by K. T. Tomb
“I suppose,” Thyri said. “However, you never denied your fervor for putting competitors out of business.”
“Very true,” he said again, in an even more arrogant tone. “Putting competitors out of business, and in some cases in a position to never recover, is a time-honored tradition in my family. It started with the Fabers—do you know that story?”
Seeing the women’s blank looks, he continued, “I thought perhaps not. The Faber family ran a rival newspaper back when Maximilian Liebowitz and the others started their firm. At that time, astrology and paranormal explanations for events was all the rage the world-round. Faber had an idea, then, to implement a paranormal column in his paper. Since we had a much larger volume of the market share, we took his idea and beat him to press with it. Copyright laws were virtually nonexistent then, so it was perfectly legal. Sales boomed and Faber’s publication went under in a matter of weeks,” he said, with evident pride.
Thyri made a mental note of the name, but Savannah responded almost instantly, and the note was lost.
“What are you getting at?” Savannah asked directly.
“What I am saying is that while you are correct that we do our very best to get rid of the competition, we do so legally. Is that not the capitalist ideal that you Americans so valiantly try to implement the world over? A laissez-fare market?” Liebowitz replied.
“I suppose it is,” Thyri said, taken aback at the man’s imperious manner. “However, it doesn’t always make it right.”
“Right,” argued Liebowitz, “is a matter of perception. What is right for my business is most certainly not right for my competitors. That being said, I suggest you take a different approach in your investigation. I do not have the vases, nor would I stoop to kidnapping and ignorant thievery. The way the vases were taken was lazy and unplanned. It worked, luckily for the thieves, but it is simply not my style.”
“I disagree,” Thyri said, finally thankful for an opportunity to hold a winning hand. “You sent James after us; two women in the street. Why?”
“That careless oaf,” Liebowitz muttered under his breath. “I explicitly told him not to get caught. You are correct. I did send him after you, and I would have considered it a tragedy had either of you had been hurt. I was only hoping to get to any information that you may have. I am more than willing to cooperate and to help coordinate investigative efforts. As a sign of my willful cooperation, I suggest you look into the curator of the museum where the vases were previously kept. If my assumption is correct, you and the Adventurers will investigate my family and the Gaston family. Gaston is clumsy and lazy enough to try a stunt like the one that was pulled. However, he is also a degenerate pig, and if he had gotten the vases, they would be on the market already. So I doubt that line of investigation will prove fruitful. However, going back to my earlier suggestion, I would try the curator. Now, I have other business to attend to, and they are somewhat urgent matters, so if there is nothing else?”
Neither Thyri nor Savannah said anything.
“I thought not. Good day, then. The butler will show you out.”
The two women got up and walked toward the door of the sitting room. They were quickly escorted back out the front by the butler, who offered them a driver and car while they were in Luxembourg. They politely declined, knowing full well that their every word and movement in the presence of Liebowitz’s employees would end up almost immediately in his ear.
Thyri and Savannah made their way back to the café.
“Well,” said Thyri, “I’m convinced he didn’t steal those vases. But he may as well have said, ‘Good luck. I’ll get to them before you do, and if I do, you’ll never see them again.’ I think that he pointed us toward the curator on purpose. He wants us to waste time checking something out while he deals with a very good lead—one he thinks is definitely worth looking into.”
“What’s our next move then?” Savannah asked. “I thought for sure that pompous prick would be our guy; so secure in his own superiority. I’m glad I didn’t hit him.”
“That,” said Thyri, “is something Fiona would have done and it would have opened a whole Pandora’s box that we can certainly do without.”
At the mention of their late compatriot, the women walked the rest of the way in silence back to the café where they sat and ordered coffee over which to discuss the case.
Chapter Six
“Is it time to go yet?” Adam asked for the umpteenth time.
“Not quite,” Travis replied, amused at Adam’s eagerness. “I never pegged you for the type that gets a kick out of the cloak-and-dagger stuff,” he ribbed his buddy.
“Look, I love what I do. But sometimes antiques are boring and let’s just say that Alpha Adventurers' missions seem to always be… well, so adventurous.”
Travis sighed in mock exasperation. Adam didn’t have a clue what they be getting themselves into.
“Look, it took us about two hours to get there last time. The way that place was set up, there’s got to be a neglected back entrance we can get through. We’ll leave the car on the street, hike up the driveway, and sneak in the back. By the time we’re in the house, it’ll be around midnight. Hopefully—and that’s a big hopefully—those two degenerates will be passed out and we’ll have the place to ourselves.”
“Ok, ok,” Adam agreed in a fit of impatience. “It’s gotta be close to the time we can leave though, right?”
“We’ve got to kill about an hour,” Travis said. “Normally I’d suggest going to the bar, but…”
Travis was only marginally recovered from his incapacitating battle with alcoholism, and he had not had a drink in a long, long time. He had no desire to go back to that time in his life, but the beast was always there, lurking in the background, trying to encourage him that one glass of wine or one bottle of beer would not be that bad.
It’s a constant battle. Constant vigilance—like they say in AA. Still kinda weird they stole a Harry Potter line, but hey, it works, he thought to himself.
Meanwhile, he turned on the TV in the hotel room they were sharing, and huffed in disgust. “It’s always soccer,” he complained. “It’s the middle of the winter, and we can’t even get one NFL playoff game.”
“That’s Europe for ya,” Adam mused out loud. “Completely bloody backwards.”
Adam had used what Travis thought was a phrase Fiona would have appreciated. It seemed to him that every time he was about to do something marginally stupid, the philosophy of WWFD popped into his head—What Would Fiona Do? He used the moniker as a way to question what he thought of as especially stupid ideas when he could not think of anything better to do, or a better way to do what he knew needed doing. While not especially afraid of physical confrontation—which he accredited to his time spent learning various martial arts—he had every desire to avoid being shot again.
Breaking into a known drug user’s home seemed like a good way to get shot, and he vehemently hoped that would not be the case. He also wanted to avoid drawing any police scrutiny as well, knowing that their position in the country was tenuous at best. Thyri was well connected, but he did not think she would be able to get him and Adam out of an international arrest. That would just look too bad, and the reputation of the Adventurers would be badly damaged.
Who would even consider hiring a group of international criminals? he thought, amused with himself.
The time ticked on, much faster than Travis wanted.
That’s always how it goes, though. You look forward to something, time drags its proverbial feet. You want to avoid something, it flies.
He did not voice the thought out loud.
“Alright, let’s go,” Adam said.
He had spent the last twenty or so minutes getting into what Travis thought was a ridiculous outfit.
“What the hell are you wearing?” Travis asked.
“What?” Adam sheepishly replied. “Archer—you know the guy from the cartoon? Always wears a black turtleneck. Since we’re doing the e
spionage thing, I thought it would be appropriate.”
“Fine,” Travis said, “but could you lose that ridiculous hat? And why do you have combat boots? We’re going to have to be quiet—not making noise is kind of the antithesis of military grade combat boots.”
“What?” Adam said, in a jokingly outraged voice. “This coming from the guy who clomps around in cowboy boots all day? Are you going to get bit by a rattlesnake out there? I suppose you also want me to lose the brand-new utility belt I bought then too?” Adam held up a jangling mess of useless gadgets and gizmos.
“Unless you have keys made to open any door in the world, yes,” Travis replied emphatically, ignoring the dig at his choice of footwear. They were the most comfortable things Travis had ever worn; and he didn’t wear them all the time; only when he traveled.
“Fine,” Adam said. “But I’m bringing the lock-pick set and the safe decoder.”
“Fine,” Travis replied, happily surprised at Adam’s unintentional genius. “You can bring those.”
“One more thing,” Adam said, and proudly held up another set of black cargo pants and black turtleneck. “You should wear these.”
Travis promptly put on his coat and walked out of the room.
The drive to the Gaston estate passed without event. The men parked the car and made their way up the drive and around the back, noting that most of the lights in the house were off. They used the weed-infested vineyards to provide extra cover, just in case someone was watching from a darkened room on one of the upper floors.
They arrived at the back of the house, grateful for the tiny sliver of moon and the relatively cloudy night.
“Alright,” Travis whispered, “you take the left side of the house and work your way toward the middle. Look for anything we can use to get in—an open window, a back door, or a cellar, whatever; just be quiet.”
“You don’t have to tell me twice,” said Adam.
The two split up and began searching for an entrance.
This place is a MESS, Travis thought to himself, as he pulled yet another group of vines away from their place on the wall. It’ll be a miracle if we don’t have to blow a hole in the wall to get in. They finally met in the middle, and neither man had found a suitable entrance.
“Ok,” Adam thought out loud, in a hushed whisper. “Let’s go over it again. We’ll start on the left; help me look for anything I may have missed.”
The two men went back to the left side of the house. Adam scoured the ground, looking for the telltale signs of an unused cellar door, while Travis tried to pull the vines away from the bricks in a manner that would not give them away if anyone bothered to look the next morning. Travis almost shouted when he found an old, overgrown window underneath the vines. Adam quickly used a utility knife—something Travis had neglected to bring—to gently slice away the tentacle-like roots of the vegetation barring their way.
Travis reached to pull the window open, when Adam stopped him with a hand.
“Listen. I thought I heard those voices again,” he whispered nervously.
They stood and listened intently for a moment, but they heard nothing. Travis reached for the bottom of the sliding window again, but Adam stopped him a second time.
“That thing is bound to creak,” he said in a hushed voice, while rummaging around in his utility belt. Travis stood by, exasperated.
“We’re going to have to do something—we can’t just stand here with our thumbs up our asses,” he said urgently, in as quiet a voice as possible.
“I know, I know. It’s in here somewhere,” and Adam intensified the search. “Ha,” he said triumphantly, a little too loudly and was immediately shushed by Travis. “Look,” he said more quietly. Adam held up a small aerosol canister of WD-40.
“Adam,” Travis said happily, “I think you’re actually getting the hang of this adventuring thing.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Adam said, enjoying his friend’s praise.
He liberally applied a coating to the window, waited, and applied some more.
“That’s as good as it’s gonna get—this thing is cashed,” he stated.
They slowly lifted the window, alert for any creaks or squeals; equally alert for any sound that could indicate movement within the house. Finally, they got the window open wide enough for both of them to squeeze through, one after the other.
“Should we leave it open?” Adam worried.
“Yeah,” Travis said. “We may need it to get out of here in a hurry.”
They began looking around the house, trying to determine where they were. The dust in the room was virtually undisturbed.
“Shit,” Travis said under his breath. “We’re gonna leave all kinds of footprints in this crap.”
“Well,” Adam said, “that can’t be helped right now. Hopefully no one will notice, and the dust from everything else will settle over any marks we leave before anyone thinks to come in here.”
Travis silently prayed his friend would be right.
“Where do you think we are anyway?” Travis asked Adam in a voice barely above a whisper.
“I think,” Adam pondered, “we’re in an old servant’s kitchen. Basically, this is where they would have cooked the meals for the guests and the family in residence.” He looked around a little more. “Yup,” he said in triumph. “This here is the dumbwaiter. They could send food up or down a couple of levels right from here, too. There’s probably an old pulley system that they could use to direct food to specific rooms as well.” There was an old drawing next to the opening that looked like a ventilation layout that was, in fact, a map of where the dumbwaiter would go, based on using a series of levers to move the tray vertically or horizontally throughout the house.
Travis pulled out his phone and accessed the flashlight app he had downloaded, and quickly scanned the layout. “Ok, game plan,” he said. “We should check out the library, this room here that looks like an office, and this room here that looks like an old records room. D’you want to split up?”
“Nah,” Adam replied, trying to hide his nervous fright. “Safety in numbers and whatnot.”
They proceeded out of the kitchen to a hallway that was also clearly unused, and slowly began to cover the distance to the main part of the house. When they emerged from the corridor, the scene that met them looked like something out of an old film-noir movie. They were in the main room, where they had been entertained a few hours before. Gaston and his girlfriend Beatrice were sprawled out, naked, on a mattress that had been moved into the middle of the room. Wine bottles and a number of different smoking devices were scattered around the inert couple, along with a number of trays with a white residue of what could only be cocaine.
Adam started to say something, but Travis quickly put a finger to his own lips, indicating that he remain silent. What Adam had not noticed was the still cherry-red coal on the top of a hookah sitting on the center table.
They proceeded through the room in quiet, relatively confident that the pair was dead to the world. They made it to their first room of inquiry, the Gaston family library.
This room was richly furnished in old antique hardwood and mahogany furniture. Desks were scattered everywhere, with numerous books open on top of them. The books on the shelves were covered in dust, indicating that the main subject of research was in front of them. They began searching through the piles and stacks of old newspaper clippings, business reports, and biographies. It was evident that the main focal point was the Gaston family itself.
“It looks like Lucas is working toward a little family rediscovery,” Travis pointed out.
“Yeah,” Adam said. “Some of this stuff is old, Trav—is,” Adam barely caught himself from using the shortened, Savannah-only nickname. “It dates back to at least the founding of the family newspaper and publishing firm.”
“Hey,” Travis said. “There’s another family mentioned here—come take a look,” he gestured Adam over with an excited wave of his hand.
&
nbsp; “The Fabers?” Adam said. “I’ve heard that name before.”
“From all these newspaper clippings, it looks as if they ran a rival paper in the same markets that Liebowitz, Rodange and Gaston, Inc. ran theirs,” Travis observed.
“Look at some of these papers.” Adam indicated a stack of old newspapers. “It looks like they were pretty much on par quality-wise as our trio, as well. They must have put up a good fight, but Liebowitz is mentioned as being the final stroke that put them out.”
“Yeah,” Travis agreed, and began taking photos of everything with his phone.
“What are you doing?” Adam asked, slow as usual to pick up on the cue.
“Take pictures with your phone,” Travis said, “and hurry. We can’t take this stuff with us—it’s obviously in use, and would be missed if we pocketed the good stuff. We don’t have the time to do our own research on what’s worth taking and what isn’t, either. I don’t want to get stuck in here either, it's been almost an hour already and we still have two other rooms to check out. They could wake up at any minute. So photograph it, and search through it later.”
“Good thinking,” Adam said, and began snapping pictures.
“Silent mode!” Travis admonished in the loudest voice he dared.
“Right, sorry,” Adam said, and clicked his phone to the silent setting. Once everything had been photographed, they left, and made their way to the records room. It was much the same; however this was mostly business records—invoices, business strategies, records of meetings with suppliers and distributors.
“If I had to take a guess,” Travis thought out loud, “I would say Gaston has a pretty incredible amount of admiration for his forefathers.”
“Yeah,” Adam said, “if he really studied this stuff, and tried to apply it, some of it may work. Maybe he’s trying to rebuild some of the family fortune.”
“Good for him,” Travis said. “We need to photograph this stuff and get out of here.”
They snapped away in silence, and proceeded to the third room. The third room was different. There were computers everywhere—most of them were still on. Everywhere was more research, this time on successful, modern-day media empires.
