“We do.”
“Very good. We can talk in my shop.” He led them across the square, behind the church down a narrow street and into an alley to an unmarked door. “I knew you’d never be able to find my little shop. I’m actually a lawyer by day. The shop is in the basement of our law offices. Furniture restoration is a hobby of mine. It helps me relax.”
The moment he opened the door and led them down a short flight of steps, they were hit by the scent of sawdust mixed with tung oil. “This is my latest project.” He stopped to show them a dark walnut armoire with an intricate geometric pattern carved into the doors, reminiscent of a Gothic church. “French. From the nineteenth century,” he said, leading them past the armoire to a small office area filled with bookshelves, a desk, and on the wall over the desk, a painting of a lone wolf in the forest.
He opened the shutters, letting in some light before turning toward them, looking expectant. “So, where is this key?”
59
Sam took a quick glance around the room, noticing two other wildlife paintings, neither of which featured a wolf. He dug the key from his pocket.
Will took it, then sat at his desk, holding it beneath the lamp, examining both sides. “Very nice. It does indeed appear to be similar to the key from another desk that I had the pleasure of restoring . . .” He swiveled his chair around, searching the titles on a bookshelf behind him, then pulled out a volume, Early 19th Century Furniture, turning through the pages until he came to a section filled with photos of old keys.
“I believe,” he said, running his finger down the photos, “we’re looking for Lieschblume’s work. He specialized in locks for the various furniture makers of the time.” He turned the page, scanned it, then turned another, pointing to a photo of a key in the lower right corner of the page. “Here it is. See the very distinct fleur-de-lis pattern stamped on the shaft? That was the trademark of the Lieschblume Locksmith Company at the turn of the early nineteenth century. They supplied locks and keys for high-end furniture. Your particular key,” he said, setting it on the page next to the photo, “appears to be of the same make. What makes your key special, though, are the extra teeth on the bit.” He picked up the key and pointed to the end of it. “More teeth means the lock was slightly more secure than the one your antique dealer showed you from his desk.”
“What do you think it’s from?”
“Hard to say. A desk, a trunk, or maybe a wardrobe. The more decorative Lieschblume keys, such as the one you have, were used almost exclusively for furniture. Very fine furniture, I might add. Not for the commoner, which makes your quest a bit easier.”
“Every little bit helps,” Sam said, glancing over at Remi, who was standing behind Will’s chair, her gaze on his paintings.
“The intricate detailing of the scrollwork on the grip usually had a matching ornamental plate around the keyhole on the furniture piece. They were custom made to the specifications of their clients.” He set aside the key and started turning pages in the book until he reached one filled with writing desks, some with a writing surface that could be closed and locked. He pointed to the decorative plate around the keyhole. “For instance, if we had the key to this desk in hand, we’d see that the design on the bow or grip of the key would match the design on the plate.”
Sam took another look at the key. The scrolling of the grip, in comparison to the one in the book, seemed far simpler. “You’re saying that we could match the pattern in the bow to the decorative plate covering the keyhole? And we might be able to identify the key that way?”
“Exactly. In some cases, they were family crests. In others, simply a commissioned design.”
“Which does us little good unless we know who commissioned it.”
“I can’t be positive, but it reminds me of the crest from the principality of Salm-Salm. Two fish, back-to-back.”
Now that he pointed it out, Sam and Remi could see how the design might be two fishes. “Where would this be?”
“Anholt castle in Isselburg. A little over an hour’s drive from here. If you like, I can call the solicitor on retainer for the Salm-Salm family and explain what it is you’re looking for. We went to law school together. If anyone can get you an audience with the prince, or someone from his house who knows anything about this, he can.”
“We’d appreciate it,” Sam said, picking up the key and placing it in his pocket.
“Thank you for your help,” Remi added. “I think we can find our way out to the square.” She made a beeline to the door.
Sam followed quickly behind his wife. At the end of the alley, Remi turned left. “The square’s the other way,” he said.
“Just want to see something . . .” She stopped in front of a door, reading the placard next to it.
“Entrance to law offices?”
“Interesting . . . Bachman, Dreschler and Dreschler. His name’s not even on here.”
“Junior partner?”
“Or the Guard? You did notice that wolf painting, right?”
Sam was already heading back down the alley, looking through the basement window to see what Will was doing. But there he was, whistling away as he hand-sanded the side of the armoire.
—
SAM PARKED IN a gravel lot, and the two walked toward the park-like grounds, catching sight of the castle through the trees. The still moat reflected not only the red-bricked castle, and the Baroque gardens to the left of it, but also the dark, threatening clouds above—until the breeze rippled across the water, blurring everything on its surface.
“It’s beautiful,” Remi said.
A light sprinkle started to fall, and Sam looked up at the sky, quickening their pace. “Hope we can find what we need and get out of here before the weather turns.”
They crossed the footbridge, then passed through an arched entry into a courtyard, their footsteps echoing as they walked in. To their right was the wing of the castle that had been turned into a hotel. Directly in front, mounted high on the courtyard wall, was a simplified wrought iron version of the Salm-Salm family crest of two fish, back-to-back. “Just like the key,” Remi said.
Sam looked around and found the tour office to their left. Wilhelm had made arrangements for them to meet up with Laurenz Hippler, who worked on-site and managed the castle grounds for the family. Inside, a middle-aged woman, wearing a white blouse and black slacks, sat behind a glass window, attending a cash register. “Sam and Remi Fargo,” he said. “Mr. Hippler, please. He’s expecting us.”
“One moment,” she replied, picking up the phone and punching the extension. “Herr und Frau Fargo sind hier . . . Danke.” She hung up the phone. “He will be right down.”
“Thank you.”
About one minute later, a gray-haired man, wearing a dark blue suit and tie, came down the stairs from the end of the hall. “Mr. and Mrs. Fargo. A pleasure to meet you,” he said, shaking their hands. “I understand you’re trying to match a key to a piece of furniture? A bit of a mystery, of a sort?”
“We are,” Sam said.
“I spoke with the family and they’ve agreed to let you look. As long as you understand that nothing can be removed from the premises. At least not without their permission.”
“If we find what we’re looking for,” Sam said, “I think a few photos will do.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem. So where is this key?”
Sam took it from his pocket, holding it out to him. “Any ideas what it might belong to?”
The man’s eyes widened slightly as he stared at the key. He looked at Sam, almost in disbelief. “I know exactly what it belongs to.”
60
Sam and Remi followed Laurenz out of the office, down the stairs, then across the castle’s courtyard. He looked over at the key Sam held. “That is amazing. Where did you find it?”
“In Poland,” Sam said, deciding it would be much easier
to keep it vague. “An old Nazi office.”
“Who knows how many Nazis were in and out of the castle in those days. Anyone could have taken it. It does, however, answer the question of what happened to it. During the war, most of the furniture, paintings, and valuables were moved to an underground, shell-proof mine. A wise move, since more than seventy percent of the castle was destroyed during the air raids. As you can see, it’s since been rebuilt.”
“What does the key belong to?” Remi asked as Laurenz opened the door to the castle.
“The writing desk that originally belonged to Marie Christine, sister of Prince Carl Theodor Otto. From the seventeenth century. But a lock was added to it sometime after the First World War. The key has been missing for as long as I’ve been here.”
He led them through a door into a small room with a fireplace whose surround was made of Delft blue tiles, then on past into a library filled with thousands of volumes locked behind glass doors. “I’m only assuming it’s the key since the desk is the only piece of furniture I know of in the castle that is missing one. Here,” he said, stopping in front of a windowed alcove to the left that was barricaded from public access by a velvet rope. Inside was a desk, stationery, and writing instruments, set up to show what it might have looked like centuries ago. “Here it is. Shall we see if it fits?”
Sam handed the key over. Laurenz removed the rope barricade, then stepped around the desk, inserting the key into the lock and turning it. “Perfect fit. Though I’m not sure how this will help you.”
Sam and Remi watched as he opened the drawer, Remi saying, “We need to know what is inside it.”
“The drawer? Empty, I’m afraid. We had a locksmith open it long ago, when they decided to allow tours. I don’t recall anything of value ever being mentioned. Just some of the writing tools you see on the desktop.”
He stepped out of the narrow space so that they could see for themselves. Sam examined the desk, as well as the empty drawer. “Any hidden compartments?” Sam asked.
“I don’t believe so. But feel free to check for yourself.”
Sam felt around inside the drawer, then beneath the desk. “Remi, take a look. You seem to have better luck with this sort of thing.”
Remi took his place but, after a few minutes, shook her head. “Nothing.”
“What is it you’re searching for? I’m familiar with many of the family heirlooms. Perhaps I can help.”
Sam showed him the cell phone photo of the tin.
“That would explain it,” Laurenz said. “The display here was for historical value, as you can see from the pen and ink set. Had they found a typewriter ribbon, they would have either thrown it out or taken it to the office where the typewriter was located.”
“Any chance you have a typewriter and ribbon set up anywhere?”
“Unfortunately, no. You have my curiosity piqued, though. What’s so important about a typewriter ribbon tin? I can’t imagine it’d be worth all that much on the antique market.”
“Probably not,” Sam said. “In this case, it was one of a set of three. We think that, together, the three tins are part of a code or message. Possibly the items were used in some sort of spy operation. We checked for hidden messages on the spools. Nothing.”
“As a history buff, I happen to know a bit about that sort of thing. May I see the photo again?”
Sam brought up the picture, then handed him the phone.
He looked at the tin, his expression one of mild curiosity as he enlarged the picture, staring at it for a few seconds. “Are there more photos of the tins?”
“Several. Feel free to look.”
The man swiped his finger across the screen, accessing the next photo, enlarging it, then moving on to the next, until he’d looked at each in that file. “Interesting . . . It’s definitely not a method I’ve seen . . . but it makes sense . . .”
“What does?” Sam asked, unable to see the actual photos and what he seemed to be focusing on.
“If I had to guess, these tins were chosen precisely because they appeared innocuous. What was your first inclination when you found them?”
“To see what was inside.”
“And not pay attention to the tin itself beyond a cursory glance, no doubt.” He showed them the photo of the underside of one tin. “Pay particular attention to the manufacturer’s stamp on both the tins. At first glance, they appear identical.”
Sam took the phone, noting the small diamond stamped on the bottom. The rust made it difficult to see, but there was definitely something in the center of the diamond. He enlarged it, showing it to Remi. “Numbers.”
“Yes,” Laurenz said. “Now, look at the other.”
Sam swiped through the photos to the second tin from the Project Riese tunnels. The bottom of this one, having been in the desk in the cave, had no rust at all, and it was easy to see what was stamped inside the diamond. “Roman numerals.”
“Exactly,” Laurenz replied. “That is your message.”
“Two-thirds of our message,” Remi said. “We’re still missing the third tin.”
Sam took one last look at the photos before putting the phone in his pocket. “Any idea what it might mean?”
“I can’t help you there.”
Sam shook hands with him. “Definitely more than we knew before we got here. Thank you. We appreciate your time.”
Remi shook hands as well. “At least the key is back where it belongs.”
“For which we’d like to thank you,” Laurenz said. “We have a very nice restaurant that overlooks the water. Take a tour of the castle and stay for lunch. Our treat.”
“As much as we’d like to,” Sam said, “we really have to get going. Thank you again for your time.”
—
SAM CALLED SELMA the moment he and Remi stepped out the door and started walking back to the car.
“The key led to the third tin?” Selma asked.
“No. The key was a red herring.”
“A red herring that saved Tatianna’s life,” Remi chimed in.
“Right as usual, Remi,” Sam said as he eyed her. “But, even better, the manager at the castle noticed differences in the manufacturer’s stamps on the bottoms of the tins. Take a look. See if you can get Pete or Wendy to clean up the rust on the digital images,” he said, referring to Selma’s assistants. “Maybe if we get a clear view of the characters, we can figure out what the code is.”
“Say no more.”
He pocketed his phone, taking one last look at the castle before getting into the car. “Let’s hope they figure it out.”
Remi looked at the map on the car’s navigation screen. “We’re not too far from the Netherlands. Winterswijk is right across the border.”
“Winterswijk—why does that town sound familiar?”
“The Mondrian House museum is there. Really, Sam, how is it you don’t remember these things?”
“Could be the thousands of museums you’ve dragged me through over the years. Mondrian . . . Which artist is he?”
“Primary colors, cubist painter.”
“Don’t we have a Mondrian cow in our kitchen?” Sam asked. A porcelain figurine sat on a shelf above the stovetop.
“You’re trying to change the point,” Remi replied. “I didn’t hear you complaining when we were at the British Museum.”
“That’s different. We were looking for King John’s Treasure. There was a purpose.”
“We’re not too far. Date night in Winterswijk? We could go to the Strand Lodge for dinner. Remember how wonderful the food was?”
Sam suddenly pulled over to the side of the road. “Not this time.”
“What’s wrong?” Remi asked.
“Get Selma on the phone. I just realized what the tins are for.”
61
Wait,” Sam said as Remi started to make the
call. “Make it a videoconference. This is important.”
“Are you keeping me in suspense on purpose?” she asked as the phone rang twice before it was answered, the video screen showing Selma at her desk.
Selma looked up at the camera over the top of her reading glasses, saying, “Mr. and Mrs. Fargo. I hope you’re not calling about the digital image. We’re not that fast.”
“I take it back about the key being a red herring,” Sam said. “If it weren’t for the key, we would’ve never found out that the tins are the key to a code. And why we need all three.”
“That fits with what Lazlo’s been thinking. The information on this Häussler name that Karl and Brand read about in the pilot’s logbook.”
Selma turned the camera so that it included Lazlo, who was sitting next to her at the desk, his attention focused on the paper he was holding. When he didn’t respond, she nudged him with her elbow. “Oh. Sorry,” he said, eyeing the camera. “I believe the chap we’re looking for is one Eckardt Häussler, a cryptographer working with the Allies during and after the war. If this is who Lambrecht was on his way to see, then, yes, it has something to do with a code. Regrettably, one I’ve not yet been able to decipher.”
“I may have the answer,” Sam said as the first few drops of rain splattered against the windshield. “Is it possible the numbers on the tins are part of an Enigma code? Or, rather, the key to the code that was used?”
Lazlo’s brows went up. “You may very well be right.”
“The Roman numerals on the one tin tell us which three of five rotors were used and in what order. The second tin—assuming we can clean up the digital image to read what’s on the bottom—would be the ring settings.”
“And the third?” Remi said. “The one we’re missing?”
The Romanov Ransom Page 23
