following morning Logan was let out of his prison-like room by a servant. He breakfasted alone, deprived even of Gunther’s chilly company. Another man, however, maintained a somber vigil over him the entire time. Logan decided the time might be right for some reconnaissance.

  “Do you speak English?” he asked as the man poured out his coffee.

  “Un pocito, señor.”

  “Tell me, where is—uh—the master of the house? He is feeling well, I assume?”

  “Sí. He well, but he want no veesitors.”

  “I will see him today, perhaps?”

  “It is not for me to say, señor.”

  “Yes, of course.” Logan paused, buttered his bread, and wondered if Channing had his people too well trained for him to expect them to talk freely. “What about Mr. Gunther?”

  “Zee tall German, he come and he go.”

  “He is gone now, I presume.”

  “Sí.”

  “How long will he be gone?”

  “I do not know his business. I am criado—servant. Nada mas.” He snapped his mouth shut and Logan knew he’d get nothing more out of him.

  He had learned one thing from the conversation. Gunther could present a problem. Not knowing where and how people moved around this place had created a number of loose ends. Gunther’s presence in the villa was perhaps the worst of the batch. He could show up at any time, and they would have no control over what he might do.

  Logan quickly offered up the problem in prayer. No plan was foolproof, but he was thankful at least that he had a God who was in control no matter what. In control of their very lives, if it came to that.

  Immediately after the meal another servant came and escorted Logan to a patio garden where Logan encountered Channing once more.

  “I trust you passed a comfortable night, Macintyre?” he asked from where he sat in a wicker chair, basking feebly in the morning sun. His voice was soft, though he put on a bold front. He did not look as though he had slept well, but he would never admit that Logan’s presence in the compound unnerved him.

  “As comfortable as one can in a locked room,” returned Logan.

  “An unpleasant but necessary precaution.”

  Logan drew up a chair opposite Channing’s. “I came here thinking to conclude a business deal,” he said. “Then you tell me you never had any such thing in mind, but merely wanted a visit with me. An odd arrangement, I must say, keeping a guest under lock and key.”

  “You insist on humoring me, don’t you? These trivial little jokes. Surely you get the picture now, Macintyre. I have plans for you! As you correctly surmised, I did not have you brought here for no reason.”

  “I have wondered what you were going to do with me.”

  “You are worried for your life? How nice!”

  “The last time we met,” said Logan, “you made a nearly successful attempt in that direction. But I would not say I was worried. Merely curious.”

  “If you give me what I want, I may even let you live.”

  “Luckily the last time my wife was there to foil you.”

  “Your wife . . .” Channing’s voice shivered over the words. Logan could only glimpse the raw edge of his hatred, kept scarcely at bay beneath his show of mock cordiality. “She will come to your rescue no more, Logan Macintyre. This time it will be I who emerge victorious!”

  “That’s what it’s been about all these years, isn’t it? Defeating us. That’s really all you want. Most men would have given up long ago.”

  “That has always been your foolish error, Macintyre! Thinking that I was like most men. But I do not give up! Oh, you may think you have defeated me. But those past battles were mere insignificant skirmishes. Soon the war will culminate, however, and I will be the conqueror! Do you realize, Macintyre, that with you in my power I now possess the leverage to force that arrogant wife of yours to give me whatev
er I ask, even to signing over Stonewycke?”

  “So that’s your game, Channing! Lure me down here, and then hold me as ransom for the estate?”

  “A brilliant maneuver, wouldn’t you say?” Channing leaped shakily to his feet.

  “It will never work!”

  “It will work!” shrieked Channing in an unexpected outburst. “You don’t know the half of what I will bring to bear against you! I will win, I tell you!”

  “My wife would never do such a thing.”

  “Not even for her precious husband?”

  “Perhaps you’ve overestimated even our sentimentality.”

  Regaining his control, though his lower lip still quivered, Channing gazed down his nose with a superior sneer. “I think not. But this is more than a simple case of blackmail. As I said, I have something a little more certain in the works.”

  “Haven’t you tormented us enough?”

  “Oh no! Not by a long sight!” Channing’s voice broke with wrath. “Don’t you understand? I plan to have it all—each and every one of you at my mercy, and all that is yours in my possession! It’s so simple! Ha! You’re a sentimental fool, Macintyre. The game is over! I have you . . . I have it all!”

  “Why, Channing? I will never understand why you are so obsessed with us and with Stonewycke. What could it possibly mean to you?”

  “It’s her . . . she’s the cause of it all!” Channing was raving now. “Tormented you? What about the torment she’s caused me! My money was dirty . . . not good enough for her—the haughty little vixen! But I will show her! I have the treasure where she will never lay eyes on it! I have her arrogant politician of a son-in-law! And soon I will have—”

  He stopped, his eyes aglow with the fire of cunning, and rubbed his hands together in warped anticipation. “Oh yes, the war is finally over. I’ve waited sixty years for this moment . . . and my victory is at hand!”

  He fell back into his chair as one expended.

  Logan shuddered at the man’s diseased passion. He attempted to divert the tone of the conversation.

  “I thought the so-called treasure was worthless,” he said, with as much control as his own voice could manage.

  “Worthless on the black market,” replied Channing, his tone calming. “But in the esoteric world where people care about such absurdity, I suppose it is priceless—my man in Oxford verified that. When I can bring it out into the open legally, who knows what price I will be able to command for it? You yourself were willing to part with a sizable sum for it.” Channing rubbed his wrinkled chin. “I still can’t figure where you would have been able to produce that kind of money.”

  “We were willing to do anything to get it back where it belongs.”

  “Ha, ha! It will not return to Scotland until I am master of Stonewycke!” he laughed wickedly. “Ruminate on that a moment, my high-and-mighty Mr. Macintyre!”

  At that moment a servant appeared at the patio door. He walked across the flagstones to where Channing sat.

  “Excuse my interruption, sir,” he said, “but a message has arrived.” He handed Channing a Western Union envelope.

  Channing tore into the paper like a starving beast, his bony fingers trembling as he put on his glasses and then held the paper up close to them. His eyes devoured the words with elation; then slowly his twitching lips began to part, his yellowed teeth glinting through the wide smile of delirium that spread across his face.

  Finally he looked up and leveled the ludicrous expression of wild-eyed ecstasy upon Logan.

  “There . . . you see!” he cried. “Just as I said—I have won! You snivelling simpleton . . . you imbecile! Did you really think you could keep me from my due? I have won, I tell you! You and your idiotic family, and your precious worthless treasure, and your ridiculous valley full of bovine dimwits! Mooncalves, all of you! Fools! To think you could stop Jason Channing! I’ve won! At last . . . at last I’ve beaten you all! It’s all mine!”

  With the last cry of triumph still ringing in the air, he flung the telegram at Logan.

  Logan picked the paper off the floor where it landed. The brief message was simple:

  EVERYTHING HAS GONE AS PLANNED STOP WE’VE DONE IT STOP ALLISON MACINTYRE IN CUSTODY STOP ARRIVE B.A. TOMORROW STOP STONEWYCKE WILL SOON BE OURS STOP

  Logan’s hand dropped limply to his side. Propping his forehead in his other hand, he slowly shook his head.

  “You can’t do this . . . you can’t do this, Channing,” he murmured, all strength draining from his voice.

  “I have done it, Macintyre!” gloated Channing. “I can hardly believe they pulled it off,” he added almost as an aside to himself. “They sneaked back in there and made off with her right under their noses! I didn’t think that fool Burchardt had it in him!”

  Becoming aware of Logan again, Channing addressed him once more, as if he had only just then thought of the idea. “There is, of course, always the possibility of a trade. What do you think, Mr. Proud-faced Politician?”

  “What do you want?”

  “You know what I want!”

  “Then you should also know I cannot give it to you.”

  “You have no choice now, you fool! I have your wife!”

  “It is my wife, not myself, who controls the Stonewycke property. She will never give it to you, even to save her own life,” said Logan, looking at Channing with a forlorn expression as tears rose up in his eyes.

  “Perhaps not! But when she sees the rope around your neck and me standing ready to give the order, she will relent!”

  Logan said nothing in reply.

  “Ha, ha! I’ve done my homework. I know Stonewycke has no cash. All your bleeding-heart notions of doing good. You give away half your income! You’re a sucker for every sad-storied beggar who comes along! You gave away the land to those moronic peasants you have such ridiculously fond notions about! Where has it left you? Fools! Now I have your treasure and your wife, and your own life in my power! You have nothing to bargain with, nothing to trade to get her back. You have nothing! She has nothing! Nothing but . . .”

  As he spoke a sickening leer spread across his face, again revealing his remaining yellowed teeth: “ . . . nothing but the deed to Stonewycke! And if either of you want to leave here alive, that is my price!”

  Logan slumped back in his chair, rubbing his face in agony.

  After a long and painful moment, he finally looked up and stared Channing full in the face.

  “You have won, Channing. You can have anything. I will talk to Allison. Just please . . . please don’t hurt her.”

  Channing threw back his head and laughed mercilessly. Unfortunately the exhilaration brought on by his moment of supreme triumph was too much for his frail body. After only a few seconds of uncontrollable laughter, his voice broke like an ancient hinge, and his mirth ended in a paroxysm of fitful coughing.

  Logan glanced around, spotted a pitcher of water, hastened to it, poured some into a glass, and brought it to Channing. He took it, struggled to sip the liquid, but could only swallow with difficulty. When the seizure had subsided after a few moments, he attempted once more to speak, but by now his voice came out in a mere whisper.

  “You call your solicitors, do you hear?” he croaked. “Begin having the arrangements made.”

  Again he began to cough and sent out his thin, wasted hand toward the glass of water.

  “Can’t you give me a few minutes to take all this in? In the name of all that’s true, Channing, even you must have that much humanity left.”

  “I have nothing left for you but impatience! You have made me wait for years . . . for decades . . . for what has always been rightfully mine! You talk of patience! I am out of patience . . . and you are out of time. You will make that call!”

  “Not until I have seen Allison and am sure she is safe and that no harm will come to her.”

  Logan eyed Channing steadily, as if to say, On this point I will not back down.

  At length Channing glanced away. “I s
uppose that is how these things are done,” he conceded.

  “Now please, let me go,” said Logan. “I just want to return to my room and be alone.”

  Channing waved him off. “Try nothing foolish, Macintyre, or it will go badly for your wife.”

  Logan turned and walked defeatedly toward the door. As he went he sighed raggedly. “I don’t know what . . .” he began to mumble to himself, just loud enough for Channing to hear. His voice was disjointed and he rubbed his face and eyes as he spoke.

  “ . . . I don’t know what this news will do to my mother-in-law,” he went on. “I doubt she’ll be able to hold up when I tell her. It will probably kill her. . . .”

  67

  Malice Unhinged

  Channing’s head jerked forward.

  The impact of Logan’s words caused what little color was left in his withered cheeks to vanish instantly.

  “What?” he cried, though his voice was pale and worn. Leaning forward, his thin fingers clutched at the arms of the wicker chair until the bones seemed about to pierce through the skin.

  Logan turned back toward him with a confused look. “My mother-in-law . . . she’s not well, you know.”

  “What are you saying?” demanded Channing. His face was ghostly white, his red eyes bulging out of his head.

  “She will be devastated.”

  “Who?”

  “My mother-in-law . . . Lady Joanna MacNeil.”

  “Why . . . why that’s impossible! What are you talking about?” Channing laughed, but it was a hollow, desperate attempt. “You’ve finally snapped, Macintyre! She’s dead—died four or five weeks ago. I read it in the paper.” As he spoke, Channing began to breathe heavily, and his eyes seemed unable to focus on Logan.

  “She was very ill,” said Logan. “Even failed to register a pulse rate at one point. The news hounds grabbed the story prematurely. But in the end she pulled through.”

  “Impossible! I don’t believe a word of it!” Channing continued to suck in deep draughts of air as if his lungs were suddenly too small to contain what they needed.

  “She was always a strong woman. I suppose they don’t keep abreast of our local news down here,” Logan went on.