The Billionaire's Curse

by Richard Newsome

  The driver blinked.

  “All right, if you don’t want to say you don’t have to,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “Just tryin’ to be polite.”

  They continued in silence until the van pulled into Great Russell Street and came to a halt outside the main gates to the British Museum. Gerald counted out some cash and the driver pocketed the notes and drove off.

  Gerald gazed across the front lawns to the building’s imposing Greek façade, took a breath, and joined the flow of tourists heading toward the main entrance for the ten o’clock opening.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Gerald made his way up the steps and between the towering columns at the museum entrance. He paused beneath the front portico and gazed at a row of statues high above: a lineup of ancient Greeks that stared, marble cold, at the people below. He let the flow of tourists take him inside.

  The museum had just opened and already there was a crowd in the foyer. It was a mixed bunch: parents with children (who would rather be almost anywhere else on their school holidays), a clutch of older folk (filling in time before lunch), and tour groups from all corners of the globe (not really sure why they were there but it was on the itinerary for that morning). Gerald jostled his way through the throng, finally stumbling into an enormous open space—the Great Court. The contrast with the confines of the dark foyer could not have been greater. The huge area was defined by sandstone buildings on all four sides and was filled with natural light that beamed through a vast glass roof high above. Gerald looked up in wonder. A pattern of triangular glass tiles spread out from the center as if a colossal crystal jelly bowl had been upended over the surrounding buildings. For a moment Gerald forgot why he was at the museum, entranced by the spectacle above him.

  He spotted an information desk and wandered across. The man behind the counter was dealing with a dozen flustered tourists who were apparently searching for the Mona Lisa. It looked like he could be some time. Gerald was about to ask a security guard for directions when he spied the police tape.

  The blue-and-white checkered tape was strung across a doorway at the base of a large circular building in the center of the Great Court. A police constable stood at the entrance and a number of people were hanging around, trying to peek inside. Gerald saw two words carved into the stone wall next to the doorway: READING ROOM. The policeman on duty was talking in an exasperated tone to an elderly man.

  “I’m sorry, sir, this area’s off limits to the public at the moment. You can’t go in.”

  The old man screwed up his face.

  “Is this something to do with that diamond robbery?” the man asked, craning his neck across the tape to get a better look. The policeman shuffled sideways to block his view.

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss anything about—”

  The man squinted into the policeman’s face: a pale, podgy face with fine sandy hair that poked out from under his bobby’s helmet.

  “You look familiar,” the old man said. He turned to the even older-looking woman at his side. “Doesn’t he look familiar, then?” he yelled into her ear.

  The policeman recoiled as the woman shoved her prune-like face close to his.

  She declared at the top of her voice, “He’s the copper wot was in the paper.”

  “In the paper?” the old man shouted back.

  “You remember,” the old lady said. “The one with the flowers up his bum!” Clearly quite deaf, the woman could have been heard across the deck of an aircraft carrier.

  The policeman was mortified. His eyes darted about as heads across the Great Court turned. A boy and girl about Gerald’s age wandered up. The boy whispered something in the girl’s ear and they both started giggling.

  The policeman had had enough.

  “Okay. That’s it,” he said, ushering the growing crowd away from the taped-off entrance. “Move along. Nothing to see here. Go on, clear off!”

  The old woman shrugged and, casting a sideways glance in the direction of the policeman’s bottom, placed her hand on the old man’s arm. They tottered off toward the coffee shop.

  “I guess I’d be upset too if I’d had some flowers, you know, up there,” the woman shouted.

  The girl who had been giggling caught Gerald’s eye and smiled. Gerald grinned back. She was a touch shorter than he with short blond bangs and a ponytail.

  A tall man appeared and put his hands on the girl’s shoulders. “Come along, you pair. There’s a lot to see.”

  “Okay, Dad,” the boy and girl answered, resigned boredom in their voices. They headed toward the Egyptian sculptures at the other end of the Great Court.

  Gerald was left standing with the policeman, who was still flustered after his run-in with the elderly couple. He noticed Gerald staring at him.

  “What are you lookin’ at?” the officer demanded.

  “Um, nothing,” Gerald said as innocently as he could. From the corner of his eye he could make out a good deal of activity inside. In the middle of the room at least five people in white overalls were crawling on their hands and knees around the base of a black pedestal. Occasionally, one would stop and pick up something in rubber-gloved fingers and drop it into a clear plastic bag. To one side a group of uniformed police and some men in blue suits chatted and sipped from paper cups. At the very far end of the room, beneath a huge gold clock on the wall, more men in overalls hefted chunks of what appeared to be broken plaster into a Dumpster.

  The police officer at the door shunted in front of Gerald.

  “I said clear off, all right?”

  At that moment, two policemen emerged from the Reading Room and ducked under the blue-and-white tape.

  “Interviewing a prime suspect, are we, Constable Lethbridge?” one asked, smirking.

  Lethbridge swung around but before he could open his mouth the other officer said, “Haven’t you got better things to do than harass innocent children, Crystal?”

  Lethbridge flinched.

  “What’s this?” the first officer asked in mock confusion, winking at Gerald. “Why’d you call him Crystal?”

  “You know…crystal vase.”

  The pair erupted in laughter and sauntered off, leaving Lethbridge seething.

  Gerald decided it was time to find Professor McElderry.

  He went back to the information desk, but it looked like the tourists were still arguing over the whereabouts of the Mona Lisa. He spotted a museum attendant.

  “Excuse me,” Gerald said. “Could you tell me where—” He stopped midbreath. Over the attendant’s shoulder he saw the photographer with the red vest step into the Great Court.

  The snapper had a camera slung over his shoulder and another clutched in his hand. He stood inside the entrance, his eyes sweeping the space like searchlights. His face shone bright with sweat and the thrill of the hunt. Gerald was too stunned to move. He had clean forgotten about his pursuer. And now he was standing barely thirty yards from him.

  The crisscrossing tourist traffic provided Gerald with some cover but he felt painfully exposed.

  “Can I help you?” the museum attendant asked.

  “Um. No, it’s all right,” Gerald mumbled. He looked about, darted across to a large plinth, and slid down behind it. It held a statue of a Roman youth on a horse. Gerald sat with his back against the cold white marble, half wishing he had a horse to escape on. He took a deep breath and poked his head around the corner. The photographer hadn’t moved—he stood feet apart like a big-game hunter waiting for his prey to break cover. Gerald knew there was no way he could get through the museum entrance without being seen. And to go either left or right from his hiding spot would put him out in the open. He thought about staying where he was, sitting behind the statue. If the photographer moved off to one of the galleries on the western side, he could make a dash for the exit. All he needed was a few minutes.

  “Can I help you, young man?”

  Gerald winced. He looked up to find the museum attendant glaring down at him.

&nb
sp; “Um…no,” Gerald said in a hoarse whisper. “I’m quite all right. Thanks.”

  “Well, you can be quite all right somewhere else,” the attendant said. “No sitting on the floor and no leaning against the exhibits!”

  Gerald looked back around the plinth and saw in alarm that the photographer was staring in his direction, watching a museum attendant talking to someone hiding behind a statue. The snapper took a step closer. Then another.

  It was time to act. Gerald leaped to his feet and grabbed the attendant by the arm.

  “Watch out for that guy with the camera,” Gerald said to the bewildered guard, pointing a finger toward the photographer. “He doesn’t look like a tourist to me.”

  Gerald bolted. He glanced over his shoulder just as the photographer spotted him, just as the photographer shouted a loud “Oi!” and broke into a run. And just as the museum attendant stepped forward, extending his hand with a firm, “Not so fast, sir,” they collided in an awkward embrace of arms, legs, and tangled camera straps.

  Gerald slid sideways through a doorway and almost tripped as his feet met a floor of uneven wooden boards.

  At the end of a long narrow room he saw an exit sign and made for it. Galleries flashed past as Gerald bounced and weaved his way between exhibits and people. He rounded a corner and ran down a flight of stairs. He flung himself against a wall inside a small alcove on a landing, pressing his back into the bricks and gulping in air. He waited. A few tourists wandered by, as well as a cleaner pushing a trolley loaded with mops and brooms. But there was no sign of the photographer.

  Gerald’s breathing eased and he bent down to rest his hands on his knees. He wasn’t even sure why he was bothering to run away. It was only some guy wanting to take a few photos for a newspaper. It wasn’t like any real harm was being done. But it bugged him. No one cared who he was last week. He hadn’t done anything special. So why should anyone care who he was this week? He couldn’t put his finger on it. It just bugged him.

  The cleaner rolled his trolley past again and Gerald caught a whiff of cleaning fluid. That smell, he thought. Where have I…?

  Four bony fingers and a thumb dug deep into the flesh of Gerald’s left shoulder. A strong hand wrenched him upright, almost yanking him off his feet. A searing pain shot down Gerald’s side. The acrid stench of bleach burned into his throat. Through the pain jolting into his shoulder, Gerald felt something brush against his cheek.

  “Mr. Wilkins,” a voice hissed into his ear. “We need to talk.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Gerald could barely open his eyes. His shoulder felt like it would dislocate. He balanced on the tips of his toes, desperate to stop the torture. But the agony was relentless, hot like a blowtorch.

  “Would you like me to stop?” the voice rasped.

  Gerald nodded through his pain.

  “Very well. But do not make a sound or try to run. Or things will get very much worse.”

  The thin man twirled Gerald around with his gloved hand, like a spider spinning its prey in a web. Gerald danced on his toes, unable to fight back. The thin man’s head was almost touching Gerald’s face.

  “Do you understand?” he whispered. With each syllable his thumb twisted deeper into Gerald’s shoulder.

  Gerald gasped and nodded. At last, the thin man released his grip. Gerald’s knees buckled and he stumbled forward. He grabbed at his shoulder with his right hand. His left arm hung, useless.

  Gerald looked up. The thin man’s eyes were hidden behind the same sunglasses that he was wearing at the airfield a few days before.

  “You are in very real danger, Mr. Wilkins,” the man said softly. “No one knows where you are. No one has seen us here. And even if they had, to a casual observer we are just another pair of museum patrons. There have been no raised voices, no outlandish struggles. I have merely been talking with you whilst laying a caring hand on your shoulder.” He paused, tipping his head. “How is your shoulder?”

  Gerald peered into the sunglasses.

  “Who the hell are you?” he spat. “What do you want?”

  The thin man stooped and looked Gerald in the eyes.

  “The same thing I wanted from your great-aunt.” His strange voice raised the hairs on the back of Gerald’s neck. “Information. The information that she refused to give me.”

  The thin man stretched out a hand and ran his index finger over Gerald’s throbbing shoulder. “And look what happened to her.”

  Gerald gagged. What was he saying? Was this the man who’d killed Great-Aunt Geraldine? He stepped back—thought of running. But before he could move, a bony hand shot out like a bolt from a crossbow and grabbed his shoulder again. It took only the slightest touch to squeeze a whimper from Gerald.

  Lean lips drew tight across two uneven rows of yellowed teeth. “I want to know where the diamond casket is,” the thin man whispered, clenching Gerald’s shoulder hard. “And I want you to tell me now!”

  A jolt of pain shot across Gerald’s back.

  “I…I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he panted, his eyes awash. “I don’t know anything about any diamonds. Or any casket.”

  The thin man’s face was as expressionless as any statue in the museum.

  “You wouldn’t lie to me, Mr. Wilkins?” His thumb pressed deeper into Gerald’s shoulder. Gerald took a sharp breath and shook his head in an urgent spasm. The first tear rolled down his cheek. The thin man regarded it without emotion.

  “Tell me, Mr. Wilkins,” he said. “Did your great-aunt leave you any messages? Any notes or letters?”

  Gerald nodded. He couldn’t help it.

  A corner of the thin man’s mouth curled upward, just the merest fraction.

  “Most interesting,” he said. “They are at your house? Let us go then, you and I, on a little journey.”

  The thin man turned Gerald around and guided him to the bottom of the staircase. Gerald, slumped and crestfallen, shuffled across the floor. He felt sick. It was like a black void had opened inside him, all his feelings draining into life’s sewer. He was thousands of miles from home, alone in a strange city and held by a man who may well have murdered his great-aunt. If he murdered Geraldine, what will he do to me?

  The thin man pressed his shoulder as they rounded a corner. The exit to Montague Place at the rear of the museum was in front of them. To Gerald’s astonishment, so too was a policeman. His eyes widened when he recognized it was the same one he’d seen outside the Reading Room.

  Constable Lethbridge stood in a courtyard outside the museum, on the other side of a set of glass doors. He was leaning against a large plant pot, holding his helmet in one hand and drawing on a cigarette. He must be taking a break, Gerald thought. If I can just make a run for him.

  Something sharp jabbed hard into Gerald’s ribs.

  “Mr. Wilkins,” the thin man breathed, “are you familiar with the stiletto blade?”

  Gerald froze. His back arched as the thin man pushed harder on a long pencil-thin dagger.

  “The stiletto is a marvelous thing,” the thin man whispered, his top lip curling in a tight snarl. “Much favored by assassins. The blade is very thin indeed but extremely strong. It can pierce clothing, flesh, muscle…heart. But it leaves almost no sign on the skin. The victim falls to the ground, as if in a faint. By the time a doctor arrives, the lungs have filled with blood and the target has drowned in his own vital fluids. Most effective.”

  Gerald stared straight ahead. Constable Lethbridge was less than ten yards away. And there was nothing he could do to reach him.

  The thin man leaned even closer, pressing the dagger right through the fabric of Gerald’s shirt until the point nicked his skin.

  “We are going to walk out this door, past this policeman, and away. Who knows, Mr. Wilkins? You may live to enjoy that fabulous fortune of yours.”

  Gerald pushed the heavy glass doors and he and the thin man stepped outside the museum. Lethbridge was only a dozen paces in front of them. The policeman
cocked his head back and blew out a stream of smoke. His face was drawn and tired. He inspected the cigarette end, then flicked the butt onto the ground.

  Gerald and the thin man were now just steps away. Lethbridge patted his pockets, in search of another cigarette. He paused and looked at Gerald’s face. Gerald’s eyes beseeched Lethbridge to do something. To stop them, to ask the thin man for a light, anything. But Lethbridge went on rifling his pockets. Gerald was pressed forward, the stiletto pricking his back.

  “Tony! Tony Valentine!”

  A girl’s voice rang across the courtyard. Gerald came to a sudden halt, right beside Lethbridge. The thin man bustled into the back of him. The policeman raised his head from a veil of smoke, to see what the ruckus was.

  “Tony! Where have you been? Dad’s been worried sick.”

  Gerald looked in surprise as a girl with short blond bangs and ponytail ran up and grabbed him by the elbow. He recognized her at once—she and her brother had been giggling at Lethbridge outside the Reading Room.

  “Come on,” the girl said. “We’ve still got loads to see inside.” She turned her back on Lethbridge and the thin man and flashed her eyes at Gerald. Gerald stood stunned.

  “Uh…yes,” he responded at last. “Lots to see.”

  The girl tugged Gerald’s hand. The thin man still clutched Gerald’s other arm. The girl yanked harder, and before Gerald was caught in a tug of war in front of the policeman, the thin man loosened his grip. Gerald pulled free. The thin man’s lips tightened.

  “My cousin,” the girl explained to Lethbridge with a laugh. “He’s always wandering off.” She strengthened her hold on Gerald. “Come along, silly.”

  She wrapped both her hands around Gerald’s wrist and skipped toward the museum doors. Gerald went gladly, leaving the thin man fuming next to a confused-looking Constable Lethbridge.

  The pair burst back into the museum and bolted toward the safety of the Great Court, leaving the glass doors juddering on their hinges. The place still teemed with people.