The Treasure of Stonewycke

by Michael Phillips

  “Well, Gunther,” said Logan calmly, “I’ve been wondering where you had gone to.”

  Taken just as much by surprise as they, Gunther was quick to size up the situation. Logan, of course, he knew immediately. The women he didn’t recognize, though the older one appeared vaguely familiar from long ago in his past. But it was Ashley who garnered his longest scrutiny. He was familiar . . . but there was something out of place . . . the moustache—of course! It was none other than the Oxford professor in some ridiculous disguise. Why would he be holding a gun on these people?

  “It looks as if I’ve returned none too soon,” replied Gunther. “What are you up to, Macintyre?”

  “He’s up to nothing!” barked Ashley, feigning the best German accent he could muster. “Now out of the way, mein Herr. I’ve orders from Herr Channing to get these people out of here!”

  “What are you talking about?” replied Gunther, unimpressed. “You’re no more German than I am English!”

  “I am the Viscount von Burchardt!” replied Ashley. “No doubt you’ve heard Herr Channing speak—”

  “You are no such thing!” growled Gunther. “I know perfectly well who you are! Do you think my memory’s that short? What kind of idiot do you take me for?”

  “Nevertheless, I do have the gun,” said Ashley, now in his own voice.

  “Channing is dead, Gunther,” said Logan. “My companions and I feel it would not be appropriate for us to continue our visit any longer. We are leaving, and I hope you will—if not for old times’ sake, then for prudence on your own part—stand aside and let us go calmly.”

  “What do you mean, Channing is dead? Did you kill him? I didn’t think you had it—”

  “He died because his time had come, Gunther. His own hate had weakened him beyond recovery. Whether he died still clutching it, or having released it to his Maker, I do not know. You will find his body in the wine cellar. Now, if you will step aside—”

  “You are jesting!” scoffed Gunther. “You do not think I will let you walk right out of here!”

  “Ashley,” said Logan, “if you will be so kind.”

  Ashley waved his gun in Gunther’s direction.

  “You are fools if you think you can get out of here alive! This place is surrounded by a dozen armed guards. Their orders are to protect Channing. If they believe he has been compromised, even if I tried to help you, nothing would stop them from doing their duty. You’re a dead man, Macintyre!”

  “We will take our chances,” replied Logan. “We’ll worry about them when the time comes. But remember, for now we have the gun on you.”

  Gunther laughed, in that dry, hard sound which contained no hint of joy or humor at all, only mockery.

  “You will never shoot me, Professor—or whatever you are!” he said, eyeing Ashley disdainfully. “I let you get away with it before because I was curious about what you had to say. But I read it in your eyes then, and I see it now—you haven’t got what it takes to shoot a man!”

  As Gunther spoke, Logan and Hilary set down the cask. Logan stepped up near Ashley and relieved him of his weapon. Though everything Gunther had just said of Ashley was equally true of Logan, perhaps L’Escroc might call upon one more supreme bluff, for old times’ sake, to gain freedom for his family.

  Logan took the pistol firmly in his hand. Unlike Ashley, he knew well enough how to handle such a weapon. Moreover, the .38 looked secure in his grip, and Logan possessed half a lifetime’s practice in making his eyes convey a steady and unblinking confidence. Now he would have to call upon that old experience once again.

  “You are right, Gunther,” he said. “Ashley is too intelligent and sensitive to harm another human being. But I am an old street punk who grew up with crime. I may have reformed in my latter days. But down inside that impertinent swindler is still part of me. Look into my eyes, Gunther, and you will know that I am not bluffing now. Do not forget, my old wartime colleague, that I killed back then and am no stranger to danger.”

  He paused and stared deeply into Gunther’s eyes, holding them in his grip. His words had been measured and forceful. At length he went on, in a low tone that contained not a thread of detectable pretense.

  “I will use this if it comes to that,” he said. “I hope it does not. I could never live with having to kill again. But here are my wife and my daughter and my friend. And make no mistake, Gunther . . . I will not see them harmed!”

  Several agonizing seconds passed. Logan knew Gunther was mentally assessing all the possibilities, not the least of which concerned the likelihood that, for all his bravado, Logan was indeed bluffing. But this had to be balanced against thoughts for his own safety. Gunther well knew all von Graff’s illuminating stories about Logan’s stint in Paris. The General used to laugh and say his friend Trinity, or MacVey, or whoever he was, could talk a charging rhinoceros into lying down for a nap.

  But in matters of familial loyalty and protection, you could never tell what a man might be driven to do. He continued unflinchingly to hold Logan’s steady gaze. There was an edge to the man’s voice that hinted at the truth. These women were his wife and daughter, as he said, and even the mildest man was known to be able to kill to protect those he loved. Even if it had been thirty years, Logan still knew his business, still knew how to survive.

  At last Gunther spoke. “This was Channing’s battle anyway,” he said. “I certainly have no intention of getting myself killed for it.”

  “Then if you will be so kind as to accompany us,” said Logan, taking Gunther’s arm, “we will be on our way.”

  With Allison now free to assist Hilary with one end, Ashley lifted the other end of the cask, and they continued slowly on toward the gate.

  “I am curious about one thing,” said Gunther as they walked. “You obviously planned this thing from the beginning. Planting the phony newspaper article, and the phony professor—”

  “I’m actually quite a real professor,” interjected Ashley.

  “I thought you played the part too well,” said Gunther. “But, Macintyre, did you know Channing would be here?”

  “Yes,” answered Logan. “We discovered his daughter’s masquerade, and also learned of his identity as the General, and the connection to Trans Global Enterprises.”

  “So you came to Buenos Aires knowing full well what you were walking into?”

  “In a manner of speaking. But I was not without people keeping an eye on me. My daughter here”—Logan indicated Hilary with his free hand—“planted herself in the hotel across the street. I signaled her with the curtains in my room before leaving with you—”

  “And I had the back of your hotel being watched,” put in Hilary, “and my own car parked so I could keep an eye on both hotels and the alley.”

  “So you followed us here, and that’s how you all learned the whereabouts of the villa,” said Gunther, with reluctant admiration. “I’ve got to hand it to you, Macintyre. You covered yourself rather well!”

  “From you, Gunther, I take that as high praise.”

  “Just one more question. How did you connect it all in the first place? The General’s identity has been safe for all these years. How did you find out it was Channing?”

  “Elementary, Gunther,” smiled Logan. “A mutual friend of ours left me a thirty-year-old clue.”

  “I don’t follow you.”

  “A name, Gunther. A single name, still listed on the roster of TGE corporate executives—a name known to no one but von Graff and myself, a name I had used as a cover in France—one Monsieur Dansette. Once I saw that name, I knew there had to be some connection with von Graff. But there is one thing that still puzzles me. And that is—why would von Graff resurrect that name when there was always a remote possibility I might one day stumble upon it?”

  “That cagey old rascal!” said Gunther, not without the hint of genuine affection in his voice. Then he glanced up at Logan. “You really have no idea, Macintyre?” he asked.

  “None at all.”
r />   Gunther did not speak for a moment, obviously caught in his memories of his old mentor. When at last he opened his mouth, his words were nonetheless forceful that they fell so unexpectedly on Logan’s ears.

  “It was you, Macintyre,” he finally said. “You always were to von Graff . . . almost like a son. He respected you . . . never forgot you.”

  “But . . .” said Logan incredulously, “but I was the enemy!”

  “One thing you have to understand about von Graff,” Gunther went on, “is that a part of him was never cut out for the military life. He could be ruthless, but there remained another side to him.”

  “Whatever became of him?”

  “After the war, the General lost everything, including his own self-respect. Channing gave him a new identity and a position in the company. Eventually he even put him in the figurehead top position. But in the underground operation he was always known simply as The General. But von Graff was a man of some refinement. He prized his honor above all else. Though involved with Channing, his ways of doing business were foreign to von Graff, who always, I think, felt a bit guilty about what he did. The General even took to reading a Bible before he died. You were one of the few men he truly respected, Macintyre. He followed your career and many times swore he would go see you one day. Channing would probably have had him killed if he had tried. But when it became necessary to assume a new identity, which it did for all Germans in his position who hoped to get away clean, it’s hardly surprising that he would have clung to a reminder of an honorable man he had once known.”

  Logan sighed deeply, remembering with fondness his old adversary.

  “Then why is the name still on the roster?” asked Logan. “Didn’t von Graff die in 1959?”

  Gunther nodded. “By then the company was enormous—worldwide. It was worth millions. All the while Channing himself had remained completely hidden from public view, pulling strings behind the scenes. It made it easy for him to achieve his purposes when his name and background were nowhere to be found. Von Graff was an executive in the company, going by the name Dansette. But everyone in the shadow organization still just called him The General. It was a comfortable disguise, and by the late fifties all traces of any connection to Nazism were gone. When von Graff died, Channing slipped into this already-existing identity. The facade was so neatly in place, so Channing took on von Graff’s identity as ‘The General,’ in his continued underground activities, thus keeping his own personality still obscured.”

  Gunther shook his head. “I imagine he kept the name Dansette on the TGE’s roster, too, just for convenience, having no idea what it signified. Neither did I. Neither did anyone. A clue out of the past that perhaps helped von Graff recall those days before the war when he had been a man of honor, but which no one else knew anything about. I wouldn’t doubt if he secretly hoped someday you would discover the name and destroy Channing’s corrupt organization.”

  Gunther’s uncharacteristic soliloquy stirred Logan deeply. He found it increasingly difficult to hold the gun on Gunther in light of such startling and personal revelations.

  They were now entering the courtyard. Ashley’s car was not far now.

  “What will it be, Gunther?” said Logan. “Can I trust you to help us get through the gates?”

  “Channing may be dead, but I have my own survival to think of. I can’t let you get to Interpol with my name.”

  “You won’t even help us for the sake of the memory of our mutual friend?”

  “My own skin means more to me than sentimentalities, Macintyre!”

  “I thought as much. I guess we’ll have to take you along.” Logan nudged Gunther forward. “I’m going to put this gun in my pocket. But it will still be aimed at your midsection. Let’s go!”

  They crossed the courtyard and reached Ashley’s car without incident. The guards standing outside the main door nodded to Gunther but apparently saw nothing so unusual about the strange procession, led, as it appeared, by their well-known comrade.

  Anxiously Ashley and the two women removed the box from the wine cask, careful to keep out of view as much as possible, and then loaded the reliquary into the trunk, while Logan prodded Gunther into the back seat, following after him immediately. Ashley climbed in behind the wheel, with Hilary and Allison crowding in next to him. He started the ignition and wheeled into motion.

  Ashley drove the remainder of the way across the courtyard, pulling up at the main gate where one of the two guards present waved him to a stop.

  “Buenos dias, señor Gunther,” he said, peering in. “You are off again so soon?”

  Gunther hesitated momentarily, then felt an unseen jab into his ribs.

  “Sí . . . sí, Miguel,” he replied. “I am escorting some guests into the village. I will be back soon.”

  Miguel waved Ashley on, and the car passed through the open gates. The instant they had rounded a slight curve in the road and were out of sight, Ashley pressed down the accelerator. Audible sighs could be heard throughout the cramped automobile.

  Some two or three miles from the villa, Logan asked Ashley to stop.

  “What now?” asked Gunther with some concern in his voice.

  “It is time for you to get out,” answered Logan. “You have cooperated with us, but I want no further danger to my wife and daughter. I think it is time for us to part ways.”

  “You are letting me go?”

  “Yes,” said Logan. “But I know the location of the villa, and enough about Channing’s organization to bring it down. I doubt you will be able to remain free for long.”

  “I will do my best!” said Gunther, with a look that might have been interpreted as a faint smile. Whether a smile of camaraderie or one which merely indicated pleasure that this chump of a do-gooder still had too much heart left for his own good, Logan could not tell. The German climbed out of the car and began walking along the dirt road. Then suddenly he turned back.

  “Macintyre,” he said, his cold, impassive voice not softening, but his words revealing more than his eyes would let on, “you will see to it that Channing gets a proper burial?”

  “Yes, Gunther, I will do that.”

  “And his personal effects taken to his daughter?”

  Logan nodded. “Gunther, I do believe you have a heart, after all!”

  Gunther laughed dryly. “A moment of weakness. The first and last you will ever see!” Then he strode away.

  Again Ashley pressed on the accelerator and they sped away toward Buenos Aires, where both Interpol and the local authorities were immediately notified.

  74

  The Berkshire Review

  Hilary drank in the lovely sounds around her—clicking typewriters, ringing phones, the buzz of many voices in a half-dozen impromptu conversations around the room. It did indeed feel good to be back in her office at the hub of the activity she so loved.

  But Hilary knew she was not the same person she had been when she left this place so many weeks ago. Much had changed . . . everything had changed! Her horizons, both internal and external, had broadened considerably. She had grown to love another world outside the bustle of London.

  “I am different,” she said to herself. “But I am the same person, just as Ashley said it would be.”

  She looked down at her IBM and, suddenly inspired, began working the keys. She had been wondering all day what she would write for this editorial. It had to be special, for it would be somewhat of a farewell. For a while, at least.

  Something about values . . . change . . . the deeper meaning of life. That’s what she wanted to write about. A bit ambitious, perhaps. But after what she had been through, she had to try touching a meaningful chord. She must just focus it down, concentrate on one particular element in all that had come her way.

  Yes, it was time for a leave of absence. As much as she loved the magazine, she was looking forward to the opportunity of returning to Scotland to get better acquainted with her new family and their beloved Port Strathy—and Stonewyck
e. It would be a time to begin a new phase in her life. She smiled when she thought of all that would be happening in the next few months. As much as the rest of it, she was eagerly anticipating beginning to organize the material in the Stonewycke Journal in hopes of writing a more orderly chronicle of her family’s history. Would six months’ leave be enough?

  Six months . . . eight months . . . even a year. She would stay in touch. The magazine was still very much a part of her life. And it would be in Murry’s capable hands during her sabbatical. As interim editor, he would blossom from a good journalist into a fine manager and administrator, directions she had been wanting to take him for some time. And the new staff writer and columnist-at-large she had hired to fill in Murry’s vacancy would no doubt make life at the Review interesting. It had taken some smooth salesmanship on Hilary’s part, but she was delighted when Suzanne had finally agreed to try journalism as a change from poetry.

  “It’s only temporary,” she had insisted.

  “Agreed,” consented Hilary with a laugh. “But you’ll love it—believe me! Now you’ll have an audience to try out those outlandish ideas of yours on!”

  “Who knows?” Suzanne said. “A taste of the hard-boiled world might inject new life into my prose and my poetry.”

  The romantic in Hilary could hardly refrain from smiling inside when she noted the special energy flowing between her two friends from the start. “Hmm,” Hilary said to herself, “you never can tell what’s going to happen!”

  She came to the end of the page, removed it from the carriage, and was just slipping in a fresh sheet of white paper when Betty knocked on her door.

  “This package just came,” she said as she entered. She laid it on Hilary’s desk, then left.

  Hilary remembered the last time a strange package had come to the office. It had changed her life.

  She wondered what this one could contain. The return address was unfamiliar, but it had originated in London. It was not large, perhaps about the size of a small shoe box. She tore off the brown paper and lifted the lid, then pulled out the brief note that lay inside.