Assignment Unicorn

by Edward S. Aarons

  “None that you know of, Saul, right?”

  Dr. Sinberg was not offended. “Without any false modesty, Cajun, I’m one of the best. You know that we give occasionally what you might call pep pills to some of the K Section people in the field. But they are not to be compared with what you’ve been talking about. It’s my business. I tell you, there’s no such superdrug available.”

  “But it could have been developed?” Durell insisted.

  Sinberg frowned. He seemed nervous suddenly.

  “One man,” he muttered.

  “Who?”

  “A biochemist named Alexander MacLeod.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Why, I don't know. But he’s the brother-in-law of our esteemed Finance officer, Joshua Strawbridge, from whom all our cash blessings flow.”

  The clock on the library wall read two-thirty in the morning. Durell did not feel sleepy. The only attendant was a young woman in one of the inevitable smocks worn in the sanitized underground areas of the Fort. The young woman waved a hand vaguely at the banks of microfilm and reader machines and murmured, “Help yourself, sir.”

  “I’d like a book on numismatics,” Durell said.

  “Books? We have only microfilm here.”

  “Any coin catalogs?”

  “No, sir. What would we want with coin collectors in Internal Security?” She grinned. She was very plain-looking, very wholesome. “Charlie Duggan collects British Empire coins, though.”

  “Just what I want. Where can I find Duggan?”

  “He’s a radio technician. He might be in the lighthouse. It’s his duty hour. I happen to know. He’s my boyfriend.”

  “Lucky man,” Durell said.

  “Charlie Duggan?”

  “Are you Durell? Wilderman just called. He wants to see you, pronto.”

  “He can wait.”

  “Sure. But you’ll pay for it.

  Duggan was a stout man in his middle forties. He seemed too old for the girl in the library. It was chilly and damp in the room, and Duggan wore a windbreaker as he watched the oscillating dials and ammeters and voltage regulators set into a metal control bank on his desk.

  “I hear you’re a coin collector, Duggan,” Durell said.

  The man’s head turned. “Of sorts, yeah.”

  “You recognize this?”

  Durell took the gold medallion from his pocket, the one that Colonel Ko had given him from the captured killer in Palingpon. He dropped it on the desk. It made a dull, flat sound, rolled a few inches, and Duggan slapped a hand on it, and then slowly uncovered it.

  “Fake,” he said at once.

  “A copied fake, or a fake design?” Durell asked.

  “It’s a facsimile of a unicorn, a Scottish gold coin. Used to be worth about fifteen shillings, originally. Time of King James.”

  “Which King James?”

  “Well, none of the coins in Scotland had dates in those days,” Duggan said. He seemed interested, and his voice took on a pedantic note. “English coinage was reformed under Henry VIII, who reigned from 1485 to 1509. That’s when the shilling first appeared. Used to be called a testoon, or teston. The word comes from Italian, testa, for ‘head.’ An image of the sovereign of the coin, you see. This fake coin you have here dates before 1662, because milled coinage began then. The first official copper coins, halfpennies and farthings, were issued during the reign of Charles II, 1660-1685.”

  “This isn’t copper,” Durell said.

  “No. Probably silver with a wash of gold over it. Even if it were authentic, it would be worthless with that hole drilled in it. It’s just a copy, probably made as a medallion to be worn on a chain around the neck.”

  “Right,” Durell said. “Was it really called a unicorn?”

  “Sure. There were all kinds of names for coins then —laurels, crowns, groats, guineas, nobles, lions, demys, riders, unicorns, lion nobles, thistle nobles, hat pieces, thistle crowns, unites. Wait a minute.” Duggan opened a desk drawer and took out a powerful hand magnifying glass. “It’s pretty good,” he muttered. “Made from a cast of an original. You can make out Iacobus III—maybe Iacobus IV Dei Gratia, can’t be quite sure. James III, 1460-1488—he put out the first unicorn coins, of gold, showing a unicorn with a shield, coat of arms of Scotland.” He flipped the coin over. “Yep. Reverse shows a star with wavy rays. No dates, of course, at that time. King James also put out silver coinage—I’ve got a couple-a groat with a crowned bust, a billon plack with a crowned lion shield and a floriated cross on reverse. The long cross has a crown in two of the angles and three pellets in each of the other two angles. Got a beautiful specimen of that.”

  “What about this unicorn?” Durell persisted.

  “It’s a fake,” Duggan repeated flatly.

  “Why would anyone make a number of copies of this particular coin?”

  “Search me. Never saw anything like it before. Now, I’ve got a fake billon bawbee with crowned thistles—goes back to James V of Scotland—1513-1542—and a silver testoon, too, that’s really pewter, a counterfeit. But this

  unicorn of yours wasn’t meant as a counterfeit. It's a modern copy.” Duggan looked up. “It’s a curiosity, that’s all. Want to sell it?”

  “No. Why isn’t there any date on it?”

  “I told you, the first dated British coins were struck during King Edward VI’s reign—1547 to 1553. The first silver crown was dated 1551. Showed the king on horseback with a quartered shield on a cross on the reverse. This one was hand-hammered a century earlier. I mean, the original. This copy could have been made today.”

  “By whom?”

  Duggan frowned. “Let’s see—seems to me I recall —wait a minute.” The man put both hands flat on the desk and leaned back, thinking. “Company named Sanderson, Sampson—no, just Sanderson, P.I. Sanderson, Limited. They made copies that sold in Edinburgh as souvenirs. Junk, of course. No real collector would consider them. About ten years ago. Probably out of business by now.”

  “Where was Sanderson located?”

  “London, I think. Funny thing is, this fellow Sanderson has the finest collection of Scottish coins in the world, they say. That’s how I remember it. Real numismatists were shocked when he put out the cheap reproductions.”

  “In London?”

  “That’s what I recall.” Duggan scowled again. “Tell you what, though. Mr. MacLeod would know. He’s got a damned good collection of British Empire coins.”

  “Mr. MacLeod? Alexander MacLeod?”

  “That’s right."

  28

  WILDERMAN had a brightly colored, big-beaked mynah bird on his shoulder. There were birdstains here and there on the Formica desk top, and others on various pieces of furniture. Durell searched out a wooden chair that didn’t seem to have any stains on it.

  Enoch Wilderman looked gray and ill. He had pushed his glasses up on top of his head, into his unkempt gray hair. His rather long nose looked pinched and thin. His angular frame slouched in the leather chair until his pot belly, out of place with his knobby knees, elbows, and narrow hunched shoulders, protruded prominently. He looked professorial, which he was not; his pale eyes looked angry, which he was.

  “You kept that coin from me, Cajun. Your attitude displays a remarkable disdain for authority. Perhaps because you feel your relationship with General McFee gives you some sort of special status here—”

  “No, sir.”

  “Let me see the coin.”

  Durell handed it across the desk. Wilderman scarcely glanced at it, then dropped it into a drawer out of sight. “So you refer to these people as unicorns because of this —uh—medallion?”

  “It’s just a handy tag,” Durell said.

  “And you think the leaks concerning our money transfers come, of course, from Joshua Strawbridge, your Finance officer, eh?”

  “Or someone in his office, yes.”

  “Mr. Meecham and I have been a bit ahead of you. You take on a great deal for yourself. Dr. Sinberg didn’
t give your theory of a new drug much encouragement, did he?"

  “He gave me enough.”

  “You’re thinking of Alex MacLeod, Josh Strawbridge’s brother-in-law? The biochemist?”

  “It’s a Scots name,” Durell said. “The unicorn is a Scottish coin.”

  Wilderman locked his hands over his bulging belly. “Got anything from the girl yet?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Think there’s anything useful in her?”

  “I’m not sure now.”

  “I do not believe the girl, as a lead, will come to anything. It’s already resolved, in any case.”

  “Sir?”

  “The case is being shut down, Durell. There still remains the brooming of the dirt under the carpet, of course. Covering up, for the Congressional committees who may insist on full budgetary explanations in executive session. It can be arranged. These things happen. One cannot hope to exist as a barrel of perfect apples.” Wilderman’s eyes were tired. “What I am saying is that the whole matter is one for ISB now. We’ll clean our own closet. There is no need for you to pursue the matter further.”

  “I’d like to talk to Joshua Strawbridge.”

  “You’re a bit late. Strawbridge vanished forty-eight hours ago. At least, he did not appear here or in the Washington offices. He was due to testify at the current budgetary committee meeting. Congress likes to feel it can control us with pursestrings. It was a fairly important meeting. Mr. Strawbridge had some explaining to do. I had written a full brief for him, but he did not appear. He has not been seen since last Friday.”

  “Any personal problems?” Durell asked.

  “I put our best people on the matter. Josh Strawbridge was a fool. He pilfered from our till. Lived high on the hog. We assumed his life style was his own business, since his wife is independently wealthy. Supposed to be. Now it turns out she never had a cent. He was using K Section money for his sloop, his house on St. Maarten’s, his cars and servants and estate in Virginia. Pitiful. Stupid.”

  Wilderman sat up straighter, but he still looked slumped, a cadaver with a watermelon belly. He said, “You seem dissatisfied, Cajun.”

  “The case isn’t closed yet,” Durell said.

  “For you it is. We can clean up the loose odds and ends, the crap on the floor. You can go back to General McFee for a new assignment.”

  "I'm sorry, but—”

  “Mr. Meecham, the Director, and I concur in the decision.”

  “But what about Joshua Strawbridge‘?

  “He had nowhere to go. He knew that if he ran for it, we’d find him, anywhere in the world. So he killed himself. Blew his foolish, greedy brains out. Early this morning or late last night. We need a new Finance officer now.”

  “Too many loose ends,” Durell protested.

  “They will be tied up. Worry not. You’ve been conscientious and efficient. I’ve recommended you for a higher grade of work, if we need you again.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Durell said.

  Wilderman seemed to have gone asleep, along with his birds. “Do that,” he murmured gently.

  His eyes were closed.

  29

  DURELL left the Fort in the early hours of morning, taking one of the “company” cars, a green Chevrolet, and after checking out through the perimeter guards of the compound, he headed west, came to the opposite side of the Eastern Shore on Route 50, and crossed the bridge over Chesapeake Bay just as the first light of dawn touched the gray waters under him. From U.S. 50 he took Route 301 south, to avoid the complex of beltways and commuter traffic around the District. Even taking byways, it took two hours to reach the small town south of Washington, on the Virginia side of the Potomac, an enclave of quiet and very private estates, all with security guards visible at the brick-columned gateway and a glimpse of Dobermans on patrol through the mist that still clung to the red pines. Durell drove past the entrance to Joshua Strawbridge’s long, long Colonial home, glimpsed the blue of a heated swimming pool from which mist was rising; he turned left, found the village itself and a diner that had just opened, and stopped for breakfast. He noted in the mirror that he needed a shave.

  The local police chief, who came into his office belching his breakfast of sausage and grits, considered Durell with small inimical eyes and tossed Durell’s ID papers back across the desk to him.

  “Another one of them muckedymucks,” he grunted.

  “Just following things up, Chief,” Durell said.

  “Can’t help you. Everything’s said and done.”

  “Just go over it again for me.”

  “What’s to go over? Mr. Strawbridge shot himself. Shoved his twenty-gauge into his mouth and toed the trigger. Got both barrels. Blew his head off. Tough.”

  “Hell, yes. Fingerprints and all. Clothing. No question about identity. Question is why. Never could figure such cases out. Motive, I mean. Rich, good government job, everything a man could want. You know why such men do it?”

  “Maybe because they haven’t anything else to go for.”

  “Yeah.” The police chief belched again. “Maybe.

  Why are you tellers so interested?”

  “Well, he worked for the government, as you said.”

  “Seems like everybody works for the government around here. I’m the only one payin’ honest taxes.”

  “When did he do it? When was Strawbridge found?”

  “It’s all in the reports here.” The chief shoved a manila folder containing glossy photographs and typed forms across the desk. “Guess you’ve seen copies of that, right?”

  “Is Mrs. Strawbridge at home now?” Durell asked.

  “Why?”

  “I want to talk to her.”

  “Mighty fine lady. She’s been talked to enough.”

  “One more time,” Durell said.

  “Not until noon. She ain’t due back from the District until noon. I already checked.”

  “I’d like to borrow one of your cells,” Durell decided.

  “What in hell for?”

  “I want to sleep in it.”

  The chief shrugged. “Fine by me. Help yourself. We got five of ‘em, all empty. Take your choice.”

  According to the report in the folder, Joshua Strawbridge had indeed shoved his fine English 20-gauge between his teeth and blown his head off, spattering brains and part of his skull against the wall behind him. It had happened the night before, in the bathhouse-gameroom, a separate structure on the other side of the Olympic-size pool from the main house. Oddly, no one had heard the blast. It was James’s night off—Durell leafed through the folder and saw that James had an airtight alibi—and Mrs. Laura MacLeod Strawbridge regularly took two, perhaps three, Seconals for sleeping, so she had slept right through it all.

  There was no suicide note.

  Strawbridge had apparently gone for a midnight swim in the heated pool, had a few drinks of sour-mash bourbon, the analysis said, nothing foreign in the liquor, and then gone to the bathhouse, hit a few balls aimlessly on the billiard table, and gone to the big shower stall after picking up his shotgun, and blown himself out of everything.

  It looked final. It was complete. Strawbridge indeed might have arranged the raids in Palingpon and Rome and elsewhere. And used the loot in an effort to conceal his peculations. Strawbridge had been the only reasonable suspect for the leak that informed the unicorns of when and where funds were being transferred. So it was only robbery and murder, not a scheme to undermine national intelligence operations. So it was a dead end. All tied up.

  But Durell did not buy the package.

  Laura MacLeod Strawbridge was medium. Everything about her was average: her height, features, brown hair, figure. Grooming and exercise made her look chic, but she was plain. She was tired and still shocked and had enough strength to be patient.

  “What more can you want to know about Joshua, MI. Durell?”

  “At the moment, I’m more interested in Alexander MacLeod, Mrs. Strawbridge.”

  �
��My brother? Why?”

  “Will he be coming over for the funeral?”

  “How did you know he’s out of the country?”

  Durell said, “Scotland, isn’t it?”

  She waved a vague hand. “Somewhere.”

  “Have you notified him about your husband’s death?”

  “No. We have not been in touch. I wouldn’t know where to contact him.”

  “But he lived here for a time, didn’t he?”

  “Oh, yes.” Vague brown eyes drifted, swooped up and down. “Would you like to stay for lunch, Mr. Durell?

  “Thank you, I’ve eaten. Did he do any work for your husband?”

  “Who?”

  “Alex MacLeod, your brother.”

  “Oh, no. He had his own research. It absorbed him completely.”

  “Biochemistry?”

  “Something. He was brilliant. He stayed with us over a year. He set up laboratory facilities over there.” She waved loosely toward the sunlit pool.

  “In the gameroom?”

  “It was a laboratory then, for Alex. It’s all been done over, you see.”

  “Alex was a bit strange about it, wasn’t he?”

  “Strange?”

  “Involved in his work, and all.”

  “He was a good brother to me. He made a lot of money on his pharmaceutical patents. He was very generous to me—to Joshua and me. That’s how we bought the place in the Virgin Islands. And the yacht. Josh loved sailing.”

  Durell said, “Off the record, Mrs. Strawbridge, and on a personal note—did your brother collect coins?”

  “Coins? Oh, yes.”

  “He was a collector, was he not?”