by Wayne Turmel
“Thanks, what’s your name?”
“Pete, sir.” The ‘Sir’ didn’t even faze me anymore.
“Do you know where there’s a hardware store nearby?”
“Sure do. Anything you need, I can…”
“Nah, I’ll get it. Then I reached into my pocket for another quarter. “You wouldn’t happen to know where a fella could find a drink, maybe after hours?”
He looked around suspiciously, then leaned in. “You looking for a good time? I know a girl…”
“Nah, just sometimes I like to go out at night… if I get bored or something.” He exchanged my fifty cents for some fairly useless directions to both a hardware store and a respectable speak, but Rockford wasn’t that big a town, the kind of place where “a piece” is considered an accurate measure of distance. If I had to track the Count down later, it wouldn’t be tough.
As it turned out, I didn’t have to chase the Count that night, because no sooner had Pete left, when he burst through the door and threw his walking stick and coat onto the floor.
“Lost my damned notebook…” The panic in his voice was palpable. I nodded to the cheaply stained pine bedside table. “Thank God, Brown. You’re a peach, an absolute life saver. I need to get a cable to Paris and couldn’t find the… oh never mind. We have it now, eh?”
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“Never better, why?” It was a whopper, but he nearly pulled it off.
“A telegram came for you… from Paris.” The words were hardly out of my mouth when he ripped the envelope from my hand.
“Is it from Alice?” He tore it open and read it, his shoulders slumping a bit. He read it a second time, smiling. Whatever it was, wasn’t horrible at least. “Not bad news, though. Not in the least. Do you know what this is?”
I hated when he asked me that. In three weeks of working with him, I’d never once guessed right. This time, he didn’t really expect an answer because he just kept talking. “This is from a friend of mine at L’Academie des Arts et Sciences in Paris. Brad Tyrrell and I are being awarded the Palme d’Or this year.”
“Congratulations.” I had a vague idea who Tyrrell was, he’d been on the Sahara expedition, and no idea whatsoever what the Academy-days-whatever was, but an award was usually a good thing. After the day he’d had, he deserved to get tossed a bone of some kind.
“Congratulations indeed. Y’see, this is actually a very high honor, in some circles at least. Extraordinary achievement in the sciences, and all that. Yes, it’ll help a great deal.” He could tell I didn’t have the foggiest clue what it all meant and he was getting impatient. “Don’t you see? If Tyrrell, and by extension Beloit and the Logan, are winning international prizes, they won’t want to cut ties with me. It’d be a scandal. They’ll sign the contracts just to maintain face. I’ll get the contract… and that bastard,” and I knew exactly which bastard he meant, “can go piss up a rope. Anyway, it’s good news, Brown.”
He looked around the room and saw the Venus on the table. “Thank goodness you found her. I was afraid I’d left her behind.”
“You almost did.”
He picked it up and stroked it affectionately. “Lovely isn’t she?”
I shrugged. “I s’pose. Why do you t-t-travel with the real thing?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, it’s v-v-v-valuable. You should be more careful with it. You kind of leave stuff behind, especially when you’re… you know.”
“I can’t just leave her behind. She’s all I’ve got from that trip.”
“What do you mean, all?”
He sat on the end of the bed, running his long fingers over the smooth grey stone. “I mean it’s literally the only thing I have. Most of what we found was confiscated before I left, or stayed in Africa with Reygasse or in Paris at the Institute. I barely escaped with the clothes on my back and all the film and snaps. They’re the only things of real value I have left.”
“But you said it was the greatest treasure since Tutan—that Tut guy.”
He barked out a laugh. “It is, but it’s been a bad few years for archaeology. The good news is, no one’s really found anything worth a damn since Howard Carter, so technically speaking it is the best of a pretty shabby lot. Plus the New York bloody Times said so, so it must be true.” He shook his head like it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. I didn’t get it, though, because I always thought if the Times said it, it had to be true.
“It’s a souvenir, I guess. Certainly it’s useful, I mean people love to touch things that are old or from exotic places. And it’s stone. Even I can’t break it.”
I thought of all the pictures he took with him that he never showed, or how he traveled with that stupid piece of wood from Shackleton’s sled. He traveled so much, but he never went anywhere without it. It reminded him of his past. What had I brought with me? Two changes of clothes and that bag of odds and ends. Sure as hell nothing that reeked of Milwaukee or home. Why would I?
“Honest Injun, there’s no jewels, or treasure?”
His eyes hardened. “Et tu, Brute? We’ve discussed this. Do you think me a thief?”
My eyes dropped to the floor. “N-n-no sir.”
“Right then. Ask me again and you’ll get the sack. Understood?”
“There’s something else,” I said. “You owe me fifty cents for t-t-tips.” I explained why, and he ponied up good-naturedly.
“Good on you, Brown. Never let the little debts pile up. Although, over-tipping is a bad habit. Looks gauche.” He gave me a silver dollar and told me not to worry about the change. Then he pulled his pipe from his breast pocket, stuffed it with some cherry wood tobacco, struck a match with his thumb and lit it. “Oh, and stay sharp. No more slipups like today, eh? Everything hinges on our being perfect, especially at Beloit.”
He didn’t wait for a response, just gathered up his notebook. “I have to find the Western Union office…” and he was out the door.
The next few days were a blur; packing, unpacking, identical lectures then repacking. Madison, La Crosse, Eau Claire. I saw very little of my boss. Sometimes he was gone at dawn and didn’t come stumbling in until late. Sometimes it was because he’d kick me out of our room when he was on the phone.
I never really knew what was going on. All I got were glimpses of notes scribbled on telephone pads and snatches of telephone conversations.
“Reygasse, Maurice Reygasse, see voo play…”
“St Hulbert, Paris, France… yes France. The country… Oh for…”
“Please, Operator. Try again… I know she must be…”
The lectures were perfect. The other twenty-two hours in the day were starting to wear on both of us.
One morning in Eau Claire, Wisconsin, as he poured his third sugar into his coffee, I handed him a brown paper bag. “It’s n-n-not very g-g-good.”
“What’s this?” He opened it up and pulled out a grey plaster copy of his Venus. “Did you do this? It’s wonderful.”
It wasn’t. He was just being kind, it was slightly lopsided for one thing. “It needs another c-c-c-oat, but I thought we could keep the original safe and use this one onstage. I made two copies.”
“Good thinking. Yes, fine, fine.” He fixed his eyes on me until I squirmed. “It’s really quite good you know.”
“Really?” I hated the way I warmed whenever he gave me a compliment. Like a girl brown-nosing a teacher. Hated it but kind of liked it, too.
“Mm-hmm. In fact, I know some reputable artifact sellers in Carthage who could take lessons. You’ve got a career in art forgery if you want it. What else are you working on?”
“Nothing really. Well, maybe a couple of things, but they’re not ready to show you yet.”
He accepted that, and took a couple of more slurps of his coffee. “You know, it’s much warmer here than in St. Louis. Do you have a lighter jacket?”
“Not really.”
“You’re really going to have to do something about your wardrob
e. I’m getting quite tired of that grey vest. I’m sure the moths are, too. You really should think about it, now that you’re Mr. Moneybags and all.” He smiled and slipped me an envelope. It was payday. A week since I left Milwaukee.
“Clothes maketh the man, Brown. You should think about that.”
I must have made some incoherent grunt, promising to think about it. Really, all I could think about is that “we” were going to St. Louis.
South, where it was warmer than Wisconsin.
Away.
Wednesday the 3rd dawned sunny and bright in Beloit, despite being colder than a well-digger’s ass. The view from the Grand Hotel wasn’t much, but the recent snow was still a pure white, blown into a hard crust that sparkled in the cold sunshine and blinded you if you stared too long.
I was worried the Count would wind up with a dog and cane, the way he kept staring out the window for long periods of time, saying nothing. He was as nervous as I’d ever seen him, puffing pipe smoke like a coal train. His mouth ran non-stop. Without a reason, he’d just start yakking and couldn’t seem to stop himself. He’d apologize for “going on so,” then just keep going.
It didn’t get any better after lunch. We went out, and he picked up the Beloit and Janesville papers, expecting to read about the upcoming lecture. Nothing. Not a word. Well, there was a small notice in the “Upcoming Events” but hardly enough to draw a crowd.
It was the same around campus. On one of my exploratory walks that afternoon, Beloit not being big enough for street cars, I didn’t see any signs or posters advertising the lecture. The campus rag, the Round Table, did have a small article, but certainly didn’t make a big fuss. If this was so darned important, why were they treating the Count’s visit like it was some state secret?
The longer the day dragged on, the more nervous he became. Usually, the closer we got to show time, the calmer and more confident he grew. I swear he actually got taller and better looking in the hour before he took the stage. Today, though, he was a sweaty shaky cartoon of himself.
“Remember, this is important. You’ll be meeting all kinds of important people. Do try to make nice. And for God’s sake, talk to them. Don’t just grunt like some kind of gorilla.” What was I supposed to say to that? I stuck out my lips, scratched my arm and made oooh-oooh-oooh noises until I got a laugh out of him. It struck me it was the first time I’d heard him really laugh in three days.
We arrived at the chapel in the center of the campus two hours before the start time, as we usually did. No one really paid much attention, in fact I had to find a janitor in another building to unlock the back door so we could get our gear inside.
Once inside, de Prorok looked around. “Not exactly the Great Hall, is it?” The chapel was lovely, but small. “Rather thought they’d be making a bigger to-do.”
“Byron, about time. Good to see you.” A tall, good looking guy with a high forehead, a moustache and glasses walked up the aisle of the chapel, his hand extended in greeting.
“Brad, by the Dickens, great to see you.” The two men shook hands and the Count quickly called me over. I recognized this guy from the pictures of the Expedition. It seemed strange seeing someone in the flesh you only knew from pictures. I guess it would be like meeting Lon Chaney in person.
“Brad Tyrrell, this is my traveling companion and projection technician, William Brown. Brown, Brad Tyrrell, one of the stalwarts of the Sahara Expedition.” We shook hands briefly. He was tall, nearly as tall as I was and built half way between the de Prorok and I—not as whippet thin as my boss, but less of a lunk than me. He had that calm, rich guy assurance about him and a smooth, baritone voice.
“Nice to meet you, young man.”
“A… pleasure… sir.” I may have sounded slow, but at least the words came out right. So far so good.
“Byron treating you okay?”
“Yes sir.” Short and sweet, that was the watchword for tonight. I was consciously avoiding “m”s and “p”s.
“And what does a projection technician actually do? Wait, don’t tell me… your job is to keep Byron away from his own equipment so he doesn’t show upside down pictures, am I right?”
“That’s a…bout it, yessir.”
“Fine, fine. Glad he’s got someone to keep him out of trouble. Well, don’t let me keep you. I’m sure you have plenty to keep you occupied.” He smiled, then turned away from me in that way businessmen have of dismissing you even while you’re still in the room.
As I puttered, I heard them talking, so I puttered even more quietly.
“Brad, have you received your notification about the Palme d’Or yet?”
“The what? Oh, yes, thank you. It was very kind of them. I’m very grateful. Listen, I need to talk to you about a couple of things before tomorrow’s meeting.”
The Count was obviously only half listening. “Doesn’t this seem like an awfully small venue? I mean, the College, especially the Logan, was such a big part of the expedition, you’d think they be making more of an effort to fill the hall, don’t you think?”
Tyrrell’s voice flattened out, and I had to strain to hear him. “Yeah, about that. Look, Byron. You have to know the college isn’t too happy with you right now.”
“Why ever not?” I wanted to know the answer to that one, too, and caught my finger in the slide mechanism of the projector. I sucked the pain out of the digit, and strained to hear. It was getting easier, because that foghorn of a voice ratcheted up the volume.
“We have brought the world’s attention to this piss ant school…” Even he realized he was shouting, and in an empty, echoing chapel to boot, because he dropped his voice dramatically as he went on. “This piss ant backwater cow college. Do you think the New York Times would even know Beloit, Wisconsin, existed if not for me?”
Tyrrell’s voice was getting flatter and smoother. “I know that, but you have to admit things have gone a bit sideways in the last few months.”
“Oh, what things?”
“The school had to bail out a ton of money, for starters…”
“Which they’ll get back when they sign the digging rights. My God, they’ll save fifteen thousand dollars the first year alone.”
“Yes. If they sign.” We both froze hearing that.
“Why wouldn’t they? Pond is having the time of his life over there, playing in his sandbox and counting arrowheads and creating his precious little catalogues. Why would they risk all that?”
“They’ll explain it all at the meeting tomorrow morning. Please, Byron. As your friend, I’m asking you to step carefully. They’ll want to know you have all your bases covered with Reygasse and the Institute. If there’s anything you’re keeping from them, anything at all… For Chrissake the Algerian government is still calling you a grave robber.” The Count was about to protest, but Tyrrell put his hand on his shoulder, momentarily silencing him. “It just doesn’t look good, is all.”
The older man paused, then asked another question in a quieter, sadder way. “Why did you have to charge them for this speech tonight?”
“What do you mean?” The Count’s voice was getting louder again, and jumped up an octave. “It’s only two hundred and fifty dollars. And I really didn’t have a choice. Lee, you’ve met him in New York, Keedick, insists on getting his pound of flesh. And I have overhead,” he gestured over to me, the Overhead. “Why are they pulling this nickel and dime nonsense now? Was I supposed to do this for free?”
“Actually, yes. They might have seen it as an act of good will. A thank you for all their support and all that. Now it looks like you’re just in it for the money.”
“I am in it for the money. Some of us need the damned money. We’re not all millionaires, you know. I have a family to support, God damn it, Brad.”
“Alright, take it easy. We’ll talk some more and maybe we can figure out a plan of attack when we meet with President Maurer and Collie in the morning.”
“Can we talk to them tonight?” Byron asked.
&nb
sp; Tyrrell hesitated. “They’re not coming tonight. We’re meeting in Maurer’s office in the Middle College tomorrow.”
“Not coming?”
Brad Tyrrell shook his head. “Afraid not. I’m introducing you tonight. Okay, you fellas get set up, and we’ll see you right at eight o’clock. He gave de Prorok another pat on the shoulder and walked up the aisle to the main chapel door. He brushed past Havlicek, who’d been eavesdropping from the last row of pews.
I don’t know if the Count saw the detective or not. He just looked at me and barked, “I’ll be back in a bit, Brown,” and stomped out of the chapel through the rear. I couldn’t avoid the bastard, though. He strutted up the aisle, hands in his coat pockets, hat pushed back and a big cheesy grin on his mug.
“How’s it goin’ kid?”
“What do you want?” I asked, without looking up from my work.
“Just sayin’ hi. We’re going to be seeing a lot of each other, might as well be friendly about it.” I had no intentions of being civil, so I put the first reel—the departure from Constantine—on the projector and threaded the film carefully while doing my best to ignore him. It would have been easier to ignore a snowball down my pants.
“Seriously, what’s wit’you?” He sidled up to me and looked over my shoulder. “Hmm. You do good work, gotta hand it to you. You know your boss is in big trouble.”
“Why don’t you leave him alone?” I managed it without stuttering, but did sound like a whiney little kid. “What’s he ever done to you?”
“To me? Nothin’. Look, I respect bein’ loyal to your boss. I got a boss, too, who doesn’t much like your guy. You gotta admit, de Prorok ain’t helping his own case much.”
I didn’t have to admit a damned thing, at least not to this guy. “He didn’t steal anything. Get off his back.”
The detective opened his coat. It was getting warm in the chapel already. “Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t. It’s not really my business. I follow and report. It’s a job, kid. Like yours, just a job.”
