by Alex Ames
“Let me guess, you are having trouble finding the file,” Ron offered.
I wondered if Pedro Vasolar’s shoulder would hurt in the evening from all his feeble shrugging. “From 1911…. A museum of our standing has a very long memory. But also a spotty one.”
“What kind of documents could we have expected?” Fowler asked.
Shrug. “Anything that came along and is in paper form. Drawings, photos, certificates, authentications, former deeds. As it doesn’t give more information about its origin. ‘Royal collection’ is just a fancy expression that it belonged to the state in another form. I am as clueless as you are when it comes to the exact history of the Maximilian Set. You probably sort it under Hispanic chaotic disorganization. But I think, if we picked some random index cards from the central register, we would find other dead file references as well.”
Ron got a little impatient. “Let’s cut the chase, shall we. Have you found the Maximilian Set in your storage or not?”
Pedro took a deep long breath in, held it for a minute and then let it out. “No. Not yet.”
“When would you be in the position to give us a definite answer?” Ron insisted.
“My curators are still looking.” Pedro leaned forward to underline his next point. “We did a little research on the Maximilian Jewels. Up until now, we hadn’t considered them to be important elements of our national history. They were never on display, were never lent to any other institution, and were never used in any special exhibition. But to have them stolen from our vaults, and I insist that we don’t just let gold and diamond jewelry lie around in unprotected storage, to have them stolen from us is a great loss. The estimated value that you mentioned makes that evident.”
“Sir, when?” Ron ran out of patience.
“Mere hours. The jewelry vaults don’t hold too many items. But because the description on the index card fits the descriptions and drawings you brought along, I fear the worst.” Pedro shook his head. “I beg you to keep this whole affair extremely confidential. It would do tremendous harm to the reputation of the museum.”
Ron just nodded. I knew that he could care less about the museum’s reputation or the director’s ass, especially coming from another country.
Pedro Vasolar promised to keep us up to date of any development. We did the same and the meeting was over.
For our way back to the hotel, we decided to walk through the park. I had the anthill analogy again in front of my inner eye: people everywhere, families, joggers, strollers, pairs, police, businessmen, all enjoying the winter evening. I looked at Fowler. “What is your impression?”
Fowler looked back at the museum. “I have to read the fine print of our contract with the museum to find out exactly when our coverage is valid and make some checks with the museum. From what we just heard, you could probably argue neglect. But if it is anywhere close to our usual standards, we will have to pay up. All the way. Our underwriters will not be happy.”
Ron led us to a crowded sidewalk cafe on the opposite side of the street, facing the hotel.
“Work isn’t over yet,” he explained mysteriously. He asked one of the waitresses something and she pointed into the back of the cafe. We trotted along until we came to a booth with a little guy in a flamboyant white suit, slicked black hair, and a white summer hat. He was having a cup of coffee as he waited for us. He jumped up when he saw me and Ron introduced us. “Meet Inspector Lobos Coronel of the local theft division of the Mexico City Police Department. The museum is in his bailiwick.”
“Senora,” Inspector Coronel was kissing my hand affectionately. Finally, I had to come that far. He had a nice smile, I am not so keen on smaller men but he had something ‘agreeable.’
Ron introduced Fowler and we sat down. We were on a first name basis instantly.
“Your story sounded irresistible,” Lobos said. “A theft of something so valuable, so mysteriously, not found out for so long.” He spoke a slow English with a nice melody to it.
“We have met with Mr. Vasolar and his staff is currently checking. But I think we are all convinced that the Maximilian Jewels have been stolen,” Ron explained the situation. “Are you able to help us?”
“Gladly.” Lobos leaned back, enjoying the attention. “My superiors gave me the green light to support your investigation in any way I could. I forewarn you my friends; this affair might well go political.”
“Why is that?” Ron asked.
“The Mexican government is a little touchy when it comes to the looting of their national heritage. Add to that the fact that the criminals were probably American, Californians, too. That really, really hurts our pride.” Lobos wiggled his index finger at us as if we were evil American colonists.
“Did you find out anything, yet?”
“Ah, I think I did, despite the small amount of time available to us,” Lobos stretched his fingers. “The question is: How did the American dealer acquire the jewelry?” He looked expectantly at us and gave the answer himself. “Easy, he had an accomplice at the museum.”
“One of the curators?” Fowler asked.
“In this case, since there are only a limited number of curators who have access to the vaults where the museum stores the jewelry, it seems to be an obvious choice.”
“A regular thief couldn’t have done it?” Fowler asked and I tried to keep my blood pressure down.
“With difficulty, yes. But how would a regular thief know what kind of jewelry he actually laid his hands on. However, a curator would probably spot the value of the stones; he could do the proper research in the registry and seize the opportunity.”
I said, “And with three million items gathering dust, it could take ages until anybody noticed anything missing.”
“Exactly,” Lobos nodded satisfied. “There are four curators in question. We started a quiet investigation on their background, you know, accounts, cars, girls, family problems, vices. Tomorrow we will know more.”
Fowler spent the evening in the Mexican office of his insurance company. At 8.5 million bucks, this case probably qualified for some overtime. Ron and I made our way into the ‘Zona Rosa,’ the entertainment district of Mexico City. After a few futile attempts to get a good table, we found a terrace table at a Mexican place overlooking the busy pedestrian area. It had a touristy touch, but who was I to complain.
“Fowler and you got along remarkably well today. I am very proud of you two,” Ron started.
“A non-aggression pact, at least for today,” I said absent minded and studied the menu. Fowler Wynn was the last person I wanted to include in my conversation.
“I see, touchy business,” Ron smiled. “What is your impression of today?”
I put away the menu, played with my hair and opened my eyes a little wider to distract Ron a little and give him the full blue-eyed blonde bombshell effect. “Except that the Museum of History is a mess, not much.”
“I don’t know too much about museums but don’t you consider it strange that the Maximilian pieces lie around in a vault for ages, never to be seen. Reminds me of that Indiana Jones movie ending, the holy chest getting lost in that giant warehouse.”
“Again, we don’t know what their worries were a hundred years ago when the jewelry was last registered. And with three million items, it may take some time until some clever curator finds it.”
“OK, how would that play out? A disgruntled curator stumbles upon the Maximilian Jewels. My first question to you as the art expert, the whole museum consists of fine art and artifacts. Why the Maximilian Jewels?”
“If you want to know my opinion, it’s because they stand out from other pieces. Anyone with jewelry expertise would know immediately that the Maximilian Set is something special. The design, the make, everything. Maybe our curator had the plan in mind for some time. He saw the Maximilian pieces, realized their ‘market’ value and put the plan in action.”
Ron ordered fajitas while I had lobster. We couldn’t agree on the wine so I went with a Spanish
white while he had a Corona.
“I don’t think our friend Altward was the initiator. He had some information about the Maximilian Jewels and located them here in Mexico,” I reasoned after the waiter was gone.
“Why?” Ron raised an eyebrow.
“Because Altward deals in modern Latin American artists, how would he stumble upon something so special? Emperor Maximilian’s jewels? Come on. It was probably the mystery curator who ran across them by accident, found them irresistible, did a little historic digging and brought up the story.”
“And what brought Altward and the curator together in the end?” Ron asked. “They work in different countries and different jobs.”
I thought of Thomas and his connections and it was quite possible that the curator had contacted a local fence who had contacted ‘The Fence’ who needed Altward to give the deal more credibility.
“Maybe Altward and his partner, Faulkner, ran into the curator at some point or maybe met at a party or a viewing.”
Ron looked at me again in this very peculiar unnerving way. “You are good, you know, really good.” He did a bad Robert DeNiro imitation and waved an index finger at me. “Bringing up Faulkner’s name just like that. Really good.”
The salad arrived.
“So, to continue with the tale—the curator and Altward… ”
“Or Faulkner… ” I said playfully.
“… or Faulkner hatch out the plan. The curator lifts ‘The Max’ from the vault, they smuggle it into the US and get it properly valuated. But before the buyer transaction is finished, the gallery gets robbed.” Ron paused for a second. “It is still not clear whether the robbery-homicide was related or unrelated to the Maximilian transaction. We are starting to unravel the mystery. But a solid theory is still not in sight. Not talking of evidence.”
“And? What happens next?” I asked. Ron had never played theory games before. Why now? And I wondered what his real theory was.
“I have no clue. It all gets very complicated at this point so I won’t even speculate. The killing of the night watchman, the robbery of a very secure safe, the Maximilian necklace around Phoebe’s neck, Phoebe’s death. Too many parts of the puzzle missing. No evidence.”
“Do you think the museum and the search for the corrupt curator will help us solve your murders?” I asked Ron.
“One step at a time. I told you before, there are two basic motives—love and money. And in our case, there is a strong money motive. Let’s follow the money that goes from Mexico City to San Diego to Chicago to Philly to San Diego.” Dinner was served and Ron attacked his plate with the fork as if there was no tomorrow.
The rest of the evening passed without too much shop talk, now and then our conversations drifted toward Maximilian, curators and Phoebe but most of the time we made small talk and typical ‘where did you go to… ’ blab. I looked deeply into his eyes, played with my hair and gave him looks over my glass of wine but somehow didn’t get back the vibes I had aimed for. The vibes were there, but somehow… not right, didn’t resonate correctly.
It was close to midnight when we returned to the hotel. Mexico City still in full swing, people everywhere. When we walked to the elevator, it was my last attempt of the evening. The elevator doors closed, Ron was on the ninth floor, my room on the tenth. I simply stood close to him and gave him a nice warm kiss on the mouth. He responded at first, then hesitated, and stepped back. Me, too.
“Why did you do that?” Ron said, astonished and a little embarrassed.
“I didn’t want to get shot accidentally,” I replied, meaning my step back.
“No, I mean the kiss.”
“It was a nice evening, with a nice man… ”
The elevator gave a silent ‘bong’ and opened at the ninth.
Ron stepped out and blocked it. Waved me over.
“Come here, Calendar.” I took a step forward, heart racing.
He took my face in his gentle big hands and pulled me a little closer so that I could feel the warmth of his body.
“Listen, I am not very good at this. I like you. You are one hell of a woman, Calendar Moonstone. But I have one problem. I am in the middle of a case. A case that is taking strange turns every minute. And I don’t need the distraction, as sweet as you are. I can’t afford it. But should this case come to an end… ” He let his voice trail.
I just gave a sad ‘meow’ and closed my eyes. Ron gave me a gentle kiss. “See you at breakfast.” And he stepped out the door and left me standing in the elevator, riding up to the tenth floor alone.
Complete and utter defeat, worse than a bad hair day with three nails split.
Chapter 32
BONG, TENTH FLOOR. I walked to my room on autopilot, chastising myself that I had taken the initiative and failed miserably. On the other hand, I now had one more incentive to close the case, and quickly!
The lock, the key and me had a disagreement and I clumsily fought to open my room door.
Wise Uncle Mortimer, my teacher and mentor, had told me once, “Should you ever be discovered while on the job—Act. If you are in the middle of cleaning the safe and the light goes on and you see the master of the house with sleepy eyes—you act. You don’t stand rooted to the spot and you sure don’t freeze. Instead, you run, you scream, you fight, whatever. You act to keep the upper hand of the situation. Because whenever you act, the other party has to re-act. You act!”
So I did and it probably saved my life. I had opened the door of my room, took one step inside, the light of the corridor throwing a beam on the bed and the nightstand. My hands were feeling for the light switch while my left foot was still pushing the door.
Suddenly the door was pulled open much faster than I expected, my first initial thought was ‘Someone else is in the room.’ And my second thought was—Act!
I jumped forward just as something heavy came down on me, hitting me on my back instead of my head, hurting like hell. While I jumped, my back burning from pain, I grabbed the small lamp on the chest and threw it backward, ripping the chord out of the wall. I made it to the bed, leaped over it, grabbed the chair from the writing desk and held it up to give me some room. With my free right hand, I lifted the phone receiver, pressed ‘1’ and hoped that it was the reception number.
Not too much light in the room, the door to the corridor and some light was shining in from the window. The dark shadow was kicking the door shut, reducing visibility to mere shadows and shapes and started charging at me. My 120 pounds were nothing to stop a fully-grown man with 200 pounds, so I cut my losses, hurled the chair at his legs and caught his knee. His right leg gave away temporarily and he let out a painful grunt. I rolled over the bed again, back to the door and started to scream at the highest pitch I could manage. The shadow stumbled and I heard him pick up the chair. No way to make it to the door in time without getting hurt. I quickly turned right; the chair was sailing past me, crashing into the drawer—close call. I heard steps and breathing coming from behind. The bathroom or the window? Did the bathroom have a window? I couldn’t remember.
“Don’t think, act,” I heard Uncle Mortimer’s voice.
To confuse the issues, I stopped suddenly from a full run, crouched and rolled back. The shadow couldn’t stop in time and ran into me, stumbling over, crashing into the suitcase rack, limbs flying in all directions. I stood up, his hands were coming up already; he almost had me and he grabbed for my legs. He was getting up quickly, too quickly, but I was past him, toward the window.
I jumped against the closed curtains, crashed through the window, frantically clutching the curtain, the thick fabric protecting me against cuts.
Tenth floor, night air. I was dangling on my room curtains from the tenth floor, a glass shower raining down into the hotel backyard. It was as if someone had suddenly switched on the sound again. I could hear the falling glass shards making tickling noises on the ground, angry voices from down there, motors and horns from the street.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t make it d
own one floor but had to grab the windowsill and made my way out on the small ledge, which was about a foot wide. Piece of cake for a cat burglar, the equivalent of a German autobahn.
Carefully breathing in and out, I got up slowly, pressed my back to the wall and looked to the left, where I expected the face of my shadow assassin to appear at any moment.
My attacker announced himself by rustling with the curtain fabric and making crunching noises on the broken glass that had fallen into the room. I held my breath, my heart beating louder and louder.
And there he was, carefully peering out the window as if he wasn’t sure whether my window exit had been an accident or not. His mistake. I gave him a kick from my position on the ledge, aimed against his head, careful, not to lose balance. The plan was to mark that sucker for good and maybe to hit him unconscious. Giving me enough time to find another window to leave the ledge or move around the building out of his reach. Both options were good with me, better than to confront the attacker directly. Someone must have heard my screams, the noises of the fight, the breaking of the window, whatever, anything getting attention to my situation and bringing in the cavalry.
Well, call me an overachiever. My assailant stuck his head out of the window, glancing down. Right the second I kicked, the shadow leaned further forward to get a better look down. I didn’t kick his face as anticipated but my foot connected with the middle section of his throat, a noise as if you let out air quickly from a plastic bag. His head snapped up half a foot, came down quickly, and then, by whatever force, his whole upper body came falling forward. There was nothing I could do in my awkward position on the ledge but watch in slow motion as his upper body and then everything else came sliding and reeling out the window, gliding on the smooth ripped curtain fabric with an underlying soundtrack of his desperate wheezing for air and vanishing into the darkness below.
