by Wayne Turmel
“Better be nice to de Prorok then. He’s going to be your landlord.” Tyrrell laughed harder than Pond at that idea. The idea of being tied to that blowhard for the next three years didn’t sit very well, but it couldn’t entirely spoil his mood either.
Nope, it was time to get down to work. He knew roughly what he’d find. Reygasse and the Musée Borde had sent plenty of samples from the region to Beloit in exchange for artifacts from the Americas, mostly Ojibway and some Cree. They swapped flint for flint and axe for axe, although the quality of what found its way to Beloit was nowhere near what went to Tangiers.
A big part of his job was to determine if that inequity was because the sites didn’t offer much, or if the good stuff was being kept from non-European scientists. Alonzo certainly had a theory, but it was hardly scientifically proven. Nor was it charitable to his French counterpart.
Each team set to unloading its own vehicle. From Lucky Strike came the machine gun, digging tools and large wooden trunks for storing and shipping artifacts. The relics would be sorted, catalogued and shipped back to America from the coast.
Hot Dog contained Reygasse’s equipment. It was much the same as the Americans’ except larger, which Pond figured meant the fifty-fifty split would have to be carefully monitored. It also contained much thicker, more comfortable looking bed rolls than the rest of the group had.
Sandy, the Count’s car, contained mostly camera equipment, Denny’s typewriter, and de Prorok’s personal, very well-worn, digging equipment. Barth stacked his mountain of gear in the relative shade of the thorn bushes and wiped his forehead.
The Count checked the cache of supplies left for them in a niche at the mountain’s base. Exactly as planned there were two boxes of food, plenty of water and a couple of tents. On closer examination, however, he found the food was all the same—tins of prewar bully beef. The odds of ptomaine were small, but so were the dining choices for the next few days. Also, a closer examination of the tents revealed they were one short. Whether this was an oversight or yet another form of unofficial taxation wasn’t immediately clear.
“Monsieur Reygasse, a moment please.” Byron hoped he sounded calmer than he felt. He stood with his back to the rest of the crew as the older man approached with some trepidation.
“Maurice, you told me the people who handled our supplies were dependable.”
“They are. We’ve used them many times. What’s wrong?” In answer, de Prorok held up one of the ancient cans.
“This is what they left us. And we’re missing other gear as well, including one of the tents and some gasoline.”
“Pas possible… they’re completely reliable.”
“Apparently not. What am I supposed to tell the others?”
Reygasse looked at him incredulously. “Why say anything? We’re not far from Ourgla, we can get more supplies there.”
“With what? We have no more money. Those bandits you hired have already bled us dry,” he hissed through tightly clenched teeth. Byron towered over the Frenchman, and for a moment he enjoyed the surge of power it granted him. The moment passed, though, and all he felt was tired, betrayed and a little frightened.
Reygasse idly kicked at some gravel with a well-polished boot while the Count continued. “Everyone’s depending on me, and probably regretting it. I trusted you. How is this going to look when the fichu New York Times writes that we failed because I couldn’t get the equipment delivered properly?”
“Please, let me talk to the local Caid and see what’s happened. I’m sure it’s a simple misunderstanding.” Reygasse’s tone implied he was offering an olive branch, and Byron was happy to grab it.
“And talk to the other suppliers while you’re at it. Make sure the same thing isn’t happening at In Salah and Hoggar. I’m tired of looking like an incompetent boob.” He put his hands on his hips and took a couple of deep cleansing breaths.
He wondered how his mentors, especially Gsell, would have handled this. Those sites were always poor and struggling, and lacked the prestige so appreciated by academia. Yet they consistently turned out important findings on a fraction of the budgets some of the sites squandered. He also had far less trouble with the Arab diggers than most. What would he have done in this spot?
“I trusted you to make the arrangements, Maurice. I trust you to make it right.” Byron had been on the receiving end of this same lecture many times, and he knew how much it stung.
Reygasse sucked noisily on his lower lip for a moment, nodded once and spun on his heels, returning to the rest of the group. De Prorok stood for a few moments more, looking at the pathetic cache.
“Everyone, a word please?”
Without drama or embellishment, which took some restraint, he explained the situation. Water wasn’t a problem, and the petrol situation was, for the moment at least, manageable. The news about the endless supply of canned beef was greeted with numb acceptance. Byron knew many had been in the army and were used to hard work on poor rations. Those who didn’t had no idea what it was like to eat the same meal twice a day for a week. Ignorance was bliss.
As he expected, the real griping was about the tents. Barth and Denny staked their claims to one of them because of the delicate nature of their gear; typewriters and film equipment couldn’t just be stacked like cordwood. The Renault drivers complained the loudest, proclaiming that they were professionals, and demanded to be treated accordingly. Reygasse claimed a spot without deigning to explain why.
“No problem, here,” Pond chimed in. Now that the rain’s stopped, I’m actually looking forward to sleeping outside. Right, Brad?”
Tyrrell had the good graces to simply offer, “What the hell, I’m on vacation.”
Byron clapped his hands together. “Excellent. I know I’m looking forward to sleeping under the stars. Just like at Carthage, it’ll be rather pleasant, and probably have fewer vermin than those last few hotels, eh?”
Amid all the squabbling, he noticed Chapuis, Martini and Belaid simply picked up their bedrolls and calmly scraped out shallow spaces on the lee side of the vehicles. Then they set to making dinner.
The simple meal was quickly devoured. Between the novelty of eating outdoors, the excitement of finally getting to work, and the loss of their breakfasts due to hangovers and bad roads, everyone had a healthy appetite.
After dinner, Escande pulled the shortest twig and took the Count, Hal Denny and Reygasse into Ourgla. Denny needed to find someplace he could file a story. De Prorok and Reygasse were on an unspecified mission, but nobody would miss them. The rest of the team settled into an early night of muffled conversation, quiet contemplation and Tyrrell playing more Stephen Foster on his mouth organ.
Chapter 9
Moline, Illinois
January 28, 1926
“Bloody Lutherans. They sure know how to suck the fun out of life, don’t they?” The Count was bored and more than a bit ornery. He pouted out the window, blaming his boredom on Moline’s strict adherence to liquor laws. The fact it had snowed about a foot and a half since we left Ames the morning before, and nothing across a three state area was moving, didn’t seem to factor into his thinking at all.
We’d taken a last minute booking at Augustana College, a bastion of Scandinavian propriety technically situated in Rock Island, but only a couple of miles away. The nice Swedish lady who booked him made a point of putting us up in Moline, which seemed to matter a lot to her. Moline had the good jobs, a Republican city council and a really nice hotel, the Leclaire. Rock Island had the stockyards, Democrats and Negroes, hence most of the fun.
Besides the enforced sobriety, two things made him edgy. I suspected the primary reason for his misery was the cable from his wife, Alice. The Western Union telegraph laid crumpled up on the night stand. For about the third time since its arrival, he picked it up and reread it.
Dear B stop Must return to Paris with mother and girls early stop
Will explain later stop Don’t worry
Love A
&
nbsp; “Don’t bloody worry. What else am I supposed to do? She just packs up and leaves with no explanation? I was going to be there in two more days. What was so bloody important she couldn’t wait?” Thankfully, I knew I wasn’t supposed to provide the answer, and just let him go.
Close quarters didn’t help. We shared a room, because this was a last-minute booking at half his normal rate, and the budget was unforgiving. Neither the college nor de Prorok were about to spring for an extra room, so we had a perfectly functional cot brought up. I didn’t mind spending the night in. I was exhausted from the strain of keeping the car on the road for almost ten hours in driving snow. I needed the shut eye.
When we left Ames on Tuesday, the roads were already socked in, and no sane person ventured out. Driving in the snow was all part of the deal when you lived in Wisconsin. But in a strange car, running on about three hours sleep, with a Jim Dandy of a hangover, over a hundred and eighty miles of unfamiliar road in drifting snow, it was enough to make a smart guy reconsider his employment options. If he had any, that is.
When we finally got in, the hotel was able to scrounge us up a couple of sandwiches, one of which cost me almost seventy-five cents with a Coke. That left me less than two dollars, but I wolfed it down and we settled into our night’s confinement. The Count was still talking when I passed out.
Now it was Wednesday morning, with nothing to do but worry and complain. “Will anyone show up in this mess?”
“Probably. Snow’s stopped, and we won’t get any more for a while.”
“How can you possibly know that?” he snapped.
“Doesn’t smell like snow,” I said with a shrug. That at least changed the topic of conversation. Now he pummeled me with a whole series of questions: What did snow smell like? Can anyone smell snow or is it a special gift like using rheumatism to predict rain? How can you tell between the snow on the ground and when it would fall from the sky?
“I never thought about it. Anyone from home’ll tell you, you just kind of…feel it in your nose. You say ‘smells like snow,’ and everyone knows what you mean.” Jesus, anyone who lived with winter could tell when a good snowstorm was brewing. For a smart guy, he sure didn’t know much sometimes.
This at least got him off the topic of Alice and the babies. He set off on some wild story about Arabs in the desert who can smell water a mile away, like a camel. I agreed maybe it was the same thing, kind of.
Blessedly, the phone rang. Mrs. Carlson, the lady from Augustana, was inviting him to lunch with some of the board members. I knew from the look on his face he’d rather poke his eyes out than go to some fancy luncheon—those people drank iced tea even in January—but his voice didn’t betray the horror in his eyes. And it would beat being cooped up in our room for a couple of hours.
I could use some air myself, frigid though it might be. Maybe a bowl of soup and a sandwich that didn’t cost a king’s ransom would be good. Besides, what’s the point of being in Moline if you didn’t see Moline? Through the window I could see downtown coming to life, if not exactly bustling. It might even be fun.
I figured I’d give him a head start so I didn’t have to deal with his crummy mood or Mrs. Carlson. De Prorok bundled up as best he could, took up his walking stick and waved goodbye. The notion of escaping confinement eased the black cloud hovering over him.
While I waited, I took a few minutes to look at the sword that cracked and wilted during our debauch in Ames. It was a lost cause. I’d have to pick up some more pasteboard while I was out and about. The blade was pretty much shot.
I turned the phony flyssa over in my hands and took a good look. The Count explained there were several kinds of Tuareg swords. Most looked like you’d expect a sword to look; straight blade, with a cross shaped handle and some kind of engraving on them. These were more ornamental, and a whole lot more interesting. They had a curved blade like a scimitar, only smaller. Certainly from an American audience’s view it looked more intimidating, especially because they were made of bronze, rendering them far less durable, but they looked like gold in the desert sun—or under auditorium lights.
I wrote down what I’d need: card stock, pasteboard, maybe some glass beads and metal wire. I kept careful track of everything I spent on supplies, so I could present my boss with an accurate bill. I was out of pocket about a buck at that point. Some of his materials were in really poor shape and certainly wouldn’t last much longer unless he—or rather I—did something about it. I shook my head for the millionth time. How could someone whose clothes were so perfect be so sloppy about the tools of their trade?
When sufficient time passed, I dressed for the weather and stomped down the hall. Getting into the elevator, I decided to conduct a little experiment. “Hello, Arthur.”
That got me a surprised smile and a big, “Morning sir.” Sir. Me. God bless name tags.
Once downstairs, I wrapped my muffler around my neck, obscuring my face. I heard a feminine laugh from near the desk and looked over. There was a tiny woman in a thick fur coat. I couldn’t see anything else, except she was blond. Five’d get you ten that was Mrs. Carlson. The Count towered over her and gallantly offered his arm. He gave a jaunty wave to the desk clerk. “Thank you Andre, I’ll be back later, please hold any messages.”
“Of course, sir.” Everyone in the lobby watched them leave; the maid polishing the furniture, the shoe shine boy, who was at least fifty, and the three businessmen chatting right in front of the door. Even the guy on the lobby couch looked up from his copy of the Dispatch. I could just make out his brown felt hat and cheap winter coat.
I’d seen that hat before. Twice, in fact. Once in Grinnell, on that first night, then again in Ames. The hat wasn’t particularly noticeable, just the same crappy Dynafelt millions of guys wore. It had a high, dented crown with light finger-sized marks where sweaty hands put it on and took it off. It had a ribbon band, the same color as the rest of the hat. Nothing special.
What made it stand out was the face beneath it. It was the same fleshy, pig-eyed, unevenly shaved mug, for sure. Whoever he was, he checked his watch, pulled out a small notebook and scrawled something in it. Then he walked over to the picture windows facing Nineteenth Street and looked out in the direction the Count and the lady had gone.
He wasn’t as tall as I’d thought at first, maybe five eight or nine. His eyes—bloodshot and small for his face—followed the pair for a minute. Then, I guess because he figured they had enough of a lead, he bundled up and headed out into the street himself.
I had to find out who this joker was, or at least what he wanted with de Prorok. I counted ten Mississippis and followed him. I forgot to thank the doorman, Reggie, and reminded myself to do that when I got back.
It was cold as hell and got even colder when some snow fell from the awning and went right down the back of my neck. I quickly brushed it away, frantically seeking the brown hat. Even with everyone wearing hats, it was so beat up it shouldn’t be hard to spot.
It wasn’t. He stood with his back to the plate glass window of a restaurant, smoking a cigarette. Mostly he looked up and down the street. Once in a while, though, he’d peer into the joint, stare a little longer than normal, then turn back to the street. Passersby hugged the walls to avoid falling ice, and Mr. Brown Coat was gradually forced to stand flush against the corner, where he had to strain his neck and balance on one foot to keep eyes on his prey.
Right about then I wished I smoked. It would have given me something to do and a reason to be standing out on the street. The warmth would have been welcome too, because it couldn’t have been twenty degrees out with the wind whipping up from the river. I knew between the cold and the blond company the Count would be at least an hour, and if Whosits was keeping an eye on him, he wouldn’t be going anywhere either. Good, I hope he catches pneumonia out there, I thought.
While he froze his tail off out there, I figured on getting the stuff for my repair project, a quick bowl of soup, and get back to work. I knew the odds of ge
tting a decent German “suppe” were slim in this town where everything had been thoroughly de-Europeanized, but even chicken noodle and white bread would fill the hole on a day like this.
I passed the watcher on the other side of the street. Either he didn’t notice me or was too smart to let on. At the end of the block I turned back to take one last look just in time to see the maître d’ come out of the restaurant and chase him off like some kind of bum. Good.
Forty minutes later I greeted Reggie at the door of the Hotel Leclaire. He returned my greeting as he swung the door open. “Yassuh, sure is bitter cold out there, Mister Brown.” A sir and a mister in the same sentence were probably overkill, but it did help warm me up.
By the time I got to the third floor, I was able to move my fingers again. The radiators gurgled away on high, and I stripped off my coat and scarf, whistling my way down the hall. The Leclaire was a nice hotel, and the carpets were plush and spotless, except for where my muddy boots left wet brown prints. My mother would’ve swatted me with a broom if I tracked snowy mud into her kitchen. I’d never spent the night in a place quite so nice—even if I was freeloading on a cot—but no one said a word to me. A guy could get used to this.
Pulling the big brass key tag out of my pocket, I opened the door. Then I stopped whistling. The Count’s bureau was side open and two of his carefully hung shirts lay on the floor. The chest of drawers was left half opened, contents scattered carelessly. The little jewelry box with his onyx cufflinks and tie pin lay on the bedside table open, but everything seemed to be there. The trunk of lecture materials sat wide open, with everything pulled out of its compartments. Whoever had done this was looking for something, and didn’t find it the first place they looked.
“Bloody hell,” boomed a voice from behind me. De Prorok stood in the door jamb, scanning the room in a panic. I thought for sure he’d be furious about his clothes. Instead with a choked cry, he threw his stick on the floor and went straight for the crate. He dug to the bottom and throwing things, including his precious piece of Shackleton’s sled, aside. Under the false bottom I’d built for him, he found his metal case and inspected it. The lock was still in place, intact.
