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MEET RANDY KNOWLES�" THE PSYCHIC DETECTIVE
His mind is a weapon against crime�"his powers of ESP and astral projection are the only ammunition he needs to solve a case.
RANDY KNOWLES is a unique blend of physical and mental perfection�"a man whose abilities are sought after by the rich and powerful, but who would never turn away an interesting case.
RANDY KNOWLES had solved many tough puzzles in his career, but the mystery of THE UNICORN was so bizarre�"and so dangerous�"that it would push his great powers to the furthest frontiers of the occult.
OTHER MANOR BOOKS BY HANS HOLZER
THE TRUTH ABOUT ESP
PSYCHO-ECSTASY PSYCHIC INVESTIGATOR THE PROPHETS SPEAK THE HANDBOOK OF PARAPSYCHOLOGY
HANS HOLZER
PSYCHIC DETECTIVE:
THE UNICORN
In memory of Gus, and in friendship for his family.
A MANOR BOOK.....1976
Manor Books, Inc. 432 Park Avenue South New York, New York 10016
Copyright, 1976 by Hans Holzer All rights reserved Printed in the U.S.A.
Chapter 1
"How much do you want for the entire lot," the portly gentleman asked, his voice artificially, calm, nevertheless betraying the suppressed emotion underneath. Subdued sunlight shone through the large, old fashioned windows of the little antique shop on High Street. The light played with the gentleman's carefully tailored jacket, added additional stripes to his Old School tie, and finally came to rest on a very heavy signet ring adorning the man's hand. There was a well groomed look about him, as he stood there in the little antique shop, obviously a man of impeccable background and financially secure. On a little table before him were half a dozen documents, spread out helter-skelter, two or three of them still rolled up, the rest spread out but still showing, by their continuing curvature, that they had been rolled up for long periods. Even a layman could see that they were old documents of sorts.
"How much for the lot?" the gentleman asked again, somewhat more impatiently. His question was addressed to a short, squat man in his late sixties or early seventies, dressed in a kind of housecoat and quite obviously the owner of the shop. Behind this man there were rows upon rows of old books, interrupted from time to time by little statuary and an occasional piece of china. To the two sides of the little table various antiquities and antiques were stored in the irregular and somewhat irresponsible fashion of a truly interesting antique shop. There was, first of all, the inevitable large clock, ready to chime just as soon as the customer showed an interest in it; the unavoidable pair of Staffordshire porcelain dogs, looking the customer dead eye into the face. Further on, the little shop showed stacks of additional books, and walls adorned with a mixture of eighteenth century swords and nineteenth century rifles, one or two of them evidently imported from Arabia and the rest just plain European.
"Yes, Mr. Pitt," the shopkeeper replied, "you want to know how much for the lot." "Indeed," Mr. Pitt replied and waited, pointedly. Mr. Anguish, the owner of the little antique shop was plainly in a quandary. On the one hand he knew perfectly well that the little group of old documents and maps which his customer had selected did not cost him more than perhaps a pound or thirty shillings at best. He knew this because he also knew what he was in the habit of paying for such material. Not that he carried any of it in his books, as a matter of fact, his books were largely in his head. It would have been an easy thing to set a price for the six old documents selected by his customer, if it were someone other than Mr. Pitt. But Mr. Anguish was a true antique dealer: he knew perfectly well that prices depended upon the customer's financial circumstances. It wasn't a question of what the item was worth. What the customer was worth, that was the question. Mr. Pitt was by no means a new customer. He had done business with Mr. Anguish for at least five years, ever since he came to Werrick. There weren't many antique collectors in the little town of Werrick on the East Anglian coast. As a matter of fact, Mr. Anguish had only made about six or seven sales all year. But Mr. Pitt was forever rummaging through his documents, looking at his old maps, now and again buying something, usually at a lower price than what Mr. Anguish had in mind. It had thus become a necessity for him to figure out in advance how much he would be willing to take and then ask for four times that sum in the hope that he would eventually wind up with his original price. Evidently, Mr. Pitt enjoyed bargaining, despite the fact that he could well afford to pay Mr. Anguish's price. But alas, Mr. Anguish sighed mentally, the richer the collector, the less they are willing to pay full prices. Mr. Pitt was of course a prime example of this lamentable state of affairs among collectors. Oh, Anguish knew very well who his customer was. In so small a town as Werrick nobody goes unnoticed for more than half an hour. It was about five years ago that Mr. Pitt first appeared in town, looking for a property, apparently regardless of price. After he had been in Werrick for several days, and had been taken around by the local real estate men, word had gotten around in the pubs that Mr. Pitt was a rich widower bent on settling down on the East Anglian countryside, to get away from it all. About a week after his arrival in town, Mr. Pitt bought the largest and most important manor house within fifty miles: Corley Hall, once the seat of the Newton family, lately empty, ever since the last dowager countess of Newton had died. The property included the manor house, with some twenty or twenty-five rooms, a gardener's cottage, and sundry out buildings as well as sixty-five acres of ground, much of it along the coast. Quite obviously, anyone buying such a property would have to be well-heeled, and Adam Pitt certainly was. Within a matter of hours after word of the purchase had gotten around town, Mr.
Anguish, who in addition to running the little antique shop was also an extremely curious man, knew where Mr. Pitt's money came from. His good friend, Charles Olman, reporter and only editor of the local weekly paper, The Observer, looked it up in his morgue: Mrs. Pitt had been the daughter of Sir Hubert Groves, steel manufacturer and multimil-lionnaire. Margaret Pitt, it appeared from contemporary news stories, had died suddenly as the result of a skiing accident some six months before Mr. Pitt first appeared in Werrick Although an excellent skier, Mrs. Pitt had nevertheless ventured out too far on a skiing holiday with her husband, and fallen down a dangerous slope on one of the highest mountains in Switzerland. By the time her body was recovered, she had frozen to death. It appeared at the time that the Pitts had no children, and the considerable fortune left to Margaret Pitt by her father, who had died some two years before the accident, then went to Mr. Pitt. Mr. Pitt was only identified as financier. The newspaper article also mentioned that he was regarded as something of a sportsman, having a strong interest in certain stables at Ascot, and that his London residence' in Belgrave Square was one of the great showplaces of the city, filled, as it was, with many.fine antiquities and,works of art. Under the circumstances Mr. Anguish looked forward to making a useful contact, and just as soon as he could, he sent his card up to Corley Hall, indicating that he would welcome the new owner's visit to his little shop. That visit took place two or three days later, and it was then that Mr. Anguish realized for the first time that dealing with Mr. Adam Pitt would be by no means a quick and easy way to making a fortune. During the following years, he did manage to sell Mr. Pitt quite a few things from his shop. There were several sets of porcelain dogs, a large assortment of Chinese and Tibetan Buddhas, which appealed to Mr. Pitt particularly, it would seem, for he bought some sixty or seventy of them, putting most of them into one room of his large house. Then there was the Queen Anne chest, a valuable piece indeed, which Mr. Pitt bought for only slightly less than the asking price and finally that strange piece of tapestry, which Mr. Anguish had bought at auction in Yarmouth a long time ago and which had been in his shop ever since. For some unknown reason, this tapestry, depicting the traditional English Lion and the Unicorn, had cost him five pounds originally, but Mr. Pitt paid him fifty for it, quite contrary to his usual custom of trying to get the price down. Mr. Anguish gave it no further thought except that perhaps he had bought a bargain in the first place.
"How about fifty pounds," Mr. Anguish said, firmly, or as firmly as he could make himself sound. Not a penny under twenty-five I'll take, he thought simultaneously. Mr. Pitt did not say anything. He lifted up two or three of the documents, looked at them again as if he were re-examining them, then shook his head. "Too much," he replied and turned away from the documents, pretending to look at the clock to the left. Mr. Anguish, of course, knew this maneuver only too well. It was Mr. Pitt's way of trying to divert his attention from the matter at hand. He'll pay the twenty-five, possibly even thirty-five, he mused. "Fifty pounds is very little, sir," Anguish replied and stood firm. "Very well then, how about just those three," Pitt said, and separated the three documents from the other four he had selected originally. Ah ha, Anguish thought, somewhat amused, he is now trying method number two. Divide and Conquer. Now he will ask, how much for just the three, and then two, and finally how much for the one he really wants. "Forty pounds," Anguish said straight faced. He knew it was too much, but he also wanted Pitt to know that he saw through his little game. A distant train whistle interrupted the negotiations. Suddenly Adam Pitt realized that he was wasting precious time. An important visitor was due on the 5:40 train from London. Hastily, he said, "Very well, forty pounds for the lot, that is my final offer." Anguish knew when it was time to let his customer think he had won the battle. He nodded. A moment later Adam Pitt stepped out of the little shop on High Street, the seven documents safely tucked under his arm. As yet he had only a vague idea of what he had found, but the excitement of discovery was again upon him, more than it had ever been before in his whole life. From time to time, the collector in Adam Pitt had found rare and unusual items, enjoyed the surprise of discovering such things in places where they had not been properly appreciated. There was that certain map in this lot which had gotten him excited to begin with. It looked familiar all right but closer inspection would have to wait until after he had seen his visitor. Quickly he entered his waiting Jaguar, driven by a thin, tall and inscrutable chauffeur named Bangs. Bangs never spoke much, but he had a way with people by just staring at them and making them do what he wanted. There was something about Bangs that frightened people, or perhaps it was because of his taciturn character. Pitt merely nodded without saying a single word. It meant, home. Ten minutes later the comfortable Jaguar rolled up the driveway that leads to Corley
Hall. Quickly leaving the car at the main gate, Pitt told the chauffeur to go and fetch his expected visitor from the railroad station, which lay in the opposite direction.
There was just enough time to do this, he ki^.ew, for he had wanted to be home ahead of his visitor. Hurrying up the stairs from the entrance hall, past a richly paneled library and a rather longish reception room downstairs, Pitt turned right at the top of the marble stairs and continued on to his bedroom. The first floor of the Hall contained seven bedrooms on each side of the stairs, some larger some smaller. There was a second story above it, containing the servants quarters, and a wing that had been closed for years, nobody really knew what was in it. The main floor of the Hall, in addition to the reception room, and a large Victorian drawing room, also contained a workroom in which Mr. Pitt liked to go over his finds. Then there was the basement, the cellar, but other than that it was very large, very little was known about that part of the Hall in town. The staff at the Hall consisted of Mrs. Berries, the cook, a lady in her late fifties, Janet the maid, about twenty, and Bullets, the gardener, about sixty and completely dedicated to the idea of restoring the grounds to their former splendor, which they lost to a marked degree during the years when the former owner of the Hall was unable to care for them.
Quickly entering his bedroom, Pitt literally threw off his business clothes and changed into a dark red velvet housecoat. The bedroom was much too large for one person, really, and it had, as a matter of fact, been the principal bedroom where Lord and Lady Newton slept when they had the house. Mr. Pitt had left things pretty much as they were in the Victorian period, except that he had added his own touches. Statuary here and there, a really first rate print and some small paintings had been added during the five years of his ownership.
Still clutching the documents he had just purchased, Pitt then left the room and walked down to his workroom on the main floor. Carelessly putting the documents on the table, he left just as quickly. His sharp ears had heard the sound of the arriving car outside the house. He knew that his visitor would be inside within a moment and he wanted to be there to greet her.
Bangs was a little out of breath on two accounts: he had barely made it in time for the train, racing up the steps of the railway station to intercept the visitor before she became lost in the crowd. He was also a little breathless, anyway, as breathless as his nature permitted him to be, at the sight of the young lady his chief had asked him to pick up at the station. Of course, he had seen pictures of Rowan Dorset in the newspapers from time to time, he had watched some of her television programs, and he knew that she was probably one of the most glamorous young stars on the British theatre horizon. But to see her close up, on a quasi personal basis, was something else again. Bangs considered himself, in all due modesty, a kind of extension of his chief: anything that pleased Mr. Pitt, was bound to please Bangs. And he knew that Miss Dorset pleased Mr. Pitt a lot. As a matter of fact, this was by no means the first time that he had been sent to pick her up. But on all previous occasions, Mr. Pitt had been in the car with him, and under the circumstances it wasn't easy to get a good look at the young actress. This was the first time he had been sent to pick her up on his own, and Bangs was justifiably proud of the trust his chief had put into him.
I suppose there are still some people who don't know what Rowan Dorset looks like. On this particular day in the spring she looked like something from a French impressionist painting: her hair carefully disarranged, shoulder length, and of a light brown color which couldn't seem to make up its mind whether it wanted to be brunette or blonde, her small upturned nose a sure sign of individual personality, even defiance, sky blue eyes, pale English skin, and the kind of figure that seemed to tell the world, especially the male portion of it, that everything was just right, the way it ought to be. All this was cast into a tailored blouse and pants, the former dark blue, the latter brilliant white, in such a way that it covered everything and hid nothing. Loosely sitting on her shoulders was the white jacket matching the pants.
It was an unusually warm day for this time of year, especially for England. "Afternoon, Bangs," Miss Dorset said cheerfully, "warm afternoon, isn't it?" Bangs nodded. He knew that Miss Dorset wasn't really commenting upon the weather, but merely being polite. And now they had arrived at Corley Hall, and there was Mr. Pitt, just in time to greet his visitor. For Adam Pitt, the occasion was by no means the first encounter between himself and the gorgeous Miss -Dorset. Far from it, he had been her more or less steady companion for the past six months. He knew very well, of course, that a young lady of her desirability and public acclaim was not likely to be exclusive to anyone, not even so brilliant a businessman as Adam Pitt. But he was broad-minded enough to overlook her entanglements with other well-known personalities, on the theory that they were necessary for the young lady's career. Jealousy was not one of Mr. Pitt's faults. Besides, the attention others paid to his prize discovery made her the more desirable in his eyes. For Miss Dorset was indeed Mr. Pitt's discovery. Not that she had been idling away the hours until her twenty-first birthday when Mr. Pitt came into her life. Far from it, she had been a busy young actress, working mainly in the provinces, a young actress who was very much in demand for minor roles, because she had gone through the Rada School, the Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts, and graduated with exceptional honors. But after about a year of this, Rowan had tired of the provinces and longed for something more interesting, something, let us say, closer to London. It was just around that time that Adam Pitt happened to be in Brighton. On that fateful night, Pitt was in the audience when she appeared in a revival of Blithe Spirit. So enchanted was he with her rendition of Amanda, that he sent six dozen roses to her dressing room the following day. Adam Pitt was never one to do things half way: nobody sends six dozen roses to unknown actresses, and the result was equally surprising. Rowan Dorset took her acting career very seriously and had little use for dining out, night after night, with the eager young men about town. Nevertheless, so intrigued was she with the man who had sent her six dozen roses, that she met him for dinner that very evening. Pitt was a direct and resourceful man. He realized that he wasn't likely to meet the young actress again unless he had something tangible and unusual to offer her. This he did; it was a direct invitation to come to London the following Monday�"not for a personal meeting with hiin, but a business appointment with Randle Scott, the well-known producer of Intimate Revue, a man who was well known in the West End, and whose very name inspired young actors and actresses to extraordinary performances. Mr. Putt suggested that Scott might just want to put her into his next Revue, due to open two months hence in the West End. He failed to mention that he was the chief and only backer of said Reyue, because it might have put a wrong slant on his generosity. As it was, the evening turned out extremely well.
The following Monday, bright and early, Rowan Dorset appeared at Scott's offices on Regent Street, not sure whether she was truly welcome. There was always that doubt with her, when a stage door John offered to help. Adam Pitt had struck her as being sincere, and since Pitt had made no unusual advances, certainly not at their first meeting, it seemed possible that the entire thing was legitimate. Still, there was always that possibility that Scott's secretary might say, sorry, we don't have an appointment for you. Why don't you leave your photograph on the way out. As she was considering such a possibility and mentally checking the next train to Brighton, Scott's secretary reappeared, smiling, and motioned her to step into the great producer's offices. Fifteen minutes later, and with all her clothes on, Rowan had one of the two leading parts in Scott's new Revue in her hand. The salary was four times what she was being paid in Brighton, conditions were excellent, and what was more, she had a chance not only to act, but to sing and dance as well, something she had always wanted to do. Under the circumstances the world seemed particularly bright on Regent Street that morning, and Adam Pitt truly a generous man.
As soon as she reached her flat in Brighton, she
telephoned Pitt. To her surprise, he already knew the good news, in fact, he invited her to celebrate it with him that very evening at a party he was giving for some friends. Delighted, Rowan accepted. Within a matter of two hours she had given her notice at the Brighton Theater, very much to the surprise of her director. Of course, she had to finish her two weeks but that would go quickly, considering what would follow her engagement in Brighton.
the party at Pitt's town house in Belgrave Square was small and intimate indeed; as a matter of fact, outside of herself there were only two other couples present. From the conversation, Rowan judged them to be people working in the stock market, the men that is. The women did not impress her particularly, or rather they were the kind of women that one expects to come with people who work in the stock market. Adam Pitt was the perfect host; dinner was served by a butler named Ludlow, a middle aged, gaunt man who spoke little except to acknowledge his master's orders. If anything, he looked the part of a butler to perfection. After the other two couples had left, Pitt invited the young actress to a nightcap in his study. The room was exquisitely furnished in oriental decor, and looked more like the private boudoir of a Near Eastern sultan than the study of a London businessman. Under the light of a red lamp, seated on a soft divan, Adam Pitt then confessed that he was extremely impressed with Miss Dorset's talents, both professional and personal, and that he hoped they would be close friends in the days to come. It was at this meeting that he let it be known that he, Adam Pitt, had a considerable interest in show business. As a matter of fact, he had provided the entire capital for the Intimate Revue in which Rowan
was to star. Rowan was somewhat taken aback by this disclosure. Was he trying to buy her? But as if he read her mind, he smiled, shook his head and said, "No, I'm not trying to buy you. Far from it. But I do wish to help your career. Since I have money, and since it takes money to go places in the theater, I'm offering you the facilities I have." That seemed only natural, she thought. But Rowan'was, as an Aries girl, a very practical person. "That is all very well, Mr. Pitt," she replied, looking somewhat quizzical at him, "but what is my part in the deal?" "To be a success of course," he replied casually. "But how do I return your favors?" "I'll let you know." No matter how much she tried he would not commit himself any further. Rather than risk offending him, Rowan dropped the subject and changed to something less explosive. As they were talking about the latest openings on the London stage, she looked at Adam Pitt with new eyes. If he was to be her lover, she wondered whether she could stand him. Then again, maybe that wasn't-whathe had in mind. She decided, on balance, that he was not her ideal by a long stretch of the imagination, but that he was reasonably presentable, vigorous, attractive, and above all, a most intriguing man. In the long run, she thought, he might be more exciting than some of the handsome fellow actors she met constantly, and who had nothing to offer her but their beds. The evening ended on a friendly note. There was an embrace and a kiss, anditwasn't just a friendly kiss. But then Rowan was used to that sort of thing in her profession. People were emotional and sometimes got carried away. She disentangled herself from Adam Pitt's persuasive arms, and stepped into the limousine, with Bangs sitting at the wheel rigidly staring ahead of him, as if he did not wish to see what was going on behind him.
During the following weeks, Pitt took her out at regular intervals, to the best places, to art gallery openings, even to antique fairs. It was there that she realized how much he was involved in the pursuit of antiquities and rare art treasures. Inevitably, her name was linked with his in the social columns. Adam Pitt, while not exactly aristocracy of either birth or business, was nevertheless known about town, since he had bid on some of the most outstanding art objects auctioned off during the past decade. It was her impression that he didn't particularly like these publicity breaks, but at the same time he realized that they were necessary for her career. For what it was worth, Adam Pitt saw after her career in the theater, throwing a press party when the Revue opened, and doing everything he could to build her up as a star. As a result of this, her stardom was assured. The Revue had been a smash success; countless appearances on television followed and within a matter of a month her face was nationally as well known as that of any famous star who had been at it for years. Part of this sudden publicity was undoubtedly due to Adam Pitt. A full time paid press agent was at her disposal, feature stories appeared in all the leading magazines, and commercial endorsements for various products were offered her at a rate that added appreciably to her income from the show. All in all, her acquaintanceship with Adam Pitt was fruitful and successful beyond expectations.
But as yet, he had done nothing to indicate what he expected of her in return. She knew the obvious of course, but even that had not yet happened. Either
Mr. Pitt wasn't really interested, or he preferred biding his time: in this day and age, this seemed a trifle old fashioned to Rowan, who had long resigned herself to the role she would have to play in the relationship. There was, however, one disquieting factor in this: somehow her psychic intuition told her that sex was not the main object of Mr. Pitt's attentions. Money certainly was not part of his scheme: although it would have been perfectly legitimate to ask for a portion of her earnings, he wanted nothing from her in that way. There was no doubt in her mind that he had spent thousands of pounds to promote her, yet he would not even take back a single penny. Unquestionably, Mr. Pitt had other plans.
While Rowan was still trying to guess what Pitt had in mind for her, he telephoned her to ask her to his country estate for the weekend. Until that moment, she didn't realize that he had a country estate. He described it in such glowing terms that his description alone would have enticed her to come, had there not been other considerations. She hadn't been to that part of East Anglia since her childhood, and the name Corley Hall meant nothing to her. Since she was asked for the weekend, a small, smart bag dangled from her arm. Pitt had explained that this would be extremely informal and also that there would be no one else. She liked him for his frankness, at least she knew what to expect. He felt, so he had indicated to her on the telephone, that he wanted an opportunity to talk to her at length, away from pressures and away from other people. It so happened that a business venture he had been engaged in for the past few weeks had been extremely successful, and he felt a little like celebrating. Would she mind celebrating with him? She would not, she had explained on the telephone, and here she was, stepping out of his limousine and being embraced rather firmly by Adam Pitt, wearing a dark red velvet dressing gown which made him appear a little like a modern day version of Mephistopheles. But that was a fleeting impression, and Rowan quickly dismissed it. A moment later, she walked up the marble staircase, arm in arm with her host, chatting about the good notices her television appearance of last night had elicited. She was now very much in demand not only as a guest on talk shows but as a dramatic actress and even as a singer. Her career had literally boomed and, like it or not, she owed much of it to Adam Pitt.
"This is your room," he explained, as he led her to the left of the staircase, when they arrived on the first floor level. When he opened the door, she couldn't suppress a loud "ah". The room was decorated in brilliant white, her favorite color, and there were dozens upon dozens of roses all over it. Pleased by her reception, Pitt withdrew, indicating that dinner would be served in half an hour. After a dinnier that would have made an Escoffier justly proud, Pitt motioned to Janet, the maid, to withdraw and led Rowan into the drawing room, tarefully closing the door behind them.
"It must have occurred to you, my dear Rowan," Pitt began affably, stretching himself in the easiest of easy chairs imaginable, "that I hold you in the highest esteem. As a matter of fact, I'm about to entrust you with something I do not discuss with anyone but my closest associates. As you probably know, I am a businessman with many interests and many connections." Rowan nodded. She knew about as much about Mr. Pitt as anyone in the
Finance District, or, for that matter, in Fleet Street.
When she could not find out too much about her unusual benefactor from financial sources, Rowan had turned to some friends in the newspaper business who owed her a favor or two, from the days when she didn't mind posing in a bathing suit for a photograph to be published, or maybe not. But her journalistic friends couldn't help her either. Even the best morgues had very little to say about the mysterious Adam Pitt. Son of George and Evelyn Pitt, lower middle class shop keepers in Kent, brought up in the usual primary schools, and a graduate of Oxford in business administration. In view of his background it must have been somewhat of a struggle to get into Oxford. The record next lists Adam Pitt as stock broker for the firm of Seewell, Truewell, and Sedgwick. Four years later he is reported as marrying the late Mrs. Pitt. From then on the entries climb rapidly along the social ladder. Memberships in all the proper clubs, committee memberships on various social functions, and a seat on the stock exchange all happened right after his marriage to the socially and financially prominent Mrs. Pitt. The information was skeletal, meager to the extreme, as if someone had tried very hard to keep it from becoming too detailed.
But Rowan did hear, in her conversations with friends familiar with the Financial District, that Pitt enjoyed a somewhat mysterious reputation. Nobody could say for sure exactly what his business was. Nobody could point a finger at him for anything improper, either. Thus he had for several years remained a mystery figure in the market. Any attempt to have him checked out had apparently ended at his bank, which had always supplied the proper references. If anything, Mr. Pitt did not lack in funds, nor in fact, in anything material. Pitt Shipping Company was a registered trade company, doing business with the Near and Far East. The offices were located on Water Street, actually more of a district for motion picture companies than for Far Eastern traders. But Mr. Pitt had eclectic tastes; he liked Water Street for some reason, and that is where the offices of the Pitt Shipping Company were.
So it was business he wanted to discuss with her, Rowan thought not without disappointment. The thrill of a vicarious adventure, even with the middle aged Mr. Pitt, seemed to her immeasurably more exciting than a business proposition. But she listened. "I am in a very competitive business," Pitt explained with a serious face. "In my business, it is important to be there first. It is sometimes even more important that no one knows what negotiations I'm in, what merchandise may be arriving, or what I may be doing. Consequently I have to watch my step." Aha, Rowan thought, here it comes, he's doing something illegal. "What do you mean, watch your step?" she asked.
Pitt broke into laughter. "Oh, nothing illegal mind you, when I say watch my step, I am not afraid of the police, I'm afraid of my competitors. To put it briefly, there are times when I don't want to meet with certain people, because I don't want to be observed by them. My competitors have very good eyes, and they are very much interested in anything and everything I do. You will admit that I am very difficult to disguise. Very few people look like me." Rowan had to agree. "What is it that you want me to do then?" she asked, realizing that he was about to ask. "Nothing much, and nothing very difficult," he replied casually, "at times, I would want you to meet someone, and deliver a letter from me or a message. At other times, someone may want to give you a letter for me or a message, or perhaps a package. All I would want you to do is to be a go-between when I don't want to show my face."
"I understand," Rowan said lightly, for it didn't seem out of the ordinary to her. Still, she wanted to make sure nothing improper was going on, for getting involved with crooks was the last thing she wanted. "There's only one thing, Adam," she said, "what sort of merchandise do you handle? I mean I should know a little about your business, don't you think?" "Indeed you should. Pitt Shipping Company imports mainly two things: rare blends of tea and perfumes from the orient. You know how the English are, they like their teas to be just perfect. Well, I happen to have an excellent buyer in Hong Kong who supplies us with the finest blends of teas you can imagine. As for the perfumes, we import the essences from India and then have them blended by one of our sub companies." "But why should this be such a competitive business?" she asked. It seemed absurd to her that the importer of tea and perfume needed a secret go-between.
"Unfortunately, we cannot import many of these goods directly. The manufacturers consign them to duty free warehouses in London. We have to make bids for certain parcels. Sometimes we have to go south to various ports to make our bids there. Thti fewer bids made, the more likely are we able to obtain the goods at our prices." "But wouldn't these exporters from the East notify other companies, those in competition with you, Adam?" Rowan asked, still unconvinced. He nodded emphatically.
'Yes, they would indeed if it weren't for one small thing: we have a friend in Hong Kong and another friend in Calcutta. They are very busy people and they know the situation well indeed, and somehow they find out when the shipments are about to be sent. We get advance notice, you see. Warehouse fees are high. Every day counts. By the time our competitors find out that a certain lot has arrived, perhaps two or three days later, we have already put in our bids and usually bought it. So you see, Rowan dear, it does matter that words from my friends in the East to their agents in England and from these agents to me are handled with the strictest of confidence." Rowan still couldn't quite grasp the needs for all this secrecy. "But what about the mails?" she asked, immediately realizing how naive her question was. He smiled, but didn't reply directly. "Rowan dear," he said instead, "because of your help I will be able to be seen in one place while actually transacting business in another. Nautral-ly, there will be certain financial benefits for you in this, too."
Well, Rowan thought, it doesn't sound so extraordinary after all. As long as it is merely taking a letter to someone or getting a message back to Adam, why should She care. One thing, though, bothered her. "But why me, Adam?" she asked, "Why couldn't you ask some businessman, or some clerk, anyone to do this for you?" "My dear Rowan," he said, raising his eyebrows significantly with every word, "a businessman or a clerk generally looks like one. You do not." With that, Rowan had to agree.
"But come," Pitt said, changing the subject, "let us talk of something else. By taking an occasional message to someone for me or receiving one for me you will be doing me a favor, more than enough to balance whatever small favors I was able to do for you in the past. But far more important than that, I am extremely fond of you, Rowan, and find your company simply irresistible. Despite the differences in our ages, I would like to hope that the relationship is not entirely one sided." With that he looked her straight into the eyes, smiled a little, and waited. Rowan realized what he was waiting for. Pitt was not exactly her romantic hero, and there was something about him that she couldn't quite place. But he was attractive, charming and a little bit dangerous. All of these qualities together triggered her response: firmly planting a kiss on his waiting lips, she didn't mind it when he lifted her up, and, leaving the door to the drawing room open behind him, slowly, deliberately, carried her up the stairs.
That night Rowan Dorset discovered that middle-aged men have certain advantages. For one thing, they are grateful to young things like herself for letting themselves go. For another, they have acquired certain techniques in love making that a beginner does not always possess, even though he may possess the power to put such techniques into operation. And finally, no matter how important a man he was, it left her with a feeling that in the long run it was she who was holding most of the trump cards. Under the circumstances, not a bad relationship.
Chapter 2
It was late morning, very late morning in fact, before Adam Pitt got out of bed on that particular, joyful day. The night had been most satisfactory, and he felt in the mood to tackle almost anything. Immediately, however, he wanted to tackle a big breakfast, in the true English manner. After that, perhaps a game of tennis with Miss Dorset, that is if she was up to it. If I may say so myself, Pitt thought to himself, I do wear them down.
Evidently he hadn't quite succeeded in tiring Rowan down all that, for she appeared fifteen minutes later, fresh as a daisy and equally as hungry as he was. Now that they knew each other even better than before, their conversation was freer, and in a way more matter of fact-like. Despite his seeming openness, Rowan couldn't help feeling that he was holding back somewhere along the line just the same. Mind you, it was only a woman's intuition that told her this, nothing to go on really. But no matter how human Mr. Pitt seemed to be, and he was plenty human during the night, there was always that certain something that made her aware of his extreme caution. Truly, she thought, did anyone ever know him fully?
After breakfast, Pitt went upstairs again to change and minutes later they had their game of tennis. He played a pretty good game for his age, she thought. His balls were nothing to sneeze, at. She wondered whether he had played tennis with the late Mrs. Pitt, but doubted it immediately. They had High Tea at five, and then Mr. Pitt indulged himself in another one of his favorite hobbies, listening to Wagnerian music from his hi-fi system in his study, preferrably at very high volume. This made the walls reverberate with the music, adding another, eerie dimension to the already powerful impact of the music. At first, Rowan was overcome by the vibrations of the music coming at her from all directions. After a few minutes of it, however, she felt strangely excited by it. There was something in Richard Wagner's music that turned her on. As she observed Pitt lightly conducting the music, as if he were the conductor, she couldn't help but feel an attraction towards him. The attraction grew as the crescendo grew. She pulled up closer to him. Dressed in lounging pajamas, with the top partly open revealing a rather hairy chest, he seemed strangely remote from the impeccable businessman he was to the rest of the world. The house was warm, apart from the fact that this was a rather warm Sunday afternoon to begin with, so Rowan had changed to something rather light. Her tight fitting silk slacks as black as her previous outfit had been white, was topped by a halter made of sheer materials. Under the circumstances it took Pitt only a few seconds to remove it, revealing the fullness of her breasts, large yet firm, pointed and deliriously appetizing. Casually his hands played with them, as the music rose and fell. Then, with a gentle but firm move of his left hand, he unbuttoned her slacks, rolling them down her sides and in the process revealing equally superbly formed legs. His right hand reached for the dimmer, and in a moment the study was thrown into semi-darkness. Then, slowly but methodically, he rose from his sitting position, stripped off his pajamas, and placed Rowan on the couch next to him. All this happened without the slightest protest on her part, to the contrary, she anticipated eagerly his every movement. The late afternoon soiree turned out to be even more rewarding than the previous night had been; Adam Pitt proved to be superior to most men of his age and condition.
Dinner was again served by the butler, Ludlow. Mrs. Berries, the cook, was on holiday and not expected back until tomorrow morning. But Ludlow did as well or better, judging from the appreciative glances his master sent in his direction, when the meal was finished. It was still early in the evening when Bangs drove Miss Dorset back to the railroad station. She had a early morning call for rehearsal, and could not afford to be in bed too late.
It was about nine o'clock when Adam Pitt was alone again. Only now would he have a chance to take a closer look at the treasures he had recently acquired at the antique shop. "Bangs," he called, when the chauffeur had returned from the station, "you may go out or go to bed, but I shan't be needing you any more tonight." "Very good sir," the chauffeur said and left. After Pitt had told Ludlow and Janet, the maid, that he wouldn't be needing them any more that evening, he took his "treasures" with him and retired to his work room on the ground floor. It was here that he had the necessary equipment to study ancient manuscripts or any of the unusual antiquities which came his way from time to time. There was, first of all, a magnifying �óglass, superb lighting, and the kind of library a collector needs when he is in a quandary as to the origin or age of certain objects in his possession. There were other apparatus in this work room, seemingly of a chemical nature, which at least at first glance, did not have any direct bearing on the collecting of antiques. But Adam Pitt was also a motion picture fan: large stacks of film filled the corners, and a Bolex-H-16 casually placed on a shelf between books. The room seemed full and yet not too crowded; one had the impression that .it had been worked in a great deal, and that its owner knew exactly where everything was even though it seemed to the outsider that everything was quite chaotic.
As soon as he had entered the room, he locked the door behind him. Turning on the strong lights, and then focusing them onto the large table which occupied the center of the room, he carefully spread the rolled up documents before himself, one by one then, taking a soft brush from one of the drawers, tried to clean them as carefully as he could. "Nothing special here," he mumbled as he examined map after map. Then, turning one badly torn piece of map around, he noticed some ancient writing on the back side of it. "Palimpsest," he mumbled to himself, at the same time trying to decipher the inscription. A Palimpsest is a piece of manuscript or painting used in the binding of a book at a later time. Many rare documents were thus preserved because they had been used again, although not in the way they were originally meant to be. After ten or fifteen minutes of studying the Latin inscription on the back of the map, Adam Pitt sighed. "Nothing here either," he said in a soft voice, speaking to himself. It was merely a prayer by some long forgotten, unknown sailor that his ship might reach shore and he be safe in the end. Since sixteenth century Latin differed greatly from the classical version, Pitt had-had some difficulty deciphering the inscription. Although his own background had been in business administration at Oxford, he had always been interested in the classical languages and taught himself a considerable amount of Latin.
Pitt then looked at the next document, carefully examining it on both sides. These were rare and old maps, to be sure, and he was glad he had bought them. But the piece of map that had excited him when he first saw it at the shop, was the one that came next to the last one in the lot. Carefully spreading it out before himself, he then took four small pins from a drawer and pinned the map to the table, thus preventing it from rolling itself up again. Then Pitt pulled the large magnifying glass suspended from a metal arm, closer to the map itself and went over it, inch by inch.
It was as he had suspected! What he had before him here was nothing less than a sixteenth century map of the East Anglian coastline. In the lower corner, fortunately well preserved, the map maker had engraved, "La Coruna, A.D. MDXCI." No name, no indication who the map maker was. This unknown artist of the city of La Coruna, Spain, had engraved this remarkable map in the year 1591, exactly three years after the destruction of the Spanish Armada north of that Spanish coastal city.
Feverishly, Adam Pitt followed the map from left to right, from top to bottom. The lower left corner was missing, but fortunately it did not matter very much in this instance. What interested Mr. Pitt most was the upper two thirds of the map, showing the eastern English coastline. Way on top, in lettering too small to be read except with a magnifying glass, or if one were actually looking for the inscription, were the words, "Tesauri Classis Hispaniae in Brittania." Below that Latin inscription were perhaps half a dozen tiny crosses, marking various spots along the East Anglian and southern English coastlines. "Treasures of the Spanish fleet in Britain," the inscritpion meant; and treasure hunting was one of Mr. Pitt's foremost hobbies, if not almost a profession. He knew very well that the Spanish Armada had floundered somewhere north of the Spanish coast, east of the Irish coast, and as far north as the eastern English coast, in single instances. The ships of the Armada had been dispersed by the strong winds, more than by the enemy. Two or three of the ships had carried gold treasure, destined to be used in payment of the Navy. He knew very well, from having read a great deal about that early battle of Britain, that at least three ships were known to have floundered not too far from the East Anglian coast. In particular, he was aware of the fact that the wreck of the Royal Spanish frigate Isabella Infanta had broken up not too far from the coast.
Nobody had as yet discovered the exact location, to be sure, and it might have been anywhere within a hundred miles from where his house stood. For years, villagers in the area had spoken of a rich Spanish ship that lay buried underneath the North Sea but no one knew exactly where it was. Pitt had of course heard this rumor ever since he had come to Werrick. But he had considered it legendary rather than factual. Now his composure was rudely shattered: here, before his very eyes, lay a piece of authentic Spanish map, drawn only a scant three years after the destruction of the Spanish fleet, indicating some of the locations where Spanish treasure lay buried. Apparently, some of the sailors were able to save themselves and probably part or all of the treasure. As it was the custom in those days, they would have buried their valuables on shore just as soon as they could, trying to make their way back to Spain by whichever means they were able to find. Undoubtedly, as was the custom also in those cruel days, many of them were murdered in cold blood by the English villagers, who justly considered them the worst enemy England could have had at that time. This was during the religious controversy between Catholicism and Protestantism, when Philip had also been King of England, being married to Mary Tudor. Now, of course, Queen Elizabeth the First had been on the throne for many years, an implacable foe of Spain and Catholicism.
Taking his largest magnifying glass, Pitt looked very carefully at the little crosses indicating locations along the coast. There was something very familiar about one of the crosses and the surrounding territory. Yes, there was no doubt about it: the slight promontory looked suspiciously like the promontory east of Werrick; the serpentine rivulet below the cross, bearly touching it, seemed also very familiar. Hastily, Pitt took out an Atlas: comparing the area of the Spanish map with a very detailed ordnance map made a few years ago, he discovered that his suspicion had been correct. Although the town of Werrick was not actually marked on the Spanish map, there was no doubt about it that the cross indicating treasure was placed between the east shore of the river Gage, and the coast. That was extremely interesting to Mr. Pitt. It so happened that his land extended from the east shore of the river Gage to the coast, and if there was any treasure left as the map indicated, then surely it would have to be on his soil. But Pitt was also a careful researcher in his own way; so far everything was just speculation and perhaps wishful thinking. Carefully putting the map between two cardboards and then into a special leather case made for maps, he went through several books dealing with the Spanish Armada. Unfortunately, they contained no reference to any wreck along the East Anglian coast. The very best he could find was a short reference to "several ships made it up north and eventually sank in a storm off England," but that was far too general to be of any use. He decided to consult the much more extensive library at the British Museum just as soon as he could.
Adam Pitt had been to the British Museum library several times before, not often enough to be recognized as a regular, to be sure, since that was something he did not wish to be. But there was no difficulty in getting help from the librarian on duty. Carefully Pitt explained his quest. Fifteen minutes later, a stack of books lay before him, some of recent origin and some obviously at least two hundred years old, judging from their heavy bindings. With the patience of an angel, Pitt leafed through them. This was a Monday morning and probably one of the busiest times in the market place. Ordinarily, he would have been at his offices. But the quest for Spanish treasure took preference at the moment. Three hours later an exhausted Adam Pitt raised his eyes, by now hurting, and sighed. Nothing! Absolutely nothing. Then an idea struck him. "Tell me, Sir," he queried the young librarian, "are there any documents dealing with this period I might have a look at?" The librarian thought for a moment. "Yes, there are," he replied with some hesitancy, "but they're all up in the research library section. I would have to fetch them." Pitt knew that it might be several days before he could lay eyes upon them. "Might it not be easier for both of us," he said, "if you took me to them rather than the other way around?" The librarian saw nothing unusual in this request, judging Mr. Pitt to be a man of substance, probably a professor from some university bent on one particular detail. He took Pitt up to the top floor, walking up the back stairs, excusing himself for that fact, because the front stairs were in repair. When they arrived at the document room, Pitt was overwhelmed. He himself owned perhaps two hundred or two hundred-fifty sixteenth and seventeenth century documents. But that was puny compared to what presented itself to his eyes. Carefully stacked in row upon row, shelf upon shelf, lay hundreds and perhaps thousands of ancient documents. The librarian excused himself and five minutes later he returned with an arm full of warped, yellowing documents, protruding from the cardboard folders in which they had been placed. "Here, sir," he said, "I hope you have some luck." Without replying, Pitt went to work. He had brought a magnifying glass with him as well as a small flashlight and of course his tape recorder. It was getting towards lunch, and Pitt asked permission to stay through. Everybody left except one young student who had brought his lunch with him.
The first three papers or parchments proved to be of no help at all. But the fourth document was much more promising. His own intuition somehow told him that he was on to something useful, perhaps even very important. Straining his eyes to make out the quaintly drawn letters, he learned that the document was a report from a certain Godfrey Willson, who signed himself Her Majesty's Loyal Servant, but was in fact, a tax collector. This Mr.
Willson was writing to the First Lord of the Exchequer in the year of Our Lord 1597, that he had gone to the town of "Verricke" in East Anglia, in response to repeated reports of Spanish treasure having been discovered in the area. Mr. Willson could not find any Spanish treasure, but he did discover that a Spanish galleon had indeed floundered near shore and that treasure from it had been brought to the coast and buried ashore by the Spaniards. "I have spoken to a man by name of Ross, who liveth near said towne," Mr. Willson explained in the document, "he deposeth and sweareth that upon a certain night in the year of Our Lord 1588 he had returneth from fishing, when he hath come upon a group of strangers, busily engaged in hiding something beneath the ground. I feared for my life and so I did not wayte to be discovered by said strangers, but forthwith returned to my house." Mr. Willson added that the man had confessed this to his parish priest, being of the former religion, but that he, Willson, had forced the intelligence out of said parish priest by various and sundry means. What the means were, one can only guess at.
Delighted, Pitt had the document photostated for his own use. Thanking the librarian, who had meanwhile returned from lunch, he then left the British Museum library, whistling an old Spanish tune as he went.
With his suspicions confirmed, Adam Pitt was hellbent on finding the lost Spanish treasure. Even though he realized that the British Museum would have to be notified in case he actually found something, he felt he could deal with that aspect later. The very next morning he would start hiring laborers, and start the dig. With a dozen men, he figured, he should be able to cover the area pretty thoroughly in a matter of two or three weeks. He realized, of course, that the cross indicated the location of the treasure only to within perhaps fifty or one hundred yards at best. That is, if the map was accurate, and he had no proof that it was. Still, it was a hopeful beginning.
When he arrived back at the office, he found his private secretary, Angus, awaiting him nervously. The office itself was small and functional. A somewhat antiseptically looking anti-room, with the usual end table, telephone for visitors, and two' chairs and a couch. In front of the couch, on aj cocktail table were a stack of magazines. They were^ an odd mixture of business magazines and the latest in show business and sex-oriented publications. Clearly, Mr. Pitt catered to all tastes. From this small reception room, a door lead to a narrow corridor which presented a waiting visitor with the view of a blank, white wall, should he glance through the opened door. However, once in the corridor, one could see two office doors, one to the left and one to the right. The office to the left, the smaller one, belonged to Angus McPherson, the secretary, a young man of about twenty-five, wearing heavy horn rimmed glasses, and displaying an attitude of great agitation and nervousness at all times. He had been with the company for only six months and was most desirous of pleasing his boss. So far his main occupation had been that of keeping "the home fires burning," when Mr. Pitt was absent, and of taking telephone messages and relaying them. He had not yet really gotten involved with the business itself and had some doubts as to the nature of it, except that shipments were due any moment and that he had better be on hand when they arrived. The office to the right, the larger one of the two, belonged to the boss. Elaborately and almost lavishly furnished in a kind of modern Elizabethan style, it contained an oversize desk, a most comfortable chair behind it, two chairs for visitors, and most conspicuously, a large and apparently well-protected file. It was not simply a file made of thin, gray steel or iron, as the majority of such office files are. This file looked more like a vault, except that it was out in the open. In it, Adam Pitt kept, not his business secrets, but his latest acquisitions from Portobello Road, or some other antique center of London.
"Mr. Pitt, Mr. Pitt," the secretary said in an anxious tone of voice, "there has been a telephone call from Southhampton, sir. They've called back twice already. It seems to be urgent, sir." Instantly, Pitt understood. "Very well, Angus," he said, "I'll take care of it at once. Thank you. Meanwhile, won't you please get out the personnel file and pick me three, no four men, to be ready on call when I need them." Angus McPherson understood, he had been called upon by his boss to do the same thing once before, about a month after he had entered service with the company. Immediately he went to a file in his own office, this one, however, of the ordinary kind. Under personnel, he found what he was told to look for: a list of available workmen, who were familiar with Mr. Pitt's requirements. Apparently Mr. Pitt preferred to use his own workmen when receiving a shipment from abroad. McPherson couldn't quite figure this out, since he thought that Workmen would be cheaper if hired on the spot, wherever the shipment arrived, whether in the Port of London or in Southhampton. But Mr. Pitt felt that his way was the better one, and McPherson gave it no further thought, figuring that the boss knew why.
Within a minute after he had sat down at his large desk, Pitt had dialed the number which had contacted him while he was at the British Museum. Before picking up the telephone, however, he made sure that the connecting door to the corridor and thus to McPherson's was firmly closed. Then he pulled a small lever to the left of his telephone which deactivated McPherson's line, so that he could not accidentally, or by design, if it were, listen in to his conversation. If there were any incoming calls while he was speaking, Pitt would have to take them himself. McPherson would not have been aware of them. After a few seconds, the number Pitt was dialing replied. "Flying Buzzards Club speaking," the voice on the other end said. "Hello, Flying Buzzards?" Pitt repeated, "may I speak to Mr. Spencer." "Hold the line please." A moment later another voice came to the telephone. "Spencer speaking, what may I do for you?" "This is Adam Pitt in London speaking," Pitt replied, "I'm returning your call. I presume you are calling me about the private plane I've asked for." "Correct, sir. We've got your order and we've got the plane standing by when you want it." "Splendid." "Will you be flying it yourself, sir." "No, one of my associates will. A Mr. Charles Carsgrove. He's got a pilot's license, of course. This is sort of a hobby with him, you understand, and the company is paying for it as a bonus for services rendered. You will kindly bill everything to me here in London." "Very well, sir. The plane will be ready at seven p.m. tomorrow, as requested. Will there be anything else, sir?" "No, not for the moment. Thank you. Goodbye."
With a smile, Pitt hung up. There was an air of excitement on his face now, but it was different from the excitement of the art collector or adventurer. This was the excitement caused by tension, the tension of a hardheaded businessman. On Pitt's forehead, the lines deepened and the atomosphere was one of careful planning and much concern. For a few moments, Pitt sat quietly in his chair, then he rose, walked over to the door and reassured himself that it was securely locked. Returning to his large desk, he then opened the lowest drawer with a key he had taken from his pocket. Pulling out the drawer he picked up a small telephone hidden in it. Even McPherson knew nothing of this telephone. Placing the telephone before him on the desk, he started to dial. After a few seconds, he placed the receiver to his ear and spoke in a much lower tone of voice then he had previously done.
"Hello?" "This is Southhampton. Who is there?" "This is The Unicorn." "Hello. Is the plane ready?" "It is. Seven p.m. tomorrow night at the Flying Buzzards." "Very well. We will be there." "How much is it this time?" "Eight pounds. Have you got the money?" "I've got the money." "Until tomorrow night then." Both men hung up almost simultaneously. Quickly, Pitt returned the little telephone to its hiding place, locked it, rose, and unlocked the connecting door. There was no point in keeping his secretary isolated any longer than necessary. But McPherson hadn't even noticed that he had been locked out. He was still working on the personnel file. "Have you got the right men yet?" Pitt asked somewhat impatiently. Sweat pearls stood on McPherson's forehead. He was eager to please the boss, but going through all those names did take some time. Finally, he found what he had been looking for: name cards with a double x placed beside them, which was the companies' code for reliability. Half an hour later the men had been notified, and all but one was available for the job at hand. The three men selected were to meet with them tomorrow afternoon at four, when a lorry would take them to the area of their employment outside Southhampton.
"How much tea are we getting in this time, Mr. Pitt?" McPherson asked. "Eight hundred pounds of the finest Ceylonese tea, and two hundred pounds of that Tibetan mixture I have been trying to introduce since last fall. However, it will be sent on to our distributors right away. We simply don't have any space here to store it." "I quite understand, sir." Actually, McPherson had never seen any merchandise going through the office. But then a great deal of British business was constructed in this way: the actual merchandise is never seen. "You may take the afternoon off, McPherson," Pitt said pleasantly. He didn't want the secretary around when the three men would report to the office. McPherson knew nothing about what Pitt euphemistically called "the operations". His sole job was to take messages, to keep the office running, and to be a routine secretary. Adam Pitt's business on the stock exchange, although it was not a very active trading operation, nevertheless required a certain number of letters to go out every day, certain errands, and certain files to be kept. The fact was, that Pitt made a good deal of money from his dealings on the stock exchange. But he made it because of his own acumen as a speculator and not because of the hard work put in by his secretary. At best, Angus McPherson was a convenience, at worst, part of a cover up.
McPherson was delighted at the prospect of having an afternoon to himself. Even though there was practically no business to transact, Pitt had insisted that McPherson be present in the office from morning until five o'clock, and take time off for his own affairs only when he, Pitt, was present in the office. It appeared to McPherson that Pitt was somewhat concerned lest a message be lost' "Thank you, sir" McPherson said, and within a matter of a minute he was gone. The day was warm and pleasant, and he intended to spend it walking near the Serpentine in the park, where some of the loveliest young birds in London took their afternoon strolls, not to mention the birds on the water, if one was bent in the direction of a nature lover.
Promptly at four o'clock, three husky men walked into the office. Pitt explained that they would be unloading tea. "Tea is it, sir?" said one of the men sarcastically and looked Pitt straight into the face. "Tea it is indeed," Pitt replied sternly. There was a catch, however. He did not intend to pay duty on the tea he was importing, he explained. Consequently, they would be paid double their usual rates. The men nodded. They had been through this before, several times during the last two years. Each time Pitt pretended that they did not know. But the men did not care. All they cared for was that they were being paid well. Hang the government and its excise taxes!
Promptly at seven o'clock, Charles Carsgrove, a slight man who looked more like a jockey than a flyer, walked into the manager's office at the Flying Buzzards' airfield. "Spencer," the manager said, and perfunctorily extended his hand. "I trust you will be returning the plane by midnight?" he asked. The operation wasn't exactly "new to him either.
During the past two or three years Adam had requested a small plane for one or the other of his associates who, he said, liked to fly a bit. In each case, the plane was requested for the dinner hour and returned shortly before midnight.
"Quite," Carsgrove replied. "You'll have to file a routing of course," the manager explained, looking at Carsgrove expectantly. "That might be a little difficult," Carsgrove replied, deadpan, "I was thinking of bumming around a bit, sort of looking the country over, don't you know?" Spencer seemed unmoved. "Government regulations require a flight plan, sir, unless of course, you don't intend to land at any of the approved airfields. For instance, if you were to land at some private, unlicensed airfield, that would be allright." "That's it, that's it," Carsgrove said and nodded, far too emphatically to be believable, "that is exactly what I intend to do, a friend of mine has a little strip not far from the Splent, just this side of the coastline. I think I'll pay him a visit. Sort of drop in on him, if you know what I mean." He laughed an uncertain laughter, but the manager did not care to join.
"You will still have to fill out the insurance form," he said. "Oh yes, I know," Carsgrove replied, then stopped. "Since I haven't flown for the past three or four months, I have sort of gotten out of the habit. Would you mind filling it in for me? I would be much obliged if you took the trouble." With that Carsgrove picked up the insurance form and handed it back to the manager. As he did so, he pressed Spencer's hand, as if to thank him. When he withdrew it there were two ten-pound notes left behind in the manager's hand. Not a bad fee to pay for so small a favor. Or was it?
Carsgrove knew perfectly well that smuggling expensive tea into Britain without benefit of Customs was, in fact, illegal. But he had no compunctions, first of all because he was well paid for the job, and secondly, because he had little regard for his government. Why should the government make tea so much more expensive? Surely, helping putting holes into the government's curtain of Customs was in itself a good thing, taken from the philosophical point of view.
The plane in question was a two-seater Beach-craft, of the Bonanza type. It could seat two persons quite comfortably, or one person and a considerable amount of merchandise.
In late spring the days are still very short in England, consequently it was quite" dark when Carsgrove started the motor. A few minutes later the little plane lifted itself gracefully off the small runway, and, with a subdued sputtering of the motor, turned away from the field towards the sea. It took a good pilot to do this sort of thing at night; once he was in the air, he was pretty much on his own. There was neither radar nor any mechanical ground approach system in operation.
The little flying fields, all of them in private hands, did not fall into the category of facilities which were required to have radar installations by law. As a matter of fact, nobody ever inspected their books. The government thought so little of their importance, that it didn't feel it was worth wasting the time of government officials inspecting them. Since the directors of the club had to be known to the filing clerk when the club was started, the government thought that the identity of those behind such clubs was sufficient knowledge, and didn't really care what the directors did, or those employed by them. Under the circumstances, the Flying Buzzards lead a peaceful existence, practically immune from regulations and government interference.
Carsgrove looked out the left side window, to help orient himself. There was a radio in the plane, to be sure, but he wasn't particularly interested in contacting the "tower", actually the office of the flying club below. His instructions were to head out towards the Isle of Wight. Below, there appeared two rows of lights, ending abruptly at a black object, and, a little further on, four strong lights, placed into a square. Immediately Carsgrove recognized these landmarks. The two rows of lights represented a road running alongside the Splent, the black object was the shore. The Splent is an arm of the sea, cutting deeply into south eastern England, and bordered in the north and west by the New Forrest. More important, however, were the four strong lights placed into a square further on. Banking sharply now, Carsgrove made for the lights. When he came down to within about three hundred feet, he realized that he was on the right target. Pulling controls up once again, he turned and banked to the left, then came in once again, this time, however, heading directly down towards the four lights. Shortly afterwards, the little Beachcraft plane rolled onto a tiny landing s'trip. Situated not faf from the seashore, it was illuminated by the four strong lights which Carsgrove had seen from the air. As soon as the plane had come to a full stop, a car came out of the dark, heading towards it. When it was up close, it turned out to be a small lorry and from it sprang three husky men in workers' clothes. Not a word was exchanged, for the men knew evidently what they were doing. Throwing his hatch open, Carsgrove leaned back in his cockpit. Swiftly the three men filled the little plane to the hilt with medium sized cardboard boxes. Carsgrove counted perhaps fifteen or twenty of these boxes, enough to fill every available inch in the airplane. Quickly as they had come, the three men closed the hatch and went back to their lorry. Carsgrove couldn't help noticing a faint odor of the sea emanating from the packages. He wondered about it.
Of course, had he known that the packages had been trans-shipped from a small boat standing by off the shore, and that this had taken place barely half an hour before his landing, he would have understood. What he would not have understood, however, was the need for such elaborate precautions in the shipment of tea, even expensive tea. Of course, the packages could have been brought to England by air from a small airfield in say, France, or some other nearby shore. But by using boats and then trans-shipping by air, the risk of anyone's knowing both origination and destination of the shipment was greatly reduced. As it was, some men knew where it originated, and Carsgrove knew where it went; but the whole truth was known only to Adam Pitt. Just as soon as the lorry had left, Carsgrove threw the motor back on. Moments later the Beachcraft Bonanza was in the air again, returning to the Flying Buzzards' strip. The entire operation had taken less than an hour. Nervously, Carsgrove looked at his wrist watch, it was two minutes past eight o'clock. He knew that the field office closed down at eight sharp, and that the manager and the other two employees would leave shortly after. Under his arrangement with Spencer, Carsgrove would land the plane himself and check himself out. To be on the safe side, he circled the field two or three times more, finally landing on the other end of the little air strip, just as he had been instructed to do by his employer.
The time was eight-twenty p.m. He was Still ten minutes early. Promptly at eight-thirty, a black limousine drove up to the far end of the air strip. There was a gate on that side also, and Carsgrove quickly opened it, allowing the car to enter the strip proper and to drive up close to the airplane. When the car same to a halt, two men in dark raincoats jumped out. They wore hats and gloves, and dark glasses, even though one could hardly see anything at this hour of the night. Again, without exchanging a single word, the men went to work, swiftly opening the hatch of the aircraft and unloading the boxes. Two minutes later, the boxes had disappeared into the car. One of the two men was already behind the wheel. The other, smaller one, checked a document in his hand. "Fifteen in all," he mumbled, then nodded, and quickly extended his hand to Carsgrove. The pilot felt a roll of paper touching his fingers. Quickly, he grabbed it. A hundred pounds for an hours work wasn't bad.
As soon as the car had left the field, Carsgrove got back into the airplane and started the motor again. Taxiing slowly across the air strip, he brought the plane to the hangar, and pushed it inside with considerable effort. Quickly, he locked the door again, and a minute later the air strip of the Flying Buzzards was as dark and silent as the night around it.
The black Jaguar raced along the road, now devoid of all traffic. About five miles towards London it came to a screeching halt. Here, at this crossroad, miles from any human habitation, there wasn't likely to be much interference for the little business that would be transacted very shortly. Not
more than five minutes later, two cars came towards the rendezvous from opposite directions. Since the black limousine had its lights on, they had no difficulty homing in on the meeting point. Almost simultaneously, both cars came to a halt within a few yards of each other. Several men emerged from the two cars and went over towards the black limousine. There was some subdued conversation, then the two men who had just left the air strip, went back to their car and opened the trunk. Quickly, the boxes of tea disappeared into the other two cars, one half into each. A moment later the three cars left the rendezvous and drove off into the directions whence they had come.
It had been an exceptionally good transaction, Mr. Pitt thought, and everybody concerned was most satisfied. As if to underscore his thoughts, the telephone rang in Mr. Pitt's desk at that moment, the private telephone that is. Quickly closing the connecting door, so that McPherson, the secretary would not hear the conversation, Pitt answered the persistent ring.
"Yes?" "May I speak with The Unicorn?" "You are speaking with The Unicorn." "This is Sparrow. The stuff is fine, only you were three ounces short this time." "Really? I shall have to look into that," Pitt replied calmly. "Perhaps it disappeared on the other end?" the caller suggested. "You never know who you can trust these days." "Quite. But meanwhile put it on memo and I shall make it up to you next time." "Splendid. When do you expect another shipment?" "Probably within a fortnight. I should like to use the good weather as much as possible." "Seems reasonable. I can certainly use a lot more tea than I have been getting from you.""** "Please don't be impatient. After all, I have to think
of all of my customers." "So do I, so do I." "I shall do what I can. You will be notified in the usual way when another shipment is due." "Very good. Goodbye." "Goodbye now."
Quickly Pitt replaced the little telephone in the drawer. He wondered about the missing ounces. Was someone shortchanging him, or had there been a leak? Pitt hated imperfections, or missing links. Even so small a detail as the absence of a few ounces of�"ah�"tea, worried him. He had closed the drawer not a second too soon. An over enthusiastic McPherson was about to open the door not waiting for the boss to say, 'come in, please.' Pitt was clearly displeased. "Yes, McPherson, what is it that is so urgent? You seem agitated." "No, no, sir," the secretary blurted out, "I only wondered how the operation went." "The operation?" Pitt replied somewhat taken aback.
Did McPherson know something? But he immediately rejected this notion. McPherson couldn't know anything. As far as the secretary was concerned, Pitt was in the tea import business. As a matter of fact, each of the fifteen boxes transshipped the night before did contain a considerable amount of tea. The only thing was, that wasn't all they contained. Safely buffered by packages of tea, each box contained the most refined, superior quality hard drugs money could buy. A shipment of the size of last night's, for instance, was worth several million pounds in retail value, once it got into the market. Getting it into the market, however, wasn't his problem; that is what he had distributors for. Actually, Pitt never touched the stuff, never saw it, and somehow pretended that it didn't really exist. As far as he was concerned, the boxes contained just good tea.
Regaining his composure, he smiled and said, "Oh I see, you mean the shipment of tea from Ceylon?" "Yes, sir," McPherson said, "you intimated that this was a particularly fortunate purchase." "So it was, so it was," Pitt assured the young man, "it has all been handled properly and we should be making a good profit from it, I should think," he said and started to shuffle some papers on his desk. McPherson got the message and withdrew. Once again alone, Pitt looked at himself in a small mirror to the right of his desk. "Not bad, not bad," he said, mumbling to himself, for the mirror had shown him a relaxed, self-satisfied Adam Pitt, the kind of man who might properly engage in a little archeological sleuthing. He had earned his right to a little relaxation. He knew very well that there wouldn't be another shipment for at least two weeks. There was no point in hanging around the office for the rest of the week, and the stock market could be watched just as well from his country home. Besides, even so wealthy a man as Pitt was somewhat short of funds at this moment, having paid in cash for his "tea". It would be another twenty-four hours before the payments came in from the distributors. The way he had set up the system, no direct payments into his account were possible. Consequently the matter took an extra day, but it was that much safer. No, Pitt decided, there was no point in staying at the office an extra hour.
Bangs, the chauffeur, was somewhat surprised to be summoned in the middle of the afternoon, but then nothing really surprised him for very long, for he knew that his master, Mr. Pitt, had unusual whims at times. As they drove along the coastal highway Pitt scanned the land to both sides of the highway with eager eyes. The closer the car came to Werrick, the more nervous he seemed to get. Just as Bangs was about to turn to the left, to enter the township proper, Pitt, in a rare display of familiarity, pointed towards a piece of land jutting out to the sea a little and connecting the shore with the high ground on which Corley Hall stood.
"Look, Bangs," Pitt said with a tone of excitement in his voice, "look over there, can you imagine a group of bedraggled Spanish seamen dragging themselves ashore from their ruined ships? Seeking the safety of our shores?" Frankly, Bangs could not. But since his boss did, he nodded assent. Fortunately, the weather was holding up nicely, and tomorrow would be a splendid day to start digging.
Chapter 3
Bright and early, Adam Pitt rose to attack the problem at hand: Find the Spanish treasure, presumably buried on land he owned. At the moment, he felt like the perfect English country gentleman. It was all good sport, and if there was some profit in the venture, so much the better. Adam Pitt didn't always feel that way, of course. Whenever he picked up a newspaper and saw an arrest of drug peddlers in the headlines, he winced. Not because his sense of morality was involved, but because he feared that, despite his elaborate schemes, some day, somewhere, somehow, something might go wrong and he, himself, the impeccable Adam Pitt, might be arrested. The curious thing about Pitt was that he didn't need the money. The late Mrs. Pitt had left him comfortably, nay, more than comfortably provided and his operations on the stock market were generally successful. There was no gainsaying, Adam Pitt was a very clever man. Without the need to rely on illegal operations, Pitt might have gone far in business, if that were his bent. Unfortunately, however, there was within his character a certain flaw. For awhile, he had hoped that his commercial successes might eventually lead to the peerage, but he soon realized that he had powerful enemies in the offices that determined such matters. Those were the people who knew him before he had married the late Mrs. Pitt. Among them, there were always rumors that Mrs. Pitt's accident had not been wholly accidental.
Whenever anyone hinted at such dastardly thinking, Pitt smiled sweetly and shrugged, saying in effect, anyone was entitled to dream.
But it bothered him nevertheless. Under the circumstances there grew within him a desire to show the world a thing or two, to be more daring than his contemporaries would ever suspect him of being able to. Then, too, his appetite in young women was considerable. Even though he had now latched onto the glorious Rowan Dorset, this did not mean that he wasn't looking elsewhere at the same time; far from it, for his appetite�"and one might add, undoubtedly�"capacity were considerable. With sufficient income never to have to worry again, even with so sumptuous a place to maintain as Corley Hall, and the Belgrave Square apartment, and despite occasional fortuitous expeditions to the antique fairs of Portobello Road or the Paris Flea Market, Adam Pitt was bored with life: the excitement of adventure, of defying authority, especially the authority that was linked with the kind of people who would deny him his ascent to the coveted peerage, brought him in contact with some very unusual types, people he would not ordinarily have sought out.
About a year before, he had found himself standing in the street outside a certain young lady's apartment in Soho. It turned out that the young lady had a lover in her flat and was about to break the news to her prospective date, Adam Pitt. When Pitt realized that he was being stood up, his anger was boundless. Bursting out of the house with considerable noise, he ran smack into a comely young lady who happened to be passing by at that moment. Under the circumstances, they became acquainted. As fate would have it, Pitt invited the young lady for a drink right then and there, partially to cool off, and partially because she looked like the sort of young lady he would have invited for a drink any time, any place. Over considerably more than a single drink, Pitt and the young lady, whose name was Carol Bygraves, became close friends, in a manner of speaking. She confided in him that she was an actress, out of work for the past several weeks, and he, in turn, allowed as to being one of the most successful businessmen in the City. Under the circumstances, he offered to help her out, and after some hesitation, she accepted. "What could I do for you in return, Adam?" she asked, for they had been on a first-name basis practically within the first hour of their acquaintanceship. Pitt had smiled indulgently. Surely, she would find a way of repaying his favor. Luckily, her own flat was only four blocks away, and so it was fairly easy to conduct what on the surface seemed like a very businesslike transaction, but what, at least to Adam Pitt, was nothing more than an exchange of mutual talents. Since he always carried considerable amounts of cash on his person, it wasn't difficult to hand his new acquaintance two hundred pounds in cash; and since they were now at her flat, it wasn't any more difficult for Carol, to take her clothes off and allow Adam Pitt to recoup his investment right then and there. This he did, with such a relish, that Carol wondered whether she hadn't perhaps short-changed her new friend. Surely, in any transaction where both sides profit equally and to the same degree, there could be no question of "repaying a favor". Under the circumstances, Carol asked whether there was anything else she could possibly do for her new friend.
Before he could answer, she added, "Since you are in business, perhaps you may want to meet a friend of mine, he's in business too and doing very well. Perhaps the two of you can do business together?" For a twenty-one year old aspiring actress such reasoning didn't seem totally out of line, Pitt felt, even though he had no particular interest in meeting any friend of Carol's. If there was one thing Pitt disliked was hearing about girls' male friends or even acquaintances. But Carol insisted, explaining that she had an intuitive feeling, call it psychic if you will, that her friend, whose name was Martinson, could be of great benefit to Adam and thus resolve her own feeling of guilt towards him.
More to please her than because he believed anything could come from such a meeting, Pitt agreed to meet Carol and Martinson the following evening at a small cafe on Deane Street, across from the Gargoyle Club. It turned out that Carol was the kind of actress that worked at the Gargoyle Club, probably the best known and most respected of the total striptease places in Soho. Pitt did not mind, to him it was immaterial whether she worked at the Drury Lane, or had been laid off for the past six weeks at the Gargoyle for refusing the advances of one of the assistant managers, which in fact she had. At any rate, it was a cozy threesome: Martinson turned out to be a swarthy, late twenty-ish fellow with a heavy Cockney accent, the smell of garlic about him. Probably of Italian or Spanish descent, Pitt thought.
At first, Martinson only looked at Pitt, his eyes betraying anything but liking for the man. Evidently he felt about Carol's male friends the way Pitt felt about them. Pitt, of course, realized that Carol was not exactly a one-man girl, but he wasn't afraid of competition and if Martinson was her steady, it would present absolutely no problems for the future. After some sparring, Martinson came to the point. "Me girl tells me that you're in business and keen on doing something special" he said and it was then that Pitt realized Martinson wasn't Italian or Spanish but one of the "Black Irish," the descendants of the Spaniards who fled the Spanish Armada in 1588 and intermingled with the native Irish to produce a race of dark haired, dark eyed people. What a coincidence, Pitt thought at the same moment, here I am discussing business with a man whose forebears came to these shores with one of the ships that may have foundered off my property.
But he did not pursue the parallel further, for Martinson was speaking again. "Me girl also tells me that I can trust you." Now Pitt found his voice. "Yes," he replied in a smooth tone of voice, "You most certainly can. I daresay I've been involved in some of the most unusual business deals and I am not afraid to tackle anything that shows a chance of profit." Martinson smiled. "Oh, there is plenty of profit in this one all right," he said, "but it depends if you are not afraid of doing something that is, let us say, a little illegal." Pitt drew back. If there is one thing he did not want to do, was say anything that could be held against him in a Court of Law. Was this man a police agent provocateur? Immediately, he rejected this notion. "What is it that you think we could do together?" he inquired cautiously. Martinson had looked around as if he were afraid they could be overheard. Fortunately for them, they were at a table in one of the corners, and there was no one at all at the next two or three tables. Unless the table itself had been bugged, they were quite safe from any intruders. For the next fifteen minutes, Martinson explained the nature of his business. He was one of the many who were bringing drugs into England from the east, trans-shipping them on small fishing craft from boats standing offshore, but outside the British territorial limits. It was a daring and haphazard business at best, but the rewards were high indeed.
"Do you take any of the stuff? Does Carol?" Pitt asked, with perhaps more concern than he had meant to show. Both shook their heads vigorously. "Of course not," Martinson replied, "I'd be a fool to." "But if you are doing as well as you say you are, what would I be doing in this?" "I'm a small operator now, because I lack capital, governor," Martinson explained, looking Pitt straight into the face. "Carol here says you are loaded." Pitt couldn't help smiling. Whenever anybody said that he was rich, he sort of liked this as if a compliment had been paid him. "Well, that depends" he replied, very businesslike now, "but if the operation is as safe as you say it is, perhaps I may think about it." "I haven't been caught yet, mister," Martinson said and waited. "Tell you what," Pitt suggested in a cheery tone of voice, "let me sleep on it for twenty-four hours and we'll meet again here tomorrow night." Martinson shot him a look of distrust. Was this man trying to trap him perhaps? Was Carol wrong in describing him as an adventurous businessman? He, too, had to think it over. Pitt rose. Martinson left, looking back at Carol, who made no move to follow him. As soon as Martinson was out of sight, she took Pitt's hand and said, "let us talk about this at my place. It is safer there."
A few minutes later, Pitt was drinking cheap wine with Carol at her modest apartment. He questioned her thoroughly about Martinson and what she knew of his background. Satisfied, that there were no ulterior motives involved except to make money quickly and in large quantities, he dropped the subject. At the same time, he also dropped his pants, and she dropped whatever she was wearing at the time. Their second night together was no less stimulating than the first one had been, although Pitt felt it somewhat more the following morning, being no longer eighteen years of age.
Whenever Pitt wanted to get some specific information about anyone in the City, he had access to the files of some of the largest national detective agencies in the world. Immediately upon reaching his office, he had Martinson investigated thoroughly. This was the easier as there was nothing known about him. Satisfied, that things were exactly as they had been represented, he met Martinson again the following night, and they came to an agreement. Pitt was to act as go-between between Martinson and a "friend," a man who had a great deal of money, but preferred to remain anonymous. Somewhat sheepishly, or at least as sheepishly as he could make it sound, he explained to Martinson that he himself did not wish to become involved in so tawdry a business. But a friend of his, whom he had met on the Stock Exchange, and with whom he had discussed the matter earlier that day, was more than enthused and would be willing to finance all future ventures. That was all right with Martinson, for Martinson did not care where the money came from. Carol, however, seemed genuinely disappointed. She had hoped that her Adam would be the man to form an alliance with Martinson. When Pitt saw her disappointment, he quickly explained that she would be part of the deal, and that she would receive a percentage of the monies.
From that day on, Martinson kept in touch with the anonymous, mysterious backer, without ever realizing who the man was. Even Carol had no idea that the anonymous financier, who went by the code name of The Unicorn was in reality none other than her own friend, Adam Pitt.
Things went well for several months. Thanks to The Unicorn's generous financing, Martinson was able to bring in larger and larger quantities of "the stuff;" instead of a fishing craft, he now brought the drugs ashore in a practically noiseless motor boat. Instead of working alone, he brought into the "business" several able-bodied associates, whose task it was to see to transfer and distribution of the drugs once they reached shore.
About that time Pitt, in his other identity as The Unicorn, hit on the idea of transferring the drugs via small airplanes. After carefully researching the matter, he came upon a remotely situated flying field belonging to The Flying Buzzards, a club, and promptly made arrangements, always making it appear that Adam Pitt, the well-known stock broker, was treating a friend or deserving employee of his company to a paid-up flight. Since many ex-pilots were in the habit of flying small planes as a sort of hobby, in order not to lose all touch with aircraft, such a notion was not at all surprising to the directors of the flying club. As it was, the directors hardly ever looked into the affairs of the club, leaving such matters to their manager. The man in charge, Spencer, was not the sort that would worry unduly about things, so long as he himself was taken care of.
The set-up seemed perfect for Pitt's purpose; the little planes could come and go as they pleased, flying in and out of the air strip below the radar belt set up by the British defense forces. Since neither plane or air strip have any radar of their own, there was little likelihood, if any, of the plane's route ever being traced. When he first thought of the scheme, or rather when The Unicorn first brought it up, Martinson was most enthusiastic. He volunteered that he had taken flying lessons some years before and felt quite adequate to undertaking the task. The Unicorn had some misgivings, since failure on such a mission was not a problem to be taken lightly for all concerned. He would have rather had a professional pilot with long years of experience at the helm of the little plane. But the right man, a man he could trust, was hard to find. As yet it had not occurred to Pitt, alias The Unicorn, to disguise the operation as the smuggling in of expensive tea. Reluctantly, Martinson was given the go-ahead and the following night, he rented a Beachcraft Bonanza at the airfield designated to him by The Unicorn. As it happened, the night was stormy and the sea rough. The ship was late for the rendezvous and the plane had to circle several times until it saw the boat standing offshore, as per instructions. This probably lowered the gasoline supply in the tank, unbeknownst to the pilot. When he took off again, this time with the previous cargo in i�Łs hold, he ran out of fuel halfway between the shore and the flying club. Since Martinson was anything but an experienced pilot, having had but six lessons altogether, he didn't know what to do. Frantically pulling at every button and gadget on the dashboard, he became more and more panicky. Minutes later, the plane, carrying over a million pounds worth of drugs, crashed in the swampy jungle-like forests of the Isle of Wight. Its remnants, including the remnants of Mr. Martinson, were never found again.
Naturally, Pitt did not report it to the police. Since there had been no radio contact with any existing air field, and since the plane had been flying very close to the ground, no one seemed to miss it, except of course, the flying club, its owner. Although Pitt knew very well that the plane was fully insured, he sent the manager a check in the full amount of the plane's worth, claiming to be a wealthy uncle of the unfortunate young man who had crashed "into the sea." For days, Pitt nervously scanned the newspapers, fearing that the remnants of the plane might have been found. He hoped it had crashed into the sea, but he wasn't at all sure. Eventually, he could not bear the doubt any longer: it always troubled him when he could not control things. Carefully tracing the return journey of the plane from the time it had taken off from the little air strip near the seashore, to the time it should have taken it to arrive back at the flying club, he came to the conclusion that the wreck, if any, would have to be found on the western shore of the Isle of Wight, if indeed it had not fallen into the sea, as he hoped.
For several days, he searched the wilderness of the Isle of Wight, disguised as a bird fancier. Eventually, his diligent search bore fruit. In one of the most inaccessible parts of the forest, he came upon the wreck. It had buried itself partly into the ground, but had not exploded. Fortunately, Pitt had a strong cigarette lighter on him. Within a matter of minutes, the wreck was reduced to ashes, including, of course, Mr. Martinson. This Pitt regretted exceedingly, but seeing that the man was already dead, it didn't really matter very much. Fortunately, the cargo had not been damaged too much, and Pitt was able to retrieve it, at least to the extent he could safely carry it on his person. The rest went up in flames, along with his fears that the wreckage might still be found. What was left, he buried in the swamp.
With Martinson dead, things had to be rearranged somewhat. With the kind of genius Pitt had for negotiations, he was able to contact the suppliers in the east directly, thus not only cutting out the middleman, but assuring himself continuing anonymity. Martinson had been the only one who knew that he had ever been in the picture, except for Carol Bygraves. The day after he had disposed of the wreckage, he went to her flat. She was in tears. Apparently, Martinson meant more to her than he had thought at first. In fact, it turned out now that he had been her husband. A fine state of affairs, Pitt thought, with sudden middle class moral indignation. But under the circumstances he offered his condolences, carefully avoiding to tell her that Mr. Martinson and the wreckage had been disposed of. As far as Carol knew, Martinson lay at the bottom of the sea, somewhere betweeen the Splent and the Isle of Wight. Being Martinson's legal widow, however, made things a lot easier for Pitt: explaining that he would turn Martinson's share of the business over to her, even though there was nothing in writing between them, Pitt then suggested that Carol seek residence elsewhere. There was always the possibility that one of Martinson's associates might get into trouble with the police at some later date and talk. He said nothing about continuing the operation, of course.
That could wait until after Carol had been sent abroad. Carol Bygraves was not the brightest of girls. Finding herself suddenly close to about two hundred fifty thousand pounds was more than a temptation. She gladly agreed to take her money in American dollars, even though there was a condition attached to it: she could not take it out of the United States. Pitt saw to it.
As soon as Carol had safely landed in New York, Pitt reactivated the business. His Eastern suppliers were advised that shipments could be received twice monthly now instead of the former once a month. He did this, even though he had not as yet found a replacement for Martinson as the pilot of the little plane. But in an inspired moment he had thought of the tea cover for the operation, and in thinking of it, realized that he needed not be quite as careful in the selection of a pilot. Almost anyone capable of flying the little plane who was eager for some extra pounds might do. Consequently, he ran an ad in the London Times. As a result, he was able to select three potential pilots, but ultimately settled on Charles Carsgrove. On investigation, he had learned that Carsgrove had been in jail on several minor offenses, and was known to bear a grude gainst the government for that reason. He was also nearly destitute when he had answered the ad and Pitt thought that he would be a dependable and psychologically suitable employee for his operation. To be sure, Carsgrove never met Pitt. He received his instructions from The Unicorn. He thought, in all sincerity, that he was bringing expensive tea from the East illegally into Britain, and enjoyed the idea of defying the government.
The initial operation went smoothly. Since that time, twice a month, and as regularly as the monsoons that greatly favor the growing of certain crops in the East would allow, shipments arrived and were promptly handled in a somewhat complicated scheme that assured Pitt success while at the same time continuing the anonymity The Unicorn needed in order to maintain his position.
All this went through Pitt's head this mild spring morning. He was most pleased with himself. For the next twelve days, there was nothing much to do. Consequently, he could be the gentleman-archaeologist he enjoyed being so much, especially as this time there was some real treasure to be found, or so it seemed. The area he wanted to dig in covered roughly one acre of ground, stretching from below the manor house to the seashore. To aid him in his quest, he had hired three sturdy, local hands, men of the village who knew how to handle a shovel. With fine disdain, Pitt had rejected any notion of using mechanized equipment, even though it meant faster and more thorough work. What if the blade of the caterpillar hit his treasure chest and destroyed it? No, Pitt had decided, if the Spaniards of 1588 could bury the gold with their shovels, then he could find it again in the same manner.
By afternoon, it was clear that they were digging in the wrong places. Even though the digs were shallow and more in the nature of test cuts in the soil, just as professional archaeologists do it, it became increasingly clear to Pitt that he was wasting his time. That night, he poured over his map, looking at it from all angles and with all sorts of magnifying glasses. There was nothing new. The following morning, he and his three helpers went at it again. By nightfall, dirty and tired, they returned, again empty-handed. Once more the determined
Pitt pulled out the map and studied it carefully. Again, he came to no different conclusion than that of the previous night. Disgusted and angry, he rose from his chair. In the process, he overturned the little table on which the map had lain. Picking up his precious relic, he realized that he was looking at the back of the map. Suddenly, a strange thought went through his head. Quickly, he spread the map on the table, but with the back facing him. Then he pulled the overhead light down so that he would have all possible illumination and with the strongest magnifying glass in his possession, went over the back of the map, inch by inch. Still, nothing new. Picking the map up with both hands, he held it halfway between the light and the table. What made him do this, Pitt didn't really know. At times he had exhibited a strange sense of intuition, almost extrasensory perception. This was one of those moments. They were rare and could not be commanded, and the intuitive process involved was never very deep. But right now it was a moment of great dramatic impact: for as he held the map against the light, he clearly saw that there were symbols and markings visible in the transparent light which had been invisible when the map was merely illuminated by light falling down upon it. The markings included several tiny crosses and a wavy line. But Pitt's excitement soon abated. He couldn't figure out what the symbols meant. Checking in various books on hidden treasures as well as a book on cryptography yielded no better results. Pitt simply wasn't equipped to decipher so intricate a document as the map had now become. The following day and night he still tried his hand at deciphering the strange symbols. He photographed them, copied them by hand, looked at them again and again with magnifying glasses, but the result was the same. He knew one thing: they meant something and, they were vital to his finding the treasure, since he had been unable to do so by simply digging all over his land. (His land was large enough to keep on digging for years without finding anything.)
Finally, it dawned upon him that he needed help. But who would help him with so outlandish a venture as this? Surely, he could not go to the local police or the British Museum and ask for one of their experts. Besides, that was not the sporting thing to do anyway. Pitt wanted that treasure for himself. He could, of course, ask around the town to see whether any of the older people had any notions as to where such treasure might be buried. Immediately he rejected the idea. If anyone had such information, surely they would keep it to themselves. Pitt knew for some time that his presence in Werrick was not particularly welcome to many of the oldtimers in the town.
Then he had another one of his sudden inspirations. Somewhere he recalled having read of an agent, a specialist who deals in very difficult cases others cannot solve. He recalled a newspaper article, a column in the London Times, speaking of this man, who lived in America, as probably being the nearest to a true Sherlock Holmes that ever lived. The article appeared at least a year ago, he recalled, but that was perhaps enough to go on.
The following morning he went to the city offices of the Times. Since he had a speaking acquaintanceship with one of the editors, it wasn't difficult to do some research in the matter. Within half an hour, a copy of the article was in his hands. The man he was looking for lived in San Francisco and was named Randy Knowles. But the article also stated that he was a difficult man to contact, not likely to take on cases he didn't personally approve of and above all, probably 'booked up' for years ahead. That did not faze Pitt, however. Telephoning the San Francisco offices of a brokerage firm with whom he had been doing business in the past, he managed to obtain Knowles' address without too much difficulty. That very afternoon, a letter on Pitt's most impressive stationery was dispatched to Randy Knowles* formally asking him to enter the case. Pitt did not pull any punches: he presented his case truthfully and with a rare display of candor. The Spanish treasure was on his land and he considered it his. He realized that a museum might have to be notified, but that was a matter to be decided upon after the treasure had been located. All he wanted Mr. Knowles to do was find it for him, beginning with the deciphering of the strange map. Pitt offered to pay a thousand pounds for such services, plus all expenses, of course.
He waited a week for a reply. Since the letter had been sent by registered mail and with return receipt attached, Pitt was sure that it had gotten into Knowles' hands. But either Knowles was out of town or chose to ignore it. Ignoring Adam Pitt was not something he took kindly to. He tried to get Knowles' telephone number, but found it unlisted and the San Francisco telephone operator totally uncooperative. There was only one thing left to do, and Pitt decided to do it. Quickly, he dialed Rowan at her apartment, to do what he had never done before, break a date with her. He then made arrangements to fly to San Francisco that very night.
Chapter 4
Since this was early May, Randy Knowles was "in residence" at his San Francisco house. House was perhaps not the right term for the impressive, three-story townhouse atop Nob Hill, with its seventeen rooms, not counting the cellar and the subterranean garage. The house itself looked like any of the other old houses on the street; somewhat set back from the street, there was a feeling of privacy about it which Randy liked very much. The house next to his looked exactly alike, and if a visitor didn't know where to look for Randy Knowles, he would have never guessed that the world-famous detective and super agent actually made his home in one of those nondescript townhouses. The inside of the house, however, was another matter: there was a cathedral-like atmosphere about the large hall which made the visitor feel he had stepped from one world into a totally different one. A heavy oak door closed the hall off from the noises outside. The hall was adorned with two large hunting scenes, and a heavy bronze candelabra surmounted by a glass-enclosed cluster of electric lights in true Victorian style stood by the wooden staircase which wound its way to the upper stories. Knowles was an art collector, archaeologist and historian. Whatever funds he could spare for his hobby, nay, avocation, archaeology, he put into the best of Roman, Greek and Egyptian excavations he could put his hands on. He also liked Chinese antiquities, in fact anything of unusual style and age. A large vitrine opposite the entrance door contained some of his finest Chinese antiquities. Up one flight, were his study and sleeping quarters as well as the very large library where he did much of his research work. Beyond the second story, the stairs continued to the third floor. Here Randy Knowles maintained a very special guest room, and a couple of smaller rooms. The other half of the second floor was occupied by the apartment belonging to Jeremy, Randy's trusted butler, aide and, in a way, friend. Jeremy represented the entire staff of the establishment. Beyond being the man who saw after the worldly needs of his master, he was at times also involved in some of the detail work of Knowles' cases. While not exactly an apprentice detective, Jeremy had a keen sense of observation, was fearless, although not in matters pertaining to his master. In that respect, he frequently acted like an old maid, warning Knowles of dire consequences if he did not take care of himself, of possible dangers where none existed, and in general showing an almost fatherly interest in his master. There was nothing improper about that, to be sure, but Jeremy took his life's work very seriously: serving Randy Knowles was his life's work.
Above the second floor there was still the attic but that was used only for storage. Below, on the ground floor behind the stairs were a substantial kitchen and a cook's quarters. Since there was no cook at the present, it stood empty. To the left of the hall, there was a magnificent dining room, undoubtedly very much in use during the Victorian period of the house. Randy only used it on rare occasions when he had dinner guests. There was enough tableware and silver to serve twenty-four guests at a sit-down dinner, should he so choose, but Randy wasn't likely to have that many at his house. The most Jeremy could remember were five or six guests, and then Only on special occasions. Knowles liked to keep his private life as private as possible.
Jeremy, a man who was neither too heavy nor too thin, nor too old nor too young, but just perfect for his job as a kind of shadow of his master, had frequently remarked that the house was so perfectly set up that only a woman was missing in it. But Randy was in no hurry to fill that position. Young women came and went from time to time, but in a way, that, too, was part of business. The same reproach could, of course, be made to J eremy. Why had he never settled down? Although slightly balding, and in his middle or late fifties, he was still a good catch, as husbands go. But Jeremy would hear none of that either, preferring to stay on with Randy Knowles. For well onto eight years he had done a perfect job, and since Knowles had never once complained about anything during those eight years, Jeremy felt justly, that he was a much needed cog in the important human machine who was Randy Knowles.
It was nine o'clock in the morning and Randy was at his desk, going over the previous day's mail. Behind him, on the wall, were the framed pictures of some very pretty girls. Such pictures made Randy feel he wasn't exactly alone in his study, and since the room itself was rather on the sober side, every bit helped. There weren't likely to be any unexpected visitors, for Randy had long seen to it that people in general were kept away from him. Only those sent to him by sources he could trust, whether they be police departments or political agencies of sorts, but some sort of go-between, were admitted without further delay. Despite the continuing secrecy of his whereabouts, many people in San Francisco knew where he lived.
Some publicity could not be avoided through the years, and ever since Randy had saved the United States capitol from being blown up, and apprehending the Red Chindvit in the process, his fame as a hero had risen in his own country. Consequently, there were always people with private problems who thought they could employ his services for their own benefit. Those who wrote to Randy, received a courteous reply. Randy did not believe in letting people wonder whether or not he would help them. Of course, if a return envelope had not been enclosed originally, there would be no reply. Randy didn't believe in supporting the post office either. Once in a while, a daring individual came to the door without having an appointment. In such cases, Jeremy ran interference. No one was admitted without an appointment, unless two circumstances prevailed: the caller had a problem involving life and death, or was female and very pretty. Under the latter circumstances, Knowles might ask a few questions before deciding whether or not to take the case on.
Randy was sifting the mail, when he came across Pitt's urgent letter, a telegram which had somehow escaped his attention the night before. Generally, telegrams were read immediately, but this one somehow slipped in with the regular mail. It read, "Help me find buried Spanish treasure. Will cut you in. Incredible adventure a fellow archaeologist simply cannot miss. Am coming to see you tomorrow morning." The telegram was signed, Adam Pitt, London. Since Randy had never heard of Mr. Pitt, he was ready to throw the telegram into the waste paper basket, when something within him made him hesitate. A treasure hunt, no less? If there was anything that would get Randy's attention it was something out of the ordinary, something promising the unusual. Despite the fact that he was constantly dealing in danger, constantly confronted by unusual situations, Randy was still like a little boy when it came to mysterious, secret adventures. Treasure hunting was one of his favorite occupations, except that he rarely worked at it. If this was genuine, and not just another way of getting him involved in some dreary case dealing with lost securities or diamonds, it might be worth listening to the man. While he was still thinking this over, the doorbell rang. He heard Jeremy exchange some words with a man, then Jeremy's somewhat heavy footsteps came up the stairs, there was a knock at his study, and Jeremy entered. "A Mr. Adam Pitt, from London," Jeremy said, waiting with a doubtful look in his eyes. "He has no appointment and we don't know him," he added. More and more Jeremy had taken to the editorial 'we.' He did this not out of any lack of modesty but because he considered himself so much part and parcel of the Knowles establishment that he felt he could very well forego his own identity in such matters. "Show him in," Randy commanded, very much to the surprise of his trusted aide. A moment later, Adam Pitt stood before him. "Sit down and state your business," Randy said, not unpleasantly, but not overcourteously either. Unexpected visitors must not be treated too kindly, lest they think they can do it all the time.
"I'm at my wit's end, Mr. Knowles," Pitt explained, and then put the entire case before Randy. He had brought the map with him, including the mysterious details which could only be seen when the map was held up against a light. Randy was immediately fascinated. "Let me have this for an hour or two," he said, almost commanding. Happily, Pitt agreed, not even worried that Knowles might do something with the map that might go against his interests. He had found out far too much about Knowles' reputation to worry about such matters.
"Jeremy," Randy called out, and when Jeremy appeared at the foot of the stairs, "Give our visitor some coffee and a newspaper. He will wait for me downstairs." Gesturing towards the exit, Randy rose. Pitt understood. He had been told that Randy Knowles was a man of few words, unless he had something to say. Evidently he was going to take the case. Thirty minutes later Randy called him back to his study.
"Well, Mr. Knowles," Pitt couldn't help asking, "will you take my case?" "Perhaps, I haven't decided yet," Randy replied. He held the map in his hand. "I think with some additional work we can get to the bottom of this, it isn't easy, to be sure, but I happen to be an expert in cryptography and I think I can manage it." "I'll g"ive you one fourth of all the gold we find," Pitt said with rare enthusiasm in his voice. Impatiently, Randy waved him aside. "I don't work on speculation. My fee is $10,000. In advance. Plus all expenses, of course."
Without a word, Pitt reached into his vest pocket, took out his check book and wrote out a check for $10,000. Handing Randy the check, he asked, "How soon will you be able to come over?" Randy consulted his desk calendar. "Tomorrow, the Nepalese prime minister is coming, Thursday I'm having lunch with the Senate Committee, Friday is the monthly meeting of the UFO enthusiasts; let me see, I could start Saturday, and be in England by Sunday night. How would that strike you?"
Pitt's face was beaming. "Splendid. Sunday night it is. I will have you picked up at the airport and brought directly to East Anglia, if you don't mind." "Not at all, that will be fine. The sooner I get to the matter at hand, the better. I don't believe in wasting time." The two men shook hands briefly, then Adam Pitt left Randy's study, whistling through his teeth. But even before he had disappeared from sight, Randy was again poring over the map, mumbling to himself and making pencil notes on a little pad next to his desk lamp. When something aroused his interest, he had a go at it almost immediately. That was part of his nature, his agrarian nature.
The room assigned to Randy Knowles was the best guest room Corley Hall could offer. Whether by accident or by design, it was situated on the opposite end of the house from Pitt's room. He knew very well that Randy Knowles was a renowned detective, whose calling would make him curious about a lot of things and Pitt did not want Knowles to step outside the treasure hunting assignment he had given him. As a matter of fact, taking a detective into his own lair, so to speak, presented certain risks. But in the interests of his beloved archaeological hobby, Pitt was willing to take that risk. Besides, he prided himself on being extremely observant, and if Knowles should make a wrong move, Pitt was confident he could deal with it. But he expected nothing untoward, in view of the limited stay Knowles would have at Corley Hall.
The way Pitt saw it, Randy should be able to resolve the little difficulty as to where the treasure was buried in a matter of a week at the most.
Randy brought with him two medium size suitcases. One contained his personal belongings, while the other contained some apparatus he used in cases of this kind. They were measuring instruments that would indicate the presence of metallic objects under ground. Randy wasn't willing to rely on cryptography alone, and the electrical apparatus he had with him was of his own design, capable of picking up metallic objects even at great depth and with an accuracy that would have made the United States Army engineers proud of the design, had they thought of it. For the rest of the evening Randy locked himself into his room, poring again over the map and his notes. During the long flight over the pole he had again thought about the case and come to certain conclusions.
Principally, there were the symbols which had startled Pitt so much: a short wavy line, two crosses, and a large dot, which made absolutely no sense to Randy until he began to understand that they were not ordinary map maker's symbols at all, but private and secret markings. But what did they mean, what did they represent?
The following morning, bright and early, Randy was already walking over the territory. It wasn't going to be easy to pinpoint a treasure or treasure chest in so large an area, he realized immediately. Pitt, too, was restless that Sunday night. He rose a little after Randy, and seeing him from his windows, immediately decided to join him. Randy was standing not far from the seashore, when Pitt came up upon him. Turning around sharply, Randy said�""Yes, Mr. Pitt?" Pitt, somewhat taken aback by this curt question, stammered, "I couldn't sleep either, Mr. Knowles, and so I thought perhaps we could have a go at this together." "I'm terribly sorry, Mr. Pitt," Randy said in a quiet but firm tone of voice. "I don't work that way. You will have to let me look the place over by myself. When I have something to tell you, I'll let you know." With that, Randy turned on his heels and walked away, leaving Pitt dumfounded and angry, angry enough to pounce upon him. But just as quickly Pitt realized that Randy Knowles was one man he could not manipulate. Resignedly, he turned and went back to the house. Rather than to go back to his room, he headed straight for the large reception room which he used as his official office, whenever there were some business dealings taking place at Corley Hall. At the rear of the reception room, with the windows in back, stood an elaborate, beautifully turned Empire desk. This was not an imitation, for if there was one thing Adam Pitt couldn't stand, it was imitations of antique furniture. This desk once stood in Fontainbleau, but was somehow removed when Napoleon fled from that castle. Behind it, there was a matching chair, and two smaller Empire chairs, also fully matching, stood to the left of the desk, to be used by visitors. A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, and on the desk itself there was a small, antique lamp, sufficient to give light to whoever might use the desk, without disturbing the overall grandiose atmosphere of the reception room. The room itself was decorated with a number of fine paintings, all of them in frames of the period. Most of them were eighteenth century scenes, with a few early nineteenth century primitives cleverly interspersed to create a diversified, yet homogenous impression. Pitt himself had seen to the decoration of this room, as he had with most of the house. But even a casual visitor would be drawn not to the paintings decorating the walls but to a centerpiece suspended exactly above the desk: this was a superbly preserved tapestry, perhaps two yards by two yards in circumference, showing the traditional British Lion and Unicorn armorial designs. The tapestry was undoubtedly seventeenth century work; but despite its age, it was perfectly preserved. Why had Adam Pitt chosen this particular antique to grace the space over his desk? The casual visitor might correctly assume that it fitted in well with the layout of the room, and was, in fact, merely part of the decorations. But anyone coming close to the desk, and looking directly at the tapestry, especially when Mr. Pitt was occupying the chair behind the desk, would immediately be impressed by a curious set of circumstances: The face of the Unicorn in the tapestry and Mr. Adam Pitt's face showed a remarkable resemblance.
As Randy went further and further away from Corley Hall, and closer to the seashore, he was filled with a strange sense of excitement, not uncommon with those who have strong psychic abilities. For Randy Knowles was more than merely a clever detective or agent, he had a strong talent in the field of extrasensory perception, and could at times obtain information without the help of the ordinary five senses, or whatever passes as them nowadays. At this very moment, Randy felt he was getting closer to what he was looking for. Of course, there was no way in which this could be confirmed objectively. He was heading towards a gentle elevation, which stood perhaps twenty to twenty-five yards away from the seashore. The elevation immediately attracted his attention: although there were other such small hills in the immediate vicinity, this one was different. While all the other hills were covered with green bushes and a few trees, this one was totally devoid of all vegetation except grass. It seemed to Randy that something in the sub-surface of the hill was preventing anything larger from getting roots. Perhaps this was wishful thinking on Randy's part, but it bore investigation. Randy made a note to look into this elevation, possibly with a spade, on some future occasion. For the present, he wanted to get an impression of the entire territory so that he would not overlook any alternate possibilities. Above all, he was still looking for the meaning of the little wavy line, the two crosses and the large dot. As he was walking past the elevation which had just attracted him, he suddenly became aware of something shimmering in the distance. Quickening his steps, he reached the shimmering surface about three minutes later. It turned out to be water. What he saw was a small, deeply cut brook, emptying into the sea near this point. His Sixth Sense told him that there was something very familiar about this little brook. As yet, he did not know what it was, but something within him made him retrace his steps and return to the brook. Still, no revelation came to him. Carefully, he looked around. About fifteen or twenty yards to the west, he noticed another small elevation. In every respect it was similar to the elevation he had just left. His eyes followed the little brook from where he first saw it all the way down to the sea. He began to get his bearings; 'A tree, there's got to be a tree,' he thought feverishly. Quckly, he walked towards the elevation in the distance, jumping across the brook without difficulty. At the most, it was a yard and a half wide. Evidently it was the result of age-old corrosion, for its bed lay at least another yard below the surface of the surrounding land. As soon as he had reached the gentle elevation to the west of the brook he halted, and turned around. Gazing back towards the area whence he had just come, he let go with a subdued but nevertheless triumphant 'Eureka' which, as every ancient Greek knows, means, 'I've got it, I've got it.' What Randy had was in fact a different perspective from the one he had been going on earlier. Somehow he had gotten the wrong elevation to start with, and now that he had found the right one, everything seemed to fall into place. There, on the right, not more than ten yards away, stood a lone tree. Randy dared not gaze to the left, out of fear that there might be some other landmark on that end of the trail as well. Sure enough, there it was: again, a lone tree which had somehow survived the ages and storms of the area. The two crosses, Randy thought, visualizing the map before his inner eye. The little wavy line, quite obviously, was the brook; if the two crosses signified the two lone trees, then what did the black dot mean? In vain, Randy looked for some other telling landmark in the area. There was simply nothing at all, the land between the two trees was flat and uninteresting. There was only one solution, he thought, finally, the dot meant the location of the treasure, and nothing else. Randy took the copy he had made of the map and looked at it very carefully: if the spot he was standing on was the point of view of the map maker, and he had every reason to assume that it was, then the coveted spot lay directly ahead of him, on the other side of the little elevation, just beyond the brook and equidistant from the two trees. All that remained now to make sure where the location was, was to measure the distance between the two trees and halve it. No sooner thought than done. Taking a silken tape measure from his pocket, a tool he always carried on him, Randy proceeded to measure the distance from tree to tree, then divided it in half and solemnly walked to the spot indicated by his measurements. Falling onto his knees on the spot indicated by his calculations to examine it more closely, he failed to notice a small movement to his right. Eventually, however, the trained ear of the professional investigator got his alarm system working. He became aware that someone was watching him intently. Quickly jumping to his feet, and turning in the direction in which his intuition told him the intruder was, he managed to just glimpse the back of a man swiftly running in the opposite direction. Evidently, he had been standing behind the rather large tree to the left, watching Randy for curiosity's sake or for reasons of his own.
Randy thought it not unusual for someone to watch him, since he was a stranger in the area and his behavior during that hour had been unusual indeed. Perhaps this was someone sent by his employer, and if so, he would have to have a word with him. On the other hand, it might be someone from town who was curious about the stranger in their midst. One way or another, it didn't worry Randy. His mind filled with calculations, wondering whether his spot was indeed the right one, Randy decided to return to the manor house. Carefully marking the spot which he believed was the right location with some dye he had taken from his pocket, he then began to walk back towards the town. Rather than return straight to Corley Hall, Randy thought it might be useful to get an impression of the little town, or, as he liked to put it, "to look around a bit." The road from the coast was a minor dirt road, not particularly well kept. Consequently, Randy's shoes were soon covered with dust and dried mud. Soon he found himself close to the first houses, a few scattered cottages, nicely painted in white and pink, forming the outer limits of Werrick.
Evidently prosperity had not overlooked little Werrick. Several new buildings were in the process of being constructed on the edge of town. A particularly substantial house, almost completed, attracted Randy's undivided attention. What was the purpose of building so large a house in so little a place? he asked himself. What he didn't know, of course, was that this was not a private house at all but a condominium, which was to be sold to several owners. It was the latest craze in apartments, and though of doubtful value to the owner in the long run, apparently appealed to people with ready cash on hand.
A few of the workers were still on hand, even though it was close to the lunch hour. "Fascinating," Randy mumbled, looking up at the huge, French-made crane, which was able to lift entire sections into the air and then drop them into place from above. Just then the crane went into operation, carefully lifting a bundle of steel rails, which it would then drop onto the top floor of the nearly completed building. Slowly the crane swung around, passing over Randy's head. He watched with utter fascination as the crane prepared to drop its load into place. His enchantment with things mechanical, however, did not prevent his Inner Voice from reaching him at this critical moment: a warning bell sounded deep within him, and without knowing why, he quickly jumped aside. A fraction of a second later, the heavy load of steel rails crashed to the ground where he had just stood. Evidently the crane operator had miscalculated the distance and dropped his load in the wrong place by mistake. What a horrible way to die, Randy thought. Surely, the operator must be horrified at his mistake. Looking straight at the man in the cabin, Randy thought he noticed anything but an expression of horror. To him, even at a distance he observed from, the operator's face showed more disappointment than horror. Randy began to wonder whether it hadn't perhaps been an accident at all. But who would want to kill him, here, in this little town? Surely, not Mr. Pitt, who needed him more than anything at this moment. To his knowledge, Randy had no enemy in Werrick. But one could never be too sure, if one was Randy Knowles. Still, he couldn't be sure: perhaps it was an accident, after all. He walked through the main street of Werrick, noticing the little shops, and the two churches, one Church of England, and the other Roman Catholic, for there were still quite a few adherents of the old faith in Werrick. By now the shops had closed for the noon hour. He passed by the quaint little shop where Mr. Anguish sold antiquities.
Eventually, Randy returned to Corley Hall. Pitt was nowheres to be seen, so Randy went straight to his room. Some undefinable feeling convinced him that someone else had just been to the room, perhaps only minutes before his arrival. Randy prided himself of his talent of psychometry, the ability to get impressions from the atmosphere of a place concerning individuals who might have been in it, lived in it or even died in it. Right now, Randy had the distinct feeling that somebody had invaded the privacy of his room a short time before. Carefully, he let his eyes wander about the room before going any further. One could never tell, perhaps some hidden trap was about to be sprung on him, or perhaps the intruder was still present. He immediately rejected this notion, for he would have been able to tell the presence of a flesh and blood human being by his psychic sense. Then his eyes passed the window and he noticed something white stuck under the left window frame. Quickly retrieving it, he opened it up and found it to be a small piece of paper on which someone had written with rough, untutored writing. "Go home, Mr. Knowles. The Spaniards don't want their peaceful sleep disturbed." There was no signature, no telltale mark concerning the author of this crude warning. From the appearance of it, Randy immediately deduced that it had been the work of one of the local people. Handwriting, wording, all seemed to indicate a rather unsophisticated individual as the author. He wondered whether he should advise Pitt of the incident, and for that matter, of the earlier incident with the crane, for by now Randy was convinced that it hadn't been an accident. Immediately he rejected this notion. True, Pitt might be able to put him close to some leads concerning the possible perpetrator. On the other hand, Randy wasn't altogether clear about Pitt's own role in all this, and until he was, he preferred to work on his own, and alone. Since Pitt was evidently not at home, Randy decided to return to the town. Ten minutes later he was walking down the silent main street again. He decided to have lunch at a Werrick tavern. Walking under a colorful metal sign showing a red lion, Randy went into the main dining room of the Red
Lion Inn, apparently the best of three possible inns in the area. The menu was simple, and the man who came to serve him evidently the owner. Randy's clothes must have been an immediate giveaway, for the innkeeper asked how things were back in America. After some light banter, Randy inquired whether the legend about some Spanish treasure found off the coast some time ago was indeed true. "Oh no," the innkeeper replied, "it hasn't been found yet, sir, the rest is true enough." "Has it not?" Randy said, displaying all the naive, curiosity of a typical American tourist. "Yes, sir," the innkeeper volunteered. "Lots of people would like to find it all right, but so far nobody rightly knows where exactly it is at. Maybe some know, but they wouldn't talk about it." "Do you know?" Randy said, looking the innkeeper straight into the face. The man seemed ill at ease at so innocent a question, and turned his head sideways. "No, sir," he finally replied, "I wouldn't know. But they say that a few people hereabouts do know and they are keeping the secret well." Then he turned to face Randy head on, his mien serious now, and added, "Some strangers, too, like to find the treasure, but likely as not, they are not going to. People hereabouts don't like strangers to find their treasures. You can understand that." "Seems reasonable," Randy acknowledged.
With the meal finished, Randy decided on a plan of action. He was convinced that the innkeeper wasn't going to tell him anymore than he wanted to, that perhaps he knew all about Randy and was merely conveying another, more gentle warning. When he had paid his bill, Randy remarked that he intended to go up towards the seashore and have a look around, and he thought he saw a sudden flash cross the innkeeper's face, as if in anger. Randy waited ten minutes more, to make sure that the intelligence of his intentions was spread to the.right people. Standing in the shade of a century-old maple tree, but out of sight from the innkeeper's door, he did not have to wait very long. Five minutes later, the innkeeper hurriedly came from the inn, walking rather briskly in the direction of the edge of town, where Randy had pased earlier that day. So he is one of them, Randy thought, with satisfaction, now let us see who the others are. Waiting a few minutes more, he then started back for the edge of town, walking rather slowly and conspicuously. He took to the middle of the road, not only because he wanted to be observed, but because that was the safest way of walking when one might encounter bricks falling off a roof, or other objects suddenly appearing out of nowheres, bent on hitting one on the head with fatal intentions.
When he passed the building where the crane had almost killed him, he did not stop. Surely, they wouldn't try the same trick twice. But that was one of Randy's rare and truly unusual mistakes. He really didn't understand the mind- of the Werrick people. They were simple, stubborn, country people, frequently one-track minded and not easily swayed from a path once they had embarked upon it. As he found himself about twenty yards from where the crane stood, he heard a rumbling sound from behind him, seemingly coming closer. Quickly he turned, just in time to jump aside, but not quickly enough to avoid altogether being grazed by a heavy roll of barbed wire, rolling downhill towards him. Had he not jumped in time, the heavy weight of the roll would undoubtedly have crushed him, apart from the damage the barbed wire itself could have inflicted. As it was, he found that his leg had received a deep and bloody gash, deep enough to demand immediate attention. Quickly making a tourniquet from his handkerchief, he retraced his steps to the inn, despite the pain in his leg. The innkeeper had since returned, and indicated where the nearest doctor was.
It so happened that the doctor's house was across the street from the inn. Ringing Dr. Richard Grave's doorbell somewhat impatiently, Randy realized that whoever wanted him out of the way, surely meant business.
A moment later, he was in the doctor's surgery. Administering first aid with deft hands, Dr. Graves startled Randy by not even inquiring how he had incurred the injury. After the wound had been cleaned and bandaged, and Randy was ready to pay the doctor for his troubles, he couldn't help asking, whether the doctor was curious as to how the wound had been inflicted upon him. "Not really," Dr. Graves, a thirtyish, prematurely balding and lanky man in tweed clothes replied, "We people in Werrick like to mind our own business." Randy thought he detected a note of bitterness in this remark. Perhaps his nerves were a bit edgy, but the doctor's strange behavior in not inquiring how the injury had been caused made Randy wonder whether the doctor wasn't also in sympathy with those who wanted to stop him from finding the treasure. It was time to do something about these threats to his life.
Asking the doctor for directions to the nearest police station, he then went on his way to make a report. Constable Derek Slaughter was an affable, ruddy-cheeked man in his middle fifties. He was seated behind a comfortable desk, studying some reports before him. His collar was a bit loosened, no doubt due to the warm weather, but it appeared to Randy that such loosening of the collar would be unthinkable for a metropolitan policeman. The Constable evidently thought so too, for as soon as he became aware of the fact that he had a visitor, he straightened his tie and sat back rather stiffly. Without waiting for a formal invitation, Randy sat down in the chair placed in front of the desk. "I'd like to report two cases of attempted murder and one threatening note," he remarked in a casual tone of voice. "Really?" the Constable said and arched his eyebrows. "Who are you anyway?" "My name is Randy Knowles, I'm a guest of Mr. Adam Pitt, and I'm an Honorary Commander of the British Police Association, if that interests you," Randy said, calmly. "I daresay," the Constable said, somewhat shaken by this.
Randy then went on to describe in every detail what had occurred, without, however, mentioning his suspicions of the innkeeper or the doctor. He did, however, describe the crane operator's face at the time of the attempted murder, since that was necessary to establish a motive. The Constable went through the usual routine of taking it all down. "We'll let you know what transpires," he finally said, looking up from his papers, "I suggest you go back to Corley Hall and stay there. As a matter of fact, sir, if I were you, I would not venture outdoors for the time being." He gave Randy a stern look, which was supposed to be meaningful and threatening. A suspicion rose in Randy. Was the Constable in on it, too? In so small a place as Werrick, it seemed unlikely that a major secret like the hidden Spanish treasure would not be known to all those who were in charge of running the town affairs; the innkeeper, the doctor, and the Constable would be the logical choices to know about such local secrets. Of course, Randy had no proof whatsoever that the Constable knew anything about it. He had act ad correctly, taken a certain interest in Randy's wound, as if he personally regretted it, and been as helpful as his position permitted. No, Randy decided, the Constable couldn't possibly be in on anything illegal.
Although the wound caused him some pain, Randy did not want the Constable to see him limp. He rose rather abruptly and said, "I'm terribly sorry, but I can't take your advice just yet. You see, I am under obligation to pursue the matter of the hidden treasure."
Quite obviously, the Constable seemed interested. That again, Randy argued, might be due to his official position. After all, anyone digging for Spanish treasure in the territory covered by this police officer, would be a subject for his interest. "Might I ask for whom you are undertaking this search?" the Constable asked. "Not at all," Randy replied. "I am here at the request of Mr. Adam Pitt. There is nothing illegal or secret about my activities. Mr. Pitt has a right to search on his own grounds. If he finds anything, he will undoubtedly advise the proper authorities, such as the>British Museum. My job is to assist him in whatever way I can." Randy thought that Pitt might not have felt too happy about his making these disclosures, but under the circumstances he had to know whether he was working against a combine in the town, or whether there was some outside interest involved. Disclosing these details here, to the Constable, would also test his involvement or lack of same, with the others who seemed to be bent on Randy's destruction. "Certainly, certainly," the Constable replied, "I was just wondering." "If it's all right with you, Constable," Randy said, turning to leave, "I'll be going along now. I think I need some rest." "I think that's a jolly good idea," the Constable said cheerfully, and helped Randy out the door.
As a matter of fact, Randy did need some rest. The wound started to act up rather badly and elevatoring the leg would unquestionably help it. There was enough time later on to go back to the area where he had discovered the concordance with the map.
For Adam Pitt not to be present while the man he had hired to search for his treasure was doing his job was indeed a sacrifice. But a situation had come along which had required his immediate presence in London. Early that morning, a shipment had unexpectedly arrived off Southampton. Although he had not been prepared for it, Pitt thought it was too good an opportunity to let slip by. Consequently, he had rushed to his London office to get the necessary people to help him. The trouble with such unexpected shipments was that the same reliable workers, whom he had used on previous occasions, weren't always available on short notice. Naturally, there were other jobs, other employers around and to men of that type moving around frequently presented certain advantages. As it was, he managed to get three substitutes from his considerable file of potential workers. Luckily, Carsgrove was available. Having but one pilot to fly his missions also worried Pitt considerably. He had for some time thought of taking flying lessons himself, but dismissed the idea on several grounds. His identity as The Unicorn might be endangered, apart from the fact that he didn't think of himself as the flying type. Under the circumstances, he kept his eyes open for a likely prospect to train as a second pilot, when and if the occasion arose. Since he had to stay in London that evening, he made a late date with his beloved Rowan, who was used to late dates, not only with him but with others. By eleven o'clock Pitt was confident the shipment would be well on its way and he in her arms.
At seven o'clock Randy woke up. The rest had done him lots of good, and the pain in his leg had largely subsided. Carefully, he tested it, and it seemed he would be able to walk about a bit, so long as he did not overdo things. Mrs. Berries, the cook, made him a superb dinner which was a far cry from the luncheon he had indulged in at the inn. Engaging her in conversation was of no great value, for Mrs. Berries had not lived in Werrick very long, and anyway, rarely went out or mixed with the local people.
Promptly at nine, Randy slipped a water pistol into his pocket, and put on a pair of firm shoes. Then he bound some thick bandages around his leg to give the wound some support, put his notes into his breast pocket, and took a large flashlight from his suitcase. He was now ready to return to the place where he had suspected treasure. The water pistol, incidentally, looked exactly like the real article; but it was one of Randy Knowles' cardinal principles never to use a real gun on anyone, not to kill, not to maim, not to use a lethal weapon of any kind on another human being. Such a philosophy had at times nearly cost him his own life, but it was part and parcel of his approach to solving crimes and problems, and he was quite sure that he could do so with the help of his superior intelligence, his extrasensory powers, and all those other special talents nature had so generously endowed him with, and not with the help of brutal force.
He waited until he heard Mrs. Berries go up to her room, for he did not want her to know that he was going out again, having just complained how bad his wound was. As far as Mrs. Berries was concerned, he had stumbled over some sharp stones at the garden entrance, and cut himself. Fifteen minutes later he was back on the road towards the seashore, and the little elevation which had originally misled him, loomed up ahead of him in the dark. Fortunately, the moon was waxing, and would be full within a matter of two or three days. Thus the landscape was far from dark and he could readily distinguish the various landmarks. Again, he reached the two trees and the little brook. At this point Randy did something that seemed very unlike the work of a secret agent. He took the flashlight from his pocket, turned it on and described a full circle with it, as if he were signaling someone at a distance. Then he walked up to a spot halfway between the two trees, sat down on the ground with the flashlight in his hand; from time to time he got up again, walked a few steps in either direction, as if he were looking for something, only to return to his sitting position with the flashlight in one hand. "It shouldn't be long now," he mumbled to himself. With that he turned the light off abruptly.
Sitting in darkness, with only the moonlight to help him distinguish distance and anything moving in the landscape, Randy was able to use his extrasensory perception to good advantage. Within a matter of a minute, he picked up the vibrations of one or several human beings, not too far away. Closing his eyes in order to get his bearings even better, he visualized three men slowly moving towards him. So sure was he of his psychic impression, that he took the water pistol from its hiding place in his pocket, and even cocked the trigger. Nearer and nearer came the three invisible ones. By now Randy could hear them walk, even with his ordinary senses. No matter how quiet they tried to be, occasionally a small pebble was being overturned and in the silence of the night, such small noises count.
It was time to act. Swiftly taking off his jacket, and draping it over the ground, Randy placed his flashlight next to it. Then he crouched down as close to the ground as he could and crept about three yards away from the jacket. There was a small depression in the ground at that point Randy had noticed during the day, and he made himself comfortable in that depression now. From his hip pocket he took another flashlight, this one very small, but having an intense, laser-like beam, which could blind a person if shone directly at his eyes. On the other hand, if a filtering device between bulb and lens was activiated, it could illuminate a small scene almost like daylight. Now the movement of some large animal or some human beings was quite distinctly audible. A moment later, three figures appeared silhouetted against the large tree, one of the two trees forming the landmarks Randy had discovered on the old map. Hesitating in their approach, the three moved nevertheless steadily towards the spot where Randy's coat and the large flashlight were. To a person standing several yards away, it looked as if Randy were down on his knees looking for something or possibly digging. Then one of the men, the heavy-set innkeeper, Randy thought, jumped forward and pounced upon the coat and flashlight. Since there was no Randy underneath, the man fell flat to the ground, crying out in the process, perhaps from surprise if not from pain, since the flashlight might have hurt his stomach. The other two ran to his rescue. At this moment Randy turned his high intensity light upon them, stood up with the gun in his hand commanded, "If you will please raise your arms," and as they tried to shield their eyes from the beam of his flashlight, he added, "and keep them up." He then walked closely to the little group which stood with their arms in the air. Shining his flashlight into each man's face in turn, he saw that his suspicions had been correct. It was the innkeeper, the doctor and the Constable. "Very well," Randy said, in a calm, civilized tone of voice. "I know who you are and you know who I am. This is no place to talk. Let us meet in half an hour at the inn, in the back room. Agreed?" The men seemed surprised at this turn of events. Then the Constable spoke. "Agreed. We shall be there." "Fine," Randy replied, "A note of warning, though, if anything should happen to me, the authorities in London will turn to the three of you. I took care of this an hour ago." The three men said nothing, but trudged back to the town without looking back. A moment later, Randy picked up his jacket, extinguished the little light and returned to Corley Hall. It had been a rewarding evening after all.
But the evening was far from over. Half an hour later, Randy entered the back room of the inn. At this hour there were few people in the front room since the people of Werrick rise early and go to bed early. In the corner, seated around a long, wooden table, the glum trio was already waiting. "Very well," Randy began, and took a seat opposite them, "Why were you trying to kill me?" "You have no business going after our treasure," the doctor began. "What do you mean, your treasure?" Randy demanded to know. The doctor looked at the Constable, not sure as to who should explain things, but then continued. "I spent better than twelve years studying the area," the doctor said, "I've been digging on my own here and there, and finding various artifacts. But not the real treasure. Two years ago I joined forces with my two friends here and we decided to pool our resources. We've been researching in old documents and maps ever since. It has cost us a pretty penny at that. But we don't mind, because we believe the treasure is still there. We have put in more work than anyone we know, and it belongs to us, that is whatever the museum won't take. Between the three of us, we've invested more than five thousand pounds in this venture since we started, and we are not about to lose it to a stranger."
"Even at the cost of murdering me?" The Constable swallowed hard. "Even at that cost," the doctor replied, "Yes, because it isn't right for you to come in and take it away from us." "But the land belongs to Mr. Pitt," Randy interjected. "When we started to look for it, the land did not belong to Mr. Pitt," the doctor replied, "We have a legal license from the previous owner to dig as much and as long as we want to." "But why didn't you tell this to Mr. Pitt when the property was sold?" "We told the broker, but he rejected our claims." "Then why don't you go to court, why don't you do it the legal way?" "First we have to find it, then we fight." "And if I find it first, you have nothing to fight about, is that it?" Randy said. The doctor nodded. "Now look here," Randy said, with as sharp a tone of voice as he was able to muster, "You have almost killed a man, namely me, you are trying to defy Adam Pitt's legal rights to whatever is on his property. I can have you all arrested for attempted murder, I can have you, Constable, removed from office, and you Doctor disbarred from practicing medicine. Your license, Innkeeper, isn't worth a damn when I get through with you. What's more, there isn't a thing you can do about it now. I have deposited all the pertinent information with the proper authorities in London. You will be arrested in a matter of hours." "Then what are we here for? There's nothing to talk about," the doctor said with belligerence in his voice and rose. "Sit down, Doctor," Randy replied, somewhat calmer in tone. Arresting these men now wouldn't serve his purpose, nor Adam Pitt's, what with the resultant publicity. In a matter of hours, the area would swarm with amateur diggers and journalists. This had to be handled differently.
"I am prepared to make a bargain with you, even though you don't deserve it," he said. "I will withhold my accusations against the three of you provided you stay out of my business. If and when the Spanish treasure is found, and if it is on the grounds belonging to Adam Pitt, you may put forward your legal claims to it in the proper way, through the courts. I would be the first one to support your rights in that respect. But until the treasure is found, you will do nothing, I repeat nothing, to interfere with me or my work. Is that clear?" For a moment, none of the three spoke. Then the Constable said, somewhat quivering, "Seems we don't have much of a choice, do we?" "I will have to have your absolute words to this. If there is the slightest further interference, I will automatically have you arrested." Randy looked at them as if he meant it, which in fact he did. Only that way could he be persuasive. The three men still hesitated. "I'll leave you alone for a moment so you can talk it over," Randy said and walked away from the table.
Half a minute later the doctor came to fetch him back. "We accept your proposition, Mr. Knowles," he said in a tired tone of voice. "There will be no further interference, and we will take court action when and if the treasure is discovered." Randy Knowles looked at them, from face to face. They seemed sincere enough. Strange fellows, he thought, these townspeople, so bent on protecting their local rights. "Goodnight, gentlemen," he said, and walked out the door.
Chapter 5
That night Randy slept soundly, not even perturbed by the kind of nightmares people have after unusual happenings during the day. Randy's nightmares, of course, never bothered him anyway, otherwise he would never close an eye. Evidently the events of the previous night had exhausted him more than he had assumed, for he slept well into the next day. He was awakened by the sound of voices outside the house. Amongst them he recognized the well modulated but somewhat forceful voice of Adam Pitt. Under the circumstances, Randy got dressed quickly, and descended the stairs to meet his employer. "Well, now," Pitt said, looking at Randy expectantly. "I haven't had breakfast yet," Randy replied, and smiled politely, "and until I do, I cannot really think straight. All genial people are that way, you know." "Quite," Pitt replied, seriously, either ignoring Randy's quip or not understanding it. Pitt was in a jovial mood himself this morning. The operation would net him close to half a million pounds, and that wasn't bad for a day's work. If it weren't for the continual need to find reliable personnel to work with, Pitt would be quite content to have his periodical "operation" and to live the life of an amateur archaeologist and art collector in between. The police and the authorities never worried him, somehow. He knew that he could take care of them when the time came, but he didn't envision such a time. Not only had his financial affairs gone well, he expected his lady friend,
Rowan, to join him towards evening, just as soon as she could get away from rehearsal. Under the circumstances, it promised to be a pleasant evening in the country. But he was eager to hear what Randy had discovered.
His constitution fortified by a hearty breakfast, Randy Knowles proceeded to tell Pitt what he had discovered concerning the symbols on the map. "Why, of course," Pitt exclaimed, when it was all explained to him. This was no empty boast of a johnny-come-lately discoverer, for Pitt took his treasure hunting very seriously. He did understand what Randy discovered, and was delighted with it. Insisting that they inspect the area immediately, he grabbed Randy's arm and started to walk out the door fast.
Only then did he notice a slight limp Randy could not well disguise. "What happened to you?" Pitt said with the genuine concern of a father worrying about one of his children. Under the circumstances, Randy could not very well invent some innocent cause for his injury. Besides, he had no reason to suspect that Pitt would take umbrage at the little plot he had discovered in town. After all, Randy had disposed of the matter and Pitt should be grateful that there hadn't been any bloodshed. There was nothing in Randy's knowledge of Pitt to indicate that Pitt was anything more than a sharp businessman and under the circumstances he felt quite safe in telling him what had occurred the night he came back from his first inspection of the area.
As soon as Randy had intimated that others knew of the treasure, Pitt's face grew tense and his expression was suddenly that of an angry hawk, rather than an amiable amateur archaeologist. Randy couldn't help notice the sudden change in his employer's mien. Quietly Pitt asked some questions about the people Randy had dealt with. Evidently Pitt knew the ringleaders of the little plot, and the doctor especially seemed not to be amongst Pitt's favorites. "The doctor is a snooper of the worst kind," Pitt commented. "I've found him wandering around my property time and again without real excuse. If I weren't such a peaceful man, I'd take a shotgun and go after him one of these days." "There is no need to worry," Randy assured Pitt, "I have the three men in a bind: If they make a single move, I will have them arrested for attempted murder." "Quite," Pitt replied, with, it seemed to Randy, a distracted expression in his face.
They had now reached the little brook and Randy explained about the two trees serving as landmarks. "Then the dig should be undertaken somewhere around here," Pitt said and pointed to an area west of the brook, roughly halfway between the two trees. Randy consulted his copy of the map. "Yes. The exact location is of course another matter, and we may have to test dig in an area of roughly one hundred square yards, but we are pretty close here."
"Well done," Pitt said and patted Randy on the shoulder. Randy hated physical expressions of approval, especially in business matters, but Pitt seemed genuinely pleased at the prospects. To him, actual finding of the teasure was merely a routine matter. As they walked back to Corley Hall, Pitt detailed his plans. If the weather would hold, the dig could start tomorrow. If not, not later than the day after. Pitt saw no need for outside personnel; Bangs, the chauffeur, Bullets, the gardener and even Ludlow, the butler, along with Pitt himself and
Randy would form the team. Randy realized that the decision not to use professional help was not dictated by financial considerations, but by Pitt's distrust of local people. That was alright with him, the soil v/as soft and they should not have too much difficulty digging into it. He looked up at the sky. It was no longer sunny but covered by gray clouds, indicating that rain was imminent. While the rain might be useful in softening the earth up even further, digging in the rain was out of the question. Back at the house, Pitt excused himself and went to his office. Carefully closing the door behind him, Randy heard the clicking of a key. Evidently Mr. Pitt didn't really trust anyone but himself. Randy shrugged: It really wasn't his business whether Mr. Pitt was secretive or not. His job, Randy reminded himself again, was to help find the treasure. Even the strange behavior by the local people didn't perturb him, he considered the crude attempts to do away with him merely expressions of extreme competition. Had he been able to listen to the telephone conversation now being engaged in by Mr. Pitt, perhaps Randy would have had some doubts about his employer. As things stood, he decided to return to his room and minister to his injured foot.
As soon as Pitt had locked the door behind him, he picked up the telephone and rang his office. Dutifully, McPherson answered. "McPherson," Pitt said, "go to the file and get me the telephone number for Noonan Jack. You will find it under Miscellaneous. Right." A moment later, McPherson had found the desired number. Everything was quiet at the office, he informed his chief, although the latter had not inquired after it. Curtly, Pitt dismissed his secretary, then dialed the other number.
He was in luck. Noonan Jack answered the phone. "This is a friend of Martinson's,"Pitt began. "We have worked together in the past. Shortly before my friend's death, he suggested I get in touch with you if ever I needed some help." There was a pause at the other end of the line. "What sort of help do you need?" The voice sounded pure Whitechapel. "I'm having some trouble with three fellows who are constantly encroaching on my property," Pitt explained in a businesslike voice, not too loud, as if he had to be careful of anyone listening in. Actually, the walls at Corley Hall were thick enough to exclude any such possibility. "Why don't you call the police?" Jack answered. "Oh, it isn't as simple as that. One of them is the police, they have just tried to kill one of my best friends and associates." "That's different," Jack said, somewhat more interested now. "Can you give me the details?"
In all the years of his illicit trade, Pitt had been very careful not to get involved in murder or a major crime. He had always emphasized the need not to have any violence, not to cause any bloodshed, because it would only lead to investigations he did not want. Thus far, the men had been very careful, and The Unicorn had managed to stay off the police blotter altogether. The nearest he had ever come to an official investigation was at the time when Martinson crashed.
But he didn't feel that way about his archaeological interests: that wasn't The Unicorn speaking, that was Adam Pitt, and the encroachment upon his rights and property weighed very heavily on his mind. Trying to kill Randy Knowle did not upset him per se, but being deprived of the services of the one man who could lead him to the treasure was something else again. Under the circumstances, something had to be done about the men who were apparently trying to prevent him from getting what he wanted. The instructions were explicit enough: Remove the three from the scene. He did not say, kill them. He sj?*d, remove them, and left the details to Noonan Jack, a professional who would find his own ways of dealing with the task at hand. When he hung up the telephone, Pitt was satisfied that his orders would be obeyed as quickly as possible. The sum Jack asked in return was no larger than any first class detective agency would have asked for merely surveilling the three men. There would be nothing in writing, and the payoff would be in cash, in small bills deposited according to Jack's instructions. Although Pitt did not think for a moment that Randy could become cognizant of his orders, he felt it best not to let him know what was about to happen to the three men who had assaulted him. He did not know how Randy would react. It was best to set the scene beforehand, before Randy could become suspicious over the absence of the three men.
Later that afternoon, Pitt, his jovial self, knocked at Randy's door to inquire how his wound was. "Satisfactory, sir," Randy replied. After some discussion of the weather, and the likelihood that it would rain in the morning, Pitt started to take his leave, asking Randy to be down for dinner in an hour. At the door, he hesitated, turned, and said in as casual a tone of voice as he could muster, "Oh, by the way, I wouldn't be surprised if those three fellows who have been after you won't be around for awhile. Cook tells me the doctor's cook saw him pack as if he were going on a long trip." "Perhaps," Randy agreed, "but I doubt that the Constable could just leave his post." "Oh yes, he could," Pitt replied, somewhat more emphatically than necessary. "As a matter of fact I think he will." When Randy looked at him with genuine astonishment, he added, "You see, Mr. Knowles, I happen to have excellent connections with Scotland Yard. I didn't want to make a big fuss over this since you clearly indicated you did not like me to do so, but I did do one thing, for my own protection as well as yours, and that was to request that the good Constable be sent somewhere else for awhile. I hope you don't mind." That takes care of two of them, Pitt thought and Knowles wasn't likely to go down to the inn anyway now that Pitt was back at Corley Hall.
That evening, at dinner, Pitt was in an unusually gay mood. Mrs. Berries had prepared an exceptionally fine dinner in the grand manner, Pitt himself had brought some of his best French wines up from the cellar, and to make things even more enjoyable, he had asked his friend Rowan to bring another girl along to keep Randy company that evening. The girl turned out to be a fellow actress by the name of Agatha Moals. Whether by accident or by design, Agatha was everything Rowan was not and vice-versa. Rowan, resplendent in a silver lame outfit, reaching down to her ankles but displaying her ample upper proportions to very good advantage at the same time, with her red hair cascading over her shoulders in a most romantic fashion, was the exact opposite of Agatha, dressed in a turtleneck sweater and tight skirt. Agatha was an attractive girl, perhaps twenty-five years old, with a slim, but extremely well-proportioned figure. The tightness of the sweater and skirt brought it out to best advantage, and Randy couldn't help wondering what she might be like without them.
The conversation was light and brittle, mainly about the state of the London theatre, and what had recently opened and what the critics had said about it. Agatha wasn't as much of a chatterer as her friend, Rowan, but she contributed a bit here and there, all the time focusing her attention on Randy. Evidently she had been told beforehand that she was his date and she tried to get as much of a bearing concerning him as she could. With all her theatrical savvy, Agatha was apparently overawed by the famous detective from America, and Randy caught her blushing on several occasions, when he happened to be looking in her direction.
By eleven o'clock, everyone was pretty much in high spirits, some of these spirits had undoubtedly been nourished by the spirits in the bottles and Pitt, usually the cautious host, was now acting more like an impetuous lover on his first conquest. Pulling Rowan by the wrist, he insisted that she accompany him to his room at once, because there were some drawings he wanted to show her. Whether by design, in order to show Randy that Rowan was indeed his girl and completely under his domination, or purely because of the influence of alcohol, Pitt became somewhat rough with her, pulling at her wrist in such a way that she withdrew it, with an outcry of pain. At this moment, Randy's eyes met Rowan's, and a mental message of comfort went from his mind to hers. At this moment also, it appeared to Randy, a secret link was forged between them, a link that might be followed up at a later time. For the moment, however, Pitt was completely pre-occupied with her. "You'll have to excuse us, Randy old boy," he said, rising from the table and in the process spilling a glass of champagne. Trying to steady himself on already unsteady legs, Pitt then offered his arm to Rowan in a gesture of apology, as it were, and, throwing another look back at Randy, she accepted. "I think I'll have another brandy and then I'll turn in too," Randy remarked, more to clear the air than because he really meant it. "Quite," Agatha said, "I feel a bit tired myself." Both of them knew, of course, that they were lying, and only making conversation, but it seemed the best thing to do at the moment.
As soon as Pitt and Rowan had left the dining room, Agatha came over to Randy and, somewhat to his surprise, unceremoniously sat on his lap. "Am I shocking you?" she asked, displaying a totally different personality now. "Frankly, yes," he said, responding, however, as any normal man would, by putting his arm around her.
Clearly, Agatha's job was to entertain him. Whether this had been arranged for by Pitt or whether she was volunteering, was hard to determine. Randy, despite his inquiring mind, was much too much the gentleman to ask such an embarrassing question. It was clear that she was after him, and this put Randy into a quandary. On the one hand, no man in his right mind could look askance at such a lovely opportunity. On the other hand, this would be as good a time as any to look a bit around Corley Hall. Pitt's casual attitude in informing him about the possible disappearance of the three men from the town had made Randy suspicious. Something didn't quite jell in his mind. As yet, Randy had no idea what the hidden connection could be; there might be some link between the attempted murder and Pitt's informing him about the likely disappearance of the three culprits. Was Pitt perhaps an agent for some of Randy's enemies? Was there no treasure at all, and was he merely being lured to Corley Hall so that
Pitt, acting on behalf of someone else, could dispose of him, perhaps in revenge for having been defeated or jailed on some earlier occasion? A man like Randy Knowles has numerous enemies, sometimes without being aware of them. Randy began to wonder whether he wasn't in greater danger at Corley Hall than he had been in the field the day before.
Under the circumstances he had decided to take the earliest opportunity to investigate Pitt's office, and also, if possible, to see what was below stairs. Now that Pitt was obviously intoxicated, the golden opportunity had come. That Pitt might be faking his state, was unlikely, for Randy had counted the number of drinks, of various kinds, Pitt had consumed during the course of the evening.
But there was Agatha on his lap, just begging to be taken. With a sigh, Randy realized that refusing her now might make his host wonder in the morning. Besides, he didn't want to make an enemy of the girl, and furthermore, there was no reason why he could not attend to both pleasure and business in the course of one night.
"Come," he said, gently lifting her off his lap, and taking her by the hand. There was a look of expectancy in her eyes, as she followed him up the stairs, docile like a lamb. When they arrived at her room, Randy made another lame attempt to get away. "Well, now," he began, "it's been a nice evening, hopefully we'll have better weather tomorrow," and looked at her with a bland smile. But Agatha wouldn't have any conversation. Her left arm went around Randy's neck with a firmness he had not expected from so slender a girl, while her right arm started to open the door. Randy knew that there was no way to go but forward. Once insiae,
Agatha didn't bother to put the light on. Firmly taking Randy by the hand, she led the way to her bed. "Sit down," she commanded, doing likewise. Randy was amazed at the directness of her approach. Nothing in her appearance at the start of dinner had indicated such a potential in Agatha. If anything, he thought her shy and delicate. "That funny jacket of yours," she began and stopped. "What about my jacket?" he wanted to know. "Take it off," she commanded. Obligingly, Randy took off his jacket. At this moment she planted her lips firmly on his, and started to display a technique that came as pleasant, if unexpected surprise. The way Agatha was proceeding, Randy thought, he would have sufficient time still to investigate the house.
At that moment, they were interrupted by an outcry of horror coming from the other end of the corridor. Within the fraction of a second Randy had put his jacket back on and was racing down the corridor, with Agatha not far behind. The noise had come from the direction of Pitt's room. As Randy reached the door of the room, he saw that it was half opened, and Rowan Dorset standing in it, with an expression of horror on her face. "What is it?" Randy demanded, and stood next to her. Wordlessly, she pointed in the direction of the room. Quickly, Randy pushed open the door and went inside. There, sprawled out on the bed, was Adam Pitt, seemingly lifeless. Immediately, Randy put his rudimentary but very useful medical knowledge to work. Taking the man's pulse, listening for his heartbeat, and with the help of a pocket mirror, checking his breathing rate, Randy was able to ascertain that Pitt was still very much alive, although totally oblivious to the world. He turned back to Rowan. "What happened?" "I don't know," she replied, still very frightened. "We came up and talked for awhile, and then Adam tried to make love to me. All of a sudden he collapsed, made a terrible sound as if he were dying, and the next thing I knew he was out cold." "Did he take anything while you were up here? Any drinks, any pills?" Randy demanded. "Come to think of it, yes. He said he needed his vitamins and took two or three capsules from his night table." Randy looked at the little box. "Why, it's a combination tranquilizer and stimulant," he commented. "By itself this isn't harmful, but taken together with large doses of alcohol, it can indeed knock you out."
Rowan had found her composure now. "You mean, Mr. Knowles, he is merely unconscious'?" "Oh quite," Randy said, looking at her with a cherry smile. "He's definitely not dead. Dead to the world perhaps, for, oh let us say, four or five hours, perhaps even six. After that he will be as good as new." While the news seemed to calm Rowan, it upset Agatha, who had listened in from the door. Somehow, her appetite for Randy had rapidly diminished. "I think I'll go to my room now," she announced. Since no one stopped her or replied, she proceeded to do so. Once again, Randy stepped up to the bed to reassure himself that Pitt was truly out cold. The pulse was weak, but adequate, and there was no doubt in his mind that his diagnosis had been correct. Returning to the door, he took Rowan by the hand, closed the door behind them and said, I think we had better leave Mr. Pitt alone for awhile. Why don't you and I have a quiet walk. After all the excitement, I don't think either one of us ought to go to sleep right away." "Oh, I couldn't sleep now anyway," Rowan replied, and looked
Randy straight in the eyes. A strange feeling came over him. Somehow the vibrations which he knew from the past to be of psychic origin told him of things to come. He had the uncanny feeling that this girl might be of great importance to his life, perhaps even save it at one point. It seemed absurd, taken on a logical basis, that a young actress whom he had just met for the first time, could play such a role in his life, but his premonition was particularly strong at this point and he made a mental note not to forget it. With Pitt out for several hours at least, he thought it would be safe to suggest a short walk. The walk led by the office on the ground floor which Randy had wanted to investigate earlier that evening. It seemed locked, but Randy did not want to test it in the presence of Rowan Dorset. As far as he knew, she was Pitt's devoted girl friend and associate, and he had better watch his steps.
But as if she had read his mind, Rowan stopped in front of the office, turned back to Randy, and said in a hushed tone of voice, "I want to talk to you, Mr. Knowles, in fact, I had wanted to talk to you ever since I came to this house tonight." "Go right ahead," Randy replied, taking her arm and leading her away from the office. With a man like Adam Pitt, the entire house might be bugged, and it was best not to have any confidential conversations where they could be overheard or recorded, even if the principal was dead to the world in his bedroom upstairs. They walked outside Corley Hall into the formal gardens surrounding it. Here they were reasonably sure not to be overheard by anyone.
Rowan frankly confessed her worry about Adam Pitt. Somehow she felt uneasy in his presence now, not quite knowing what he was up to. Whether she, too, had ESP, or whether it was just woman's intuition, Rowan felt there was something sinister about the things Pitt was involved in, even though she had no reason to say so. "When I realized who you were, I decided to talk to you about it. Perhaps you can reassure me that Adam is really all right. If I hear this from a man of your reputation, it won't bother me anymore."
Randy decided, more on a hunch than by logical deduction, that he could trust Rowan, at least to a degree. "Strange you should say this," he replied, "but I have some doubts about it myself. Please don't misunderstand me. My job is to help Mr. Pitt find his Spanish treasure and nothing more. I have nothing to do with his business affairs. As far as I know, he is a reputable business man, an importer and a broker on the stock exchange. Beyond that, I haven't the faintest clue what he does." "But aren't you curious?" Rowan said, looking at him in surprise. "Your reputation as an investigator .would make me think that you would have to know everything about a prospective client." "Quite so, quite so," Randy acknowledged. "For that reason I was just thinking of having a look around, whileour host is�"ah�"out of commission. That is, if you don't mind. Possibly it might help you find out a few things about Mr. Pitt for yourself." She nodded with great enthusiasm. Together they went back to the house, letting themselves in by the front door. Randy was amazed that some of Pitt's men weren't on guard, or that the front door hadn't been locked. He didn 't know that Pitt was in the habit of walking about the gardens, sometimes very late at night. The outer wall, shielding the garden from the outside, was very well guarded by an electronic device which would ring if anyone tried to enter through the outer gate. But the main gate of Corley
Hall itself had been left unguarded and unlocked simply because of Mr. Pitt's nocturnal walks. It was two o'clock. A heavy grandfather clock in the dining room struck the hour, and Randy wondered whether the servants were all asleep by now. Again, as if Rowan had read his mind, she said, "Mrs. Berries, the cook, sleeps across from the kitchen and Bangs has a room in the gardener's lodge. As you know, Ludlow has a cold and is back home in London, and Janet, the maid, is supposed to be in her room, but as a matter of fact isn't." "How come?" Randy asked, amazed at Rowan's perceptive appraisal of the situation. "It so happens I saw her sneak out the door shortly after Adam and I went upstairs," she explained. "She has a lover in the town and I doubt that she will be back much before morning." "Splendid," Randy said, "that leaves only the two of us, Mr. Pitt and Mrs. Berries in the main house." "Correct," Rowan replied. "And Mrs. Berries and Adam are sleeping soundly, separately, of course." "Of course," Randy said and smiled, swiftly opening the door to Pitt's office with a little gadget he had perfected and which he carried on his person at all times. One never knew in his profession when a locked door had to be opened.
Carefully closing the door behind themselves, the two then stepped into the office. Fortunately, there was sufficient illumination from outside coming through the tall windows to allow them to get their bearings. The light of the moon hit the tapestry with the Lion and the Unicorn, and again Randy thought it remarkable how the face of the Unicorn resembled Adam Pitt's face. Swiftly he put on some extremely thin white gloves, which he always used when he was handling objects on which fingerprints could be left behind. Taking a tiny flashlight from another pocket and mounting it on an empty frame which he then put upon his nose very much in the manner of a pair of glasses, Randy was able to get a small cone of illumination precisely where he needed it, without allowing the light to be seen from the outside. Drawer by drawer was opened, again with the help of Randy's little gadget. During all this, Rowan stood by him, watching over his shoulder, nervously breathing, sometimes delightfully close to him. But Randy's mind was on his business now and not on Rowan. To their amazement, the drawers contained nothing of great interest. Correspondence concerning rare antiques, household bills, a doctor's prescription for virility and a fair amount of cash. Then Randy's ESP went to work again. Something made him step back about a yard from the desk and to look at it carefully on both sides. He then realized that the left drawers were slightly lower than the ones on the right. Returning to the desk once more, he opened the lower left drawer and put his hand inside it. When he reached the back of the drawer, he found what he had hoped for. There was a small metal lever which Randy pressed immediately. He then extricated his hand from the drawer, closed it again, and then reopened it. This time the drawer was deeper than before. With his fingers he lifted the false bottom, disguised by miscellaneous papers, and thrust his hand underneath.
What he had in his hands now was a stack of papers covered with figures and dates. As yet, Randy could not make head or tails of this, and it would take considerable study to determine what he had found. Why was Pitt hiding these figures in such an unusual place? But there was more. Below the papers filled with figures and dates, was a list of names. Next to the names were sums of money, as it these people had been paid certain amounts for certain tasks. That in itself was in no way suspicious, Randy thought. For all he knew, Pitt might have kept some of his records at home rather than in his London office, and since Pitt was known as an importer of various goods, the sums might represent purchases. Then again they might refer to rare antiquities which Pitt was in the habit of buying also. There was nothing else in the drawer, and Randy began to wonder if it hadn't all been a terrible mistake. Quickly putting the material back into place, he happened to be turning the last sheet around. To his amazement, there were three names on the back of the list, written in longhand in a handwriting which he immediately recognized as that of Adam Pitt. They were the names of three individual addresses in Hong Kong and Calcutta. To anyone but Randy Knowles, they would represent simply business contacts of a man having far-flung connections. But Randy recognized the names immediately. In an earlier case, in which he had been called in by the Indian authorities as well as Interpol, he happened to have been instrumental in disrupting the dealings of what he considered two of the most notorious dope producers on the entire continent of Asia. He had thought that the two men were out of business, even though they had not been apprehended. Evidently, they were very much in evidence, judging from the paper before him. The payoff dates on the other side of the same paper indicated that the data had been written within the last year. And then Randy knew what Adam Pitt's secret business was: The names represented distributors, and the sums the amounts they were to pay him. Quickly, he explained his findings to Rowan. At this stage, he needed her as an ally, and in view of her entanglement with Pitt, she certainly needed protection. She was bright enough to realize this, and assured Randy of her willingness to cooperate, in fact to do whatever he wanted her to. Being a trained actress, she explained, would help her perform her role without Pitt becoming suspicious in the least. Quickly they put everything back as they had found it and left the office, carefully locking the door again and wiping the knob clean.
The room assigned to Rowan was not far from where Pitt was still sleeping. They walked quietly, just in case Randy had miscalculated the time during which their host would be unconscious. When Randy and Rowan arrived at the door of her room, there was an awkward moment in which neither knew what to do. Quite obviously, it would be unwise for Randy to be found speaking to her in confidence. If Pitt would awaken now, there would be hell to pay. Again, as if she had read his mind, Rowan whispered, "Check him, please," pointing in the direction of Pitt's room. Tiptoeing across the hall, and gently opening the door, Randy entered. Again he took Adam Pitt's pulse and checked his heart. The man was sleeping soundly, so soundly in fact that there wasn't much of a chance of his awakening before morning. Still, Randy was a man who didn't like to take chances. Closing Pitt's door behind him, he motioned to Rowan to follow him. Retracing his steps towards his own room now, he took her hand and kept silent until they had reached the door of his room. "I doubt he will awaken much before breakfast, if even then, but there is nothing to worry about. He will be alright. Just the same, I think you will be much better off here." With that he pushed open his own door, motioned Rowan to precede him, and followed quickly. Locking the door behind him, he turned on the small light next to his bed. It cast an eerie light upon the opposite wall, giving the room the appearance of a medieval camenate. "Our work is done for now," Randy said. "Until cock's crow, the mice may play."
This time he didn't wait until the girl sat on his lap. But she stopped him. "Wait," she said. "How am I to walk back to my room in this?", pointing at her silver lame gown. "I'll be back in a moment." Somewhat hesitatingly, Randy let her go again. Would she return? His doubts were dispelled once and for all a minute later, when she returned, dressed in a simple housecoat and slacks, the sort of outfit she might have worn in the morning. Not only was it a simple outfit fashion-wise, but it was easy to take off, as Randy was able to find out shortly after. If Rowan had put only a fraction of her enthusiasm, which she now displayed for Randy, into her relationship with Adam Pitt, he must have been a happy man indeed, Randy thought. Unquestionably, Rowan Dorset was not only an excellent actress, a valuable ally, but the kind of unexpected bonus detectives in other stories dream about. Randy gets them.
Chapter 6
Fortunately for Randy, the next morning was rainy and gray. This was not the day when the dig could begin. The way it looked, most of the day would probably be spent indoors, waiting for the weather to improve. It was almost ten o'clock when Randy finally woke up. The night had been memorable in many ways. For once, Randy did not discuss the problems at hand. Instead, he had given himself over to the full enjoyment of the opportunity that had so unexpectedly come his way. Around three-thirty in the morning, Rowan had returned to her room, carefully avoiding even the slightest noise. Randy himself had brought her there. Had Pitt awakened and challenged them, Randy was prepared to explain that he had heard a suspicious noise outside and was merely investigating, and had found Rowan equally aroused by the disturbances. But a quick check-up convinced him that Pitt was still out cold.
After Randy had convinced himself that he would have some time on his hands today, he thought how he could best use it. Above all, there was the question of what to do about Adam Pitt and his recent discovery. One thing Randy Knowles had never done in his long career: serve the ends of illegallity, cause a human life to be taken for selfish interests, or break the law, no matter how unjust such a law might be. Under the circumstances, he had but two choices. Either he was to face Pitt and confront him with his findings, and resign his commission on the spot, in which case he would not only have Pitt cover up his traces for future investigations by the law enforcement authorities of his own country, but also, possibly, endanger his own life. If Randy did not let on what he had discovered, and continued to serve Pitt, was he then not guilty of disguising a known crime from the authorities? Apart from that, was he not morally responsible to sever his relations with such a man? Walking up and down in his room, Randy found the problem vexing. He also began to worry about Rowan. What if her companionship and collaboration last night were merely a cover-up? Was she perhaps spying for Pitt all the time? Why was she here to begin with?
Rowan had explained her presence satisfactorily, and brought Randy up to date on her involvement with Pitt. But, how was he to know that she was speaking the truth? In all this excitement, Randy had completely forgotten about Agatha. What if she had accidentally observed Rowan's movements? Suppose Agatha knew that Rowan had spent the better part of the night with him? A woman spurned can be a revengeful agent indeed. The more Randy kept walking up and down, the more furiously he tried to solve his problems, the less he accomplished it. Finally, mentally exhausted, he lay down on the bed, after he had locked the door and closed the shutters, plunging his room into semi-darkness again. Somewhere a clock struck eleven.
There was but one thing to do. As he had done many times before, Randy put himself into a semi-trance. He instructed himself at the same time that he would return to full consciousness exactly thirty minutes later. He further commanded himself not to be disturbed by any extraneous noises, by anyone knocking at his door or in any way trying to get his attention. That was important because otherwise he might endanger himself physically, by being awakened from his state too abruptly and without the proper preparations. Consciously, Randy knew that Pitt would by now be in his office, probably doing some work connected with his business. Hopefully, he would not have noticed that someone had been to his desk during the night. As far as Randy could recall, they had put everything back the way it was. But one can never tell, even a Randy Knowles makes an occasional mistake. On the other hand, had Pitt noticed something being amiss in his office, he would by now have come to Randy's door, demanding an explanation. After all, Randy was the only outsider in the house at present and the most logical candidate for a break-in. Randy had no idea where the women were, but he assumed that Rowan was still in her room, probably quite tired also, and that Agatha might be in the lounge or somewhere else downstairs, reading or learning a script, or whatever an actress does when she isn't acting. Under the circumstances Randy felt quite safe, at least until lunch which he knew to be at one o'clock. Closing his eyes now and controlling his breathing in the peculiar yoga fashion he had been taught by his Tibetan mentor, Morea, Randy felt himself glide out of his body and experienced a giddy sensation. Of course, he had done this many times before: out of the body experiences, also called astral projections, were nothing new to him. For years he had trained himself to "go places without a body," so to speak, to observe what might be going on and remember it upon awakening. It was far more effective, and a lot less dangerous, than actually breaking in. Of course, there was always one risk. Someone on the other end of the line might be equally as psychic as he was and actually see his etheric double. In that case, the other person might address him and demand to know what he was doing there. Since-etheric doubles cannot respond, Randy would then be drawn back to his physical abode, and at worst, be questioned about it afterwards. In that case, Randy was always prepared to say that he had had a vivid dream of the other person, and had probably projected himself in some unknown fashion. This would satisfy the other person, since no one suspected Randy of such extraordinary talents.
Slowly Randy's etheric form rose from the bed and glided towards the door, then went through it and out into the corridor. His physical body remained behind, breathing regularly as if in deep sleep. Having directed himself consciously prior to undertaking the experiment, Randy's etheric self went on its way, swiftly crossing the hall over to the staircase, down the stairs, and into the locked office of Adam Pitt. During all this time, Randy was aware of a bluish-white light which illuminateH the scene. There was a chilly feeling through it all, and a sense of unreality which in a way was more real than the ordinary sense of presence he was accustomed to when in the physical body.
Pushing himself forward through thought projection, Randy stood behind Adam Pitt, looking over his shoulder as he went through a stack of papers spread out before him. This was a moment of great truth: If Pitt was psychic himself, he might notice Randy. As a matter of fact Pitt did pay some attention to Randy's presence. Evidently he had a feeling of sorts, for he looked around as if someone were in fact standing behind him. But his eyes went through Randy, without recognizing him! Shrugging his shoulders, Pitt returned to the task at hand. For the moment, Randy was safe. Beyond the vague feeling of a presence, Pitt had not noticed anything.
Looking closer, Randy realized that Pitt was planning another operation. Two telephone numbers, evidently of a London exchange, had been jotted down on a piece of paper. On the same slip, Pitt had scribbled, "Cable Calcutta to double." Evidently, Pitt was getting greedier. But a sudden thought went through Randy's etheric self: Sure, he knew that Pitt was engaged in the illicit drug trade, but where was the physical evidence? If Pitt never brought any of the drugs to either his London offices or to this house, how was he to prove the whole thing? True, the names of the two drug suppliers in the East were circumstantial evidence, and probably some of the other names found on the piece of paper he had inspected the previous night might also lead the police to further clues. But would it hold up in court? Would it not be far more convincing if some actual drugs, even if they were only a small portion of the drugs brought into the country, could be discovered and seized? Randy's etheric double was functioning beautifully, even to the point of reasoning. He promised himself to look further in the house, especially in areas where he had not looked before. Abruptly, Pitt rose. The reason seemed to be footsteps approaching the office from the outside. Quickly putting the papers into the left drawer, and locking it, Pitt rushed by Randy on his way to the door. It gave Randy a curious sensation, as if he had been scratched by some uneven surface, but it did not hurt in any way.
When Pitt reached the door, there was a knock.
Quickly he opened it and let Rowan into the room. Aha, Randy thought, now we shall find out where she stands. Rowan wore the same clothes they had picked out for her in case she was discovered on her way back to her room in the morning. But she looked no less beguiling in them than in her shimmering decollete evening gown.
"Sit down," Pitt said jovially but with an undertone of nervousness, and pointed to a chair next to his desk. Rowan took the chair and pulled it up close to his desk. "I was terribly worried about you, Adam," she began, making it sound as if she really were. "You felt quite ill last night, and we were all terribly worried about you." Pitt waved it aside. "It was nothing. I just had a little too much to drink, I guess." Either he was not aware of the strong results of combining his prescription capsules with large doses of alcohol, or he did not wish to discuss it. "Then you will be all right for the dig?" she continued, still pursuing a tone of worried friendship. His face fell. "Alas, that will not be possible today. Even if the rain should stop, we will have to wait until tomorrow at least, or else we may do more damage than good. This may be a very delicate operation, you know, and we must have the best of conditions. But I do hope that tomorrow morning we can really begin."
Randy hovered about waiting for Rowan to say something else. But she had nothing further to say. Evidently Randy's fears that she might be a double agent working for Pitt, after all, were unfounded. Rowan kissed Pitt lightly on the lips, and then excused herself. As soon as she had left the office, Pitt returned to his desk and started to read the financial pages of the London Times. It was clear to Randy that the time had come to return to his own body, for nothing useful could be gleaned here at this moment. With a swishing sound, which of course only he could hear, Randy returned to his own body, practically racing along the corridor several inches above the floor, since etheric bodies need not actually walk. As he snapped back into his physical self, he had, as have all astral travelers, a sensation of falling from great heights. However, this lasted but a fraction of a moment and then Randy was back to his own self. Breathing rather heavily for a few moments, he then came out of his trance state, opening his eyes and immediately testing his muscles. Everything was back in place. Yawning and stretching, Randy rose and got dressed.
After lunch, which was uneventful, although rather subdued in mood, due of course to the weather, Randy asked whether he could speak to Adam Pitt for a few moments alone. "Of course," Pitt replied and led the way to his office. Again Randy entered the office, this time in his physical body.
"My problem is," Randy said, pulling his chair to face Pitt from behind the desk. "My problem is that I forgot to ask you a rather important question. Since we are going to start digging tomorrow, presumably, I feel I might as well discuss it with you now." What on earth could it be, Pitt wondered. He was sure Randy could not have discovered anything that he shouldn't have. "Suppose we do find the treasure, what do you plan to do with it?" "What do I plan to do with it? Why, clean it, catalogue it, and enjoy it." "I realize that. My concern was that all the necessary legal requirements be observed. Such as notifying the British Museum." Quite obviously, Pitt didn't like the question. "Are you
insinuating that I might do something illegal?" he said. "No, not at all," Randy assured him, "but my reputation is involved, too. I do know that British law requires registration of any treasure found on British soil within twenty-four hours. Are you prepared to do this?" "If any treasure is discovered on my own ground, it belongs to me, and to me alone. There is nothing illegal about this. Of course, I shall notify the Museum when I have properly examined the find. But that is entirely in my discretion." Pitt rose and gave Randy his hand. Obviously, the conversation was finished. As he left the office, Randy couldn't help noticing that the atmosphere had considerably chilled.
Although Randy's assignment had been to help Pitt find his treasure, and not to assist the British government in enforcing its laws, he found his employment harder and harder to bear by the hour. What was to prevent Pitt from selling the treasure within hours after it had been uncovered? How did Randy know that Pitt was actually bent on studying and cataloging it rather than disposing of it? Randy hated himself for not investigating Pitt , more thoroughly than he had, seeing that such unusual complications had arisen. But now it was too late.
During the afternoon the rain stopped. It was clear that tomorrow would indeed be the day of the great dig. Dinner was somewhat of a surprise. Agatha had left for London unexpectedly, and Pitt let it be known that he wasn't feeling well. Thus dinner was had by Randy and Rowan alone, a somewhat awkward occasion, since they could not be sure that the room wasn't bugged. Under the circumstances, they refrained from discussing anything but the weather and the dig that lay ahead of them. Even Rowan didn't seem her usual
self. There was tension in the air, tension far beyond the excitement accompanying the expected search for the treasure. After dinner, Randy excused himself and took a walk into the town. Making sure that he was not being shadowed by one of Pitt's men, he went directly to the inn. There wasn't much risk that the innkeeper would attack him now, seeing that Randy had found out his true position. But the innkeeper wasn't there. Curious, Randy thought, and then he remembered Pitt's chance remark that he shouldn't be surprised to find his would-be murderers gone for awhile. The man who served him his brandy was the innkeeper's eldest son. In reply to a casual question, he informed Randy that he hadn't seen his father in two days. He had no idea where he had gone. But the purpose of Randy's visit was not to look after the health of the innkeeper. As soon as he had locked himself into the telephone booth, he put through a call to San Francisco. It was good to hear Jeremy say, "Hello, this is Mr. Randy Knowles' residence." Although it sounded somewhat as if the voice were originating underwater, which in fact it was in a manner of speaking, Randy could hear clearly and was in turn fully understood. Randy explained to his faithful man Monday through Saturday that there was a degree of danger involved in the present operation. He had Jeremy write down the pertinent data about Adam Pitt, in case something happened to him, and instructed Jeremy to call his London contact man, in case Jeremy hadn't heard from Randy again two days later.
When Randy returned to Corley Hall, the house was dark. Evidently Rowan had gone to sleep. So she had. In his bed. Dig or no dig, Randy decided, the case was worthwhile.
Chapter 7
Finally, the weather had cleared up. Undoubtedly, they could start digging in the morning. Randy was walking up and down in front of his window, peering out into the garden, which lay before him bathed in the eerie moonlight. He was restless on two counts: one, because he missed the excitement and, frankly, the nearness of Rowan, in a sort of anti-climatic sense of emptiness, and two, he was worried about Adam Pitt. Of course, the easiest thing would be to walk out on Pitt and turn the whole thing over to the local police department. On the other hand, he hadn't come here all the way from San Francisco to let the local constabulary do his battle. Randy had no qualms about taking money from a man against whom he might eventually have to turn. His fee had been amply earned already. Had he not pin-pointed the actual location of the treasure, deciphered the map, and set up the entire digging operation? Truly, if he left that very night, he would have done the job. It came to him also that Pitt might have sent him away, had he known of Randy's thoughts. But Randy was quite sure that his employer had no inkling of Randy's having stumbled onto something far bigger than a treasure hunt. Herein lay two other, weighty reasons why Randy had to stick around. Treasure hunting had always been one of his favorite excitements, and the drug traffic one of his greatest concerns as an individual and as a citizen. Far from being a moralist, Randy had been quite outspoken in his rejection of all forms of drugs. Having more than a smattering knowledge of medicine and biochemistry, Randy knew how dangerous the intake of drugs was and how it acted in a cumulative fashion, even so innocent a stimulant as "grass," or marijuana. While he condemned those using such substances as either misled or weak, Randy reserved his anger and determination of resistance for those who trafficked in the "stuff." To find himself on the payroll of a man whose money was earned, to a large extent at any rate, by the traffic in various forms of drugs, was not at all amusing to him.
Well, Randy thought with a final resolution, Jeremy knew what was up. If anything happened to him, Jeremy would certainly act as per instructions, so there was really no reason why Randy should not get into the case as if he had never been hired as the consultant on a treasure hunt. More than anything, Randy felt himself like a public trustee, and his object was not so much the dig in the morning, as the uncovering and total destruction of Mr. Pitt's little drug business.
Everything was quiet about the house now, for Pitt and the others had gone to bed early in anticipation of the dig. Somewhere a clock struck five. My God, Randy thought, five o'clock already. It seemed to him that the moon had been shining down upon the garden just a moment ago, until he realized that he had been standing by the window for well over two hours. Strangely enough, he didn't feel tired. The treasure hunt was called for nine o'clock. Randy went back to bed, trying to sleep. It wasn't much of a rest, for he was tossing and allowing his impatience for action to prevent him from letting go. Somehow, he drifted off to a light sleep. But the rising sun woke him around six. Unable to go back to sleep, and unwilling to toss some more, Randy got dressed, and decided to take a walk before breakfast. The sun was barely up and the house still surrounded by the peculiar mist frequently found in this part of England. There were patches of it all along the garden paths, and at times one would disappear into them and reappear on the other end, as if one had been to a strange country.
As he walked through the extensive garden, Randy's sixth sense suddenly put him on the alert again. He was sure that he was quite alone and yet, within himself, a warning light had gone on. About a hundred yards from the manor house, there was a picturesque imitation Greek temple, built in the style of another century when such adornments were common in the gardens of large English estates. Strange looking building, Randy thought, as he sauntered by it. He had just passed the corner of the Greek temple, when the full alert sounded within his extra-sensory system. He turned around in a flash and just managed to side-step a heavy stone in the hand of a man who had just stepped out of the mist. With a crash muffled by the soft earth, the stone fell to the ground without having harmed him. That was a close one, Randy thought, for the stone was heavy enough to kill him with one blow. But there was no time for such considerations now. The perpetrator was fleeing the scene in great haste. Fortunately, Randy knew the grounds well. The man was running in the direction of the town. If Randy would run after him, the man would surely escape him. But Randy instead cut across the lawn, which would save him approximately fifteen seconds of running time. His calculations proved correct. Just as he reached the wall around Corley Hall, he saw the man coming up, ready to hoist himself up on it and down on the other side. Quickly Randy grabbed the man's leg and pulled him to the ground. In the fraction of a second, he had him pinned to the ground, while feverishly looking for some other form of weapon. Evidently, the man did not carry a gun or knife. "Get up." Randy demanded, pointing his water pistol at the intruder. The man in front of him was perhaps twenty-two or twenty-three years old, and seemed rather neat, despite his current state of dishevelment; there was nothing very sinister about his appearance. From his clothes Randy deduced that he was one of the local people and as soon as the man opened his mouth, Randy knew that his deduction had been correct.
Randy's first impression was that Pitt was trying to do away with him. Immediately he caught himself: how ridiculous, since Pitt had no knowledge of Randy's discovery. Then, too, was Pitt really a man who would order somebody killed? As yet, Randy had no proof that Pitt had ever done anything more than engage in illicit drug traffic. No, he decided, Pitt couldn't be blamed for the early morning attack.
"Who are you?" Randy demanded. "I am Mark Slaughter," the fellow said sullenly. "Why did you try to kill me just now?" "You people killed my brother. I'm only doing what's fair." "Your brother? Who is your brother?" "Constable Slaughter." So that was it!
Randy addressed himself to the young man, explaining, with some pain, the difference between himself and Adam Pitt and Pitt's henchmen. For some reason, unknown to himself, Randy felt he
could trust this man, despite the fact that he had I tried to murder him a scant fifteen minutes before. I The young man seemed to sense that and returned Randy's confidence with confidences of his own. "How do you know your brother was murdered?" Randy demanded. The young man shrugged his shoulders. "They found his body in the river, downstream, late last night," he said, quietly. "But how do you know it wasn't an accident? Couldn't he have fallen in?" Slaughter shook his head. "The other chaps aren't around either," he commented. "The doctor has been gone for days and nobody knows where the innkeeper is. I'm sure he's had them murdered too."
This altered things considerably. Quite obviously, his complaint to Pitt about the attacks upon him had moved Pitt to take measures of his own. It was clear to Randy that only Pitt could have undertaken these murders, if indeed they were murders. Except for what Randy had told Pitt, there was no way in which his "employer" could have connected the three men just named with the proposed treasure hunt. "If what you say is true, young man," Randy remarked rather tersely, "then I know a better way of avenging your brother's death." Quickly, he pulled the young man to his side and together they went back to the far end of the garden where they could not be overheard by anyone. Randy explained his stratagem to Mark Slaughter, enlisting him on his side. This the young man was readily willing to do. "I want you to shadow me as much as you can during the dig," Randy explained. "Under the circumstances it is entirely possible that an attempt may be made on my life�"not by you or your friends this time�"once the treasure has been brought to the surface. You understand this?" "Quite," the young
man nodded. "It is now almost seven o'clock. In two hours, the dig will begin. There is very little time to make arrangements. Yet, I will have to take certain steps. What time does the post office open hereabouts?" "Eight o'clock sharp." "That will have to do then. You had better run along for now." Randy would slowly walk down to the town and wait for the post office to be opened. That would still leave him enough time to return to Corley Hall, hopefully unseen, or if observed, he could explain it as a restless night and the need for a brisk morning walk.
He turned to leave Mark Slaughter, but the young man hesitated. "Wait," he said, and beckoned for Randy to return to him. "What is it?" Randy asked. There was something in the young man's voice that demanded attention. "There is one more thing I had better tell you," Slaughter said and lowered his voice, even though there was no one in the vicinity who could have possibly overheard their conversation. "I know where the treasure is. You are about three yards off the mark. You see, my brother had a map too. Want me to show you?" From his pocket, Slaughter drew a wrinkled yellowish piece of parchment. A quick look convinced Randy that he had an authentic sixteenth century document before him. Could there have been two maps? Why not, he answered himself, especially as the two maps were obviously far from identical. But this was not the time to reason out the strange appearance of the second map. "Show me the way to the spot," he demanded. Ten minutes later the two men stood at the spot. In truth, it was no more than three or four yards fron the spot designated for the dig. But when it comes to treasure hunting, four yards may make a lot of difference. Fortunately, shovels and other digging tools had already been left in the vicinity several days before, in anticipation of the dig. Quickly, Randy and Mark grabbed a shovel and pick-ax and began to attack the soil. It was seven-thirty when their tools struck something hard, metallic. A few moments more, and their combined efforts uncovered a rusted metal chest, perhaps a yard by half a yard in circumference and seemingly very heavy. Straining their muscles to the utmost, they lifted it from its hiding place and gently placed it on the soil.
"What now?" Slaughter said, and looked at Randy. By now the young man had accepted the famed detective's word as the Gospel truth, and looked to him for further guidance. Quickly, Randy looked around in a circle. He knew that he had very little time to take action, that they might be discovered at any time if Adam Pitt or one of his men decided to take an early morning walk themselves. His eye fell on a barn perhaps fifty foot distant. Quickly, the two men walked towards it. Rummaging through it, they discovered an old suitcase, roughly the size of the chest they had just unearthed. Retracing their steps with it, they placed it into the hole. Randy was about to toss soil on top of it, when Slaughter halted him. "Wait," he said, "there's something I've got to put inside first." From his pocket he took a small slip of paper and placed it inside the suitcase, quickly closing it and covering it with earth. "What was in that note?" Randy wanted to know. "Just a little reminder," Slaughter replied, with a grim undertone in his voice. Randy didn't feel like pressing his point further would serve their cause. He could question Slaughter later on, when they had less pressing business on their hands. As well as they could, they covered the spot where they had dug, brought the tools back to where they had found them, and finally deposited the heavy metal chest in a corner of the barn beneath some abandoned farm equipment, a hiding place nearly as good as the one it had been in for several centuries.
When Randy Knowles arrived in front of the post office, it was exactly eight o'clock. As the sleepy postmaster unlocked the door of his office, a church clock struck the eighth hour. At least they are punctual around here, Randy thought. By eight-fifteen Randy was speaking to his faithful butler and manservant, Jeremy. The order was simple, Jeremy, in turn, had to make a certain phone call. That call was to go to a man in London Randy knew well. Of course, he could have placed the call himself, directly. But he wasn't sure whether the local postmaster wasn't involved with Pitt in some way, and this was one situation where an error could indeed prove fatal. Randy had long worked out a semi-code with Jeremy, which allowed Jeremy to understand exactly what Randy wanted without giving away any secrets to outsiders who might be listening in. Stepping out of the post office, Randy decided to have a quick cup of tea at the local inn. He had been running without breakfast for several hours now, and his energies began to lag, energies he might still need in the hours to come. Thus it was only a few minutes before nine o'clock when he returned to Corley Hall. As he walked into the drawing room downstairs, he found Pitt already waiting for him, dressed in what to Pitt must be fatigues: brown pants, gray shirt and brown sweater, together with heavy shoes apparently were Pitt's digging outfit. But Randy had little time to observe his host's get-up. There was something in
Pitt's countenance that made Randy apprehensive. "Tell me, Mr. Knowles," Pitt said succinctly, "what were you doing in my grounds early this morning?" "I couldn't sleep," Randy explained in as casual a voice as he could muster, "because the expectation of finding the treasure kept me up half the night. So I decided to take a walk. Any objections?" "One of my men saw you walking about," Pitt explained, a little less agressive now, "and at times like this, one wonders." "I'm sorry if I upset him," Randy said, smoothly, "but I had no idea that the grounds were off limits to anyone." Pitt gave him a strange look. "Very well," he said, slowly, "I'm terribly sorry if I sounded cross. I too haven't slept too well. But I'm ready for the dig now. Have you had your breakfast yet?" "Yes, thank you, I decided to walk into town and have tea at the inn," Randy said, feeling that he might as well announce it himself, for Pitt was sure to find out within the hour. Pitt's eyebrows went up. "The inn, really? That wasn't necessary. I'm sure cook would have gladly served you breakfast, even at an early hour." Evidently Pitt didn't like it when people associated with him went their own ways. But there was nothing he could do about it now. "It is nearly nine o'clock," Randy commented, "are we ready?"
So they were. Without further discussing Randy's nightly meanderings, Pitt headed for the supposed location so carefully worked out in the previous days. Hardly a word was spoken between them now. Evidently, the tension of finding the treasure had finally overcome Pitt and his usual smoothness had given way to it. That was just as well, Randy thought, for he was in no mood to be interrogated further. There was a fine point at which his patience might break, and at the present time Randy preferred that the relations between his "employer" and himself remained intact. As soon as they had reached the spot designated for the dig, every man busied himself with appropriate tools. Fortunately, no one looked in the direction of the real dig, where Randy and Slaughter had been a few hours before. The weather was good, but a look at the sky convinced Randy that there might be rain later in the day. Should they not succeed in finding the treasure today, they would probably come back the following day. One good rainfall would be sufficient to wipe out all traces of the dig undertaken by Randy and Slaughter earlier that morning. But for the present, he had better concentrate on what the others did. They had gone down a yard and a half already, and still no treasure. Pausing now and then, they looked at Pitt who seemed so positive that they were on the right track. Randy realized that sooner or later Pitt would decide there was no treasure to be found on the spot designated by Randy. He would then turn on him and there was no telling what would happen next. Randy therefore delayed the action by discussing various possibilities with Pitt and the others. But Pitt soon saw through it, and reprimanded Randy for using precious time in conversation when they should really be digging for the treasure. Quietly, Randy consulted his wristwatch. It was exactly ten o'clock. Any moment now, he thought, would come relief. Sure enough, there it was in the person of the butler who had remained behind in the house. Although he spoke in a quiet voice to Pitt only, Randy overheard what he said. There was a telephone call from London and would Mr. Pitt please return. "Take a break, everybody," Pitt commanded, and went back to the house with the butler. All is well,
Randy thought. Through Jeremy, he had arranged a call for Pitt, advising him that a huge shipment of narcotics was on the way from Pakistan and had to be received immediately. Randy knew that Pitt would not be able to resist such a tempting opportunity. He was right. Fifty minutes later, Pitt returned to the dig. "Something has come up that requires my presence in the city immediately," he announced, "we will continue digging tomorrow." Pitt then stepped up to Randy, who sat on the ground, quietly sketching the tree in the distance in his notebook. "I'm sorry, Knowles," Pitt said, with the old pleasantness returned to his voice, "but this thing has come up rather suddenly and I've got to go after it. Business before pleasure, you know." He even managed a smile and when he did so, Randy again noticed the incredible similarity between Pitt's expression and the face of the unicorn on the tapestry in Pitt's office.
"Quite so," Randy replied, fixing a steady gaze on Pitt's face. At the same time, he sent a telepathic message to Pitt's unconscious to make sure Pitt would not change his mind again. 'Must go at once and not return till morning' was the suggestion Randy tried to implant in Pitt's unconscious mind. Pitt responded immediately. Scratching his ear rather sheepishly, he said, "Must go at once�" probably won't return till morning." With that he almost ran back to the manor house.
Not exactly unhappy at having the rest of the day off, the others put the tools back against the tree and slowly returned to the Hall. Fortunately, Rowan decided to stay on. Whether this was due to her continuing interest in the treasure, or her unwillingness to go with Adam Pitt or his desire not to have her along, or possibly even due to her interest in Randy, it didn't really matter to the latter�"the point was, Rowan and he would be the only ones in the house that evening except for the staff. By now Randy knew the habits of the staff pretty well. It should be an interesting evening, he thought, and with that in mind he hastened his steps to catch up with Rowan, who was walking back to Corley Hall somewhere between Pitt and himself.
Chapter 8
Randy knew that he had to utilize his short breathing spell to the utmost: there couldn't be any further slip-ups, for he sensed that Adam Pitt was in no mood to play games, once he returned. There were two problems to be considered. First of all, the treasure hunt was bound to be disappointing, when Pitt would come face to face with the empty suitcase! There was little doubt in Randy's mind that Pitt would not be satisfied with the present, incorrect site for the dig. It was only a matter of time before the real location, four yards further on, would be discovered. To begin with, there had been no rain to wash away the traces of Randy's earlier digging, and then, too, Randy's failure to find the exact spot would scarcely be acceptable to his employer. One way or another, the real location had to be disclosed. Depending upon his need for additional time, Randy had decided to give away the actual site in order to save the men useless work and himself a possible emotional outburst on the part of Mr. Pitt. If, on the other hand, he disclosed new findings as a result of further studies, Pitt would respect him as a better researcher and the explosion, bound to come on account of the other matter, would be postponed somewhat, at any rate until the time was right to deal with it.
As for the other, larger matter at hand, there would be no point in catching the king-pin without also catching all the branches of the organization. Consequently, Randy had seen to it that all the necessary steps were taken to close in on the organization. There was plenty of time now, the better part of the day and all night, to prepare for the inevitable the following morning. For one thing, Randy wanted to go through the house once again, thoroughly and without interruption. Mrs. Berris, the cook, would pose no problem. Randy felt that she was completely innocent of whatever wrongdoings were being done in the house. She was just a cook, and a good one, Randy remembered with pleasure. Janet, the maid, would undoubtedly be off to her lover again, and Bullets, the gardener, never cared what went on in the main house. Banks had driven to London with his master, which left only Ludlow, the butler, as a member of the staff to be reckoned with.
There was, of course, Rowan. Her presence was not only no hindrance to his plans, but a definite asset, for his inner promptings told him that she might yet become instrumental in some fashion, even save his life. Apart from this usefulness he had discovered concerning the actress, Randy felt a growing attachment to her. This was not entirely unnatural, in view of her looks and personality, but Randy knew from years of past experience how dangerous such developing inclinations could be for his future. Years before, he had promised himself a life of bachelorhood in which he would always be supreme in his own affairs. Naturally, with a man who gets around as much as Randy does, who had the kind of background and personality Randy Knowles had, countless encounters with attractive women were part and parcel of his daily experience. On occasion, a deeper attachment resulted, which caused Randy, as well as the young lady in question, some pain. Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending how one views such matters of the heart, there was always another case taking him away to some distant location just in the nick of time. But Rowan had impressed him on many counts, not just the obvious ones. During lunch, he had accidentally discovered that she shared an interest in psychical research with him. Ever since childhood, she had been plagued, if that is the word, by psychic dreams in which she foresaw events which later transpired. There had been flashes of memory, indicating an earlier existence, and the idea of reincarnation had occurred to her from time to time. All this she confessed during the lunch hour, finding herself also strongly attracted to the man from San Francisco. For Rowan, such a liaison could have no serious overtones, in view of her blossoming career. She felt herself far too young to settle down to marriage and considered her encounter with Randy strictly a pleasure cruise. Nevertheless, there was something extra in it and she became increasingly aware of its implications.
Their animated discussion concerning the possi-blities of reincarnation, and the need to be regressed hypnotically to find out whether there was in fact some remnant of a previous life in one's unconscious mind, was suddenly interrupted by a seeming commotion outside the dining room. Ludlow went outside to see what it was, and returned with the news, evidently obtained from Janet, the maid, that the body of Dr. Richard Graves, the town doctor, had been found floating in the river not a half an hour before. Randy half cursed himself. How foolish of him not to have prevented this. He should have warned the three attackers of the dangers in which they found themselves. Of course, at the time Randy had no idea what Mr. Pitt's real business was, nor what he might be capable of. Undoubtedly, the innkeeper was dead too.
As soon as the commotion had died down, lunch resumed. Judging by the expression on the butler's face, the murder upset him, too, and he was apparently not in on it. It would seem that a man like Adam Pitt would avoid mixing up his domestic staff with his more sinister affairs, Randy reasoned. Perhaps Pitt even used a different name for his "other activities." For the first time, this thought occurred to Randy, although it had not yet crystalized itself into anything concrete.
"It looks like a lazy afternoon, to quote the late John Latouche," Randy remarked, as they rose from lunch. "Would you care to try a reincarnation experiment?" "Why not?" Rowan replied. She had nothing else to do, and the idea of finding out who she might have been in another lifetime, intrigued her. No sooner said than done. After they had retired to her room, Randy began, as he had done on many occasions before when reincarnation was being suspected. Carefully closing the window shutters and lowering the lights, so that no direct light might shine into the subject's eyes, Randy then locked the door and asked Rowan to make herself comfortable on the bed. "Very well, Svenga-li," Rowan said gaily, kicking her shoes off with such force that they hit the closed door. "Do your worst."
As soon as Randy was sure that she was sufficiently relaxed, what with all the hullabaloo going on during lunch, he suggested to Rowan that she visualize herself floating above her own body. "Your left arm is getting lighter, now your right arm is getting lighter, now your left leg seems to float, now your right leg floats. Your whole body feels lighter and lighter, slowly rising into the air. You're floating, you're moving." Randy stepped back and looked at her. Her eyes were closed and she was breathing regularly. Whether the ample luncheon and warm afternoon hour had helped him get her relaxed, or whether she was consciously cooperating with him, in order to go "under," did not matter. The fact was, she seemed like a good subject for hypnosis. Randy continued his work. "Let go more and more, let go," he commanded, using a soft monotonous voice, "I want you to go to sleep for a little while, to rest completely, to let go completely." Her breathing became deeper and her muscles relaxed even more. "I will count to ten," Randy continued. "At the count of ten, you are to be fully asleep. Yet, you are to hear every word I speak. You are to listen to all I say and to obey my commands. Even though you hear every word I speak, you will not awaken, I repeat, you will not awaken, until I awaken you. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten."
Even before Randy had reached the figure ten, the girl seemed fast asleep. But Randy wasn't going to take any chances. This was the first degree of hypnosis, the light state, during which most people remember what goes on around them, and on awakening, have a clear memory of their hypnotic state. The second state, which Randy began to suggest immediately, left them with less of a memory intact, and generally resulted in the operator's ability of inserting some simple command in the unconscious mind of the subject. "I want you to sleep now and not to awaken until I awaken you. Even though asleep, you will hear every word I speak, and you will obey all my commands." Randy waited for a few seconds, then suggested, "You are now in a beautiful meadow. The grass is high, the sky is blue, the sun is warm. You are walking through the meadow towards the forest. You are feeling very free, very light, very relaxed. You are happy. You are alone and you don't have a care in the world. When I count to ten, you will be in the forest." Again, Randy counted to ten. The body of Rowan seemed even more relaxed when he reached that number. Her arms had carelessly fallen by her side and her breasts rose and fell rhythmically with each breath. For the occasion, Rowan had put on an East Indian robe, going with the occasion, she thought. Whether she had anything else on underneath, Randy could not tell, nor was he thinking of this at the moment. He was ready to proceed into the third, deepest stage of hypnosis, the stage which alone allows for regression experiments to take place.
"You are now entering the forest, and you are walking through it, calmly, quietly, serenely. Now you come to the edge of the forest, and you see the ocean before you. You descend down to the water's edge. You are all alone. You are free, happy and relaxed. The water is warm to your touch. The sky is blue and the sun is mild. There is a gentle breeze about. You decide to go for a quick swim. You take your clothes off and you walk into the water. You swim for a while, then you return to the shore. Now you stretch yourself on the sand, letting the sun dry your skin. The warmth of the sun does you good. You are happy, relaxed, and well. You will now sleep for a while. But even though you are asleep, you will hear every word I speak and you will obey all of my commands. You must obey my commands. After you return to consciousness, you will not remember them, however. Just the same, you will obey them."
Quietly, Randy stepped back and viewed his masterwork. Rowan was quite obviously deeply under hypnosis. "Rowan," Randy began in a soft but authoritative voice. "You are your present age. You will not awaken until I awaken you, but you will hear every word I speak and you will respond to all of my commands. When you are asked questions, you will answer truthfully, even though you may not remember it afterwards. You will speak to me when you are asked to speak, but you will not awaken, even though you speak." Again, he waited a few seconds, then continued. "You are now fifteen years old, fourteen, twelve, ten. Tell me, Rowan, where do you live?" Like an automaton, the girl replied, eyes closed and lips barely opened. "110 Edgeware Road, London." Of course, Randy had no way of checking on the accuracy of this address, but he knew that it wasn't her present address. Edgeware Road at that number is a very modest neighborhood, scarcely suitable for the needs of a successful actress. Randy continued to regress her down to age four, and finally to the moment of birth. With excitement mounting, even though he had done this many times before successfully, Randy then suggested that the subject go back in time to an earlier lifetime, until she found herself face to face with another personality which was her, but in another incarnation. "I want you to go back in time, minus fifty, minus a hundred years before the present. What do you see?" "Nothing," Rowan replied, almost inaudibly. "Go back further, minus hundred and fifty, minus two hundred years, minus two hundred and fifty years," Randy commanded. "What do you see?" This time he hit paydirt. "I'm in a large house," Rowan said, her voice faltering and not at all like her usual self. "There are many people here, and they're wearing strange clothes." "Describe them," Rahdy demanded. "Long dresses, puffy sleeves, and the men have strange short trousers on," the girl said. "Go back now a few years until you find yourself, and when you have found yourself, allow your former self to speak to me directly," Randy commanded.
For a few seconds, the girl lay almost motionless, except for the breathing which had become much more shallow. Then a sudden transformation took place. It was as if a giant hand had touched Rowan's face and altered it, for she seemed like a different person now. Without opening her eyes or awakening in any sense, another personality took hold of Rowan's body. "Where am I? Who are you?" Rowan asked, in a voice heavy with a French accent and totally dissimilar from her normal voice. One might argue, of course, that as an actress she would be able to impersonate almost any character. The proof of the pudding lay not so much in the performance as in the contents of the message, if any. "I am Randolph, a friend from another country," Randy replied, playing the game her way. "What would you want with me?" "Tell me, first of all, your name and where you live?" "Everybody knows me, how ridiculous of you to ask. I am Francoise Legere and my house is not far from the Palace of St. James, as it should be, for my clientele is the best in all of London," she replied not without pride in her voice. "What sort of house?" Randy asked, not quite sure. A shrill laughter was his reply. "How strange you are, Monsieur, to ask such a question. My house, in case you would like to peruse it, contains twenty of the most ravissantes demoiselles in all of London, directly from Paris, Monsieur, and yours for a price." Well, Randy thought, this is a fine kettle of fish I've got myself into here. But he decided to pursue the strange career of Francoise Legere, French courtesan domiciled in London. What emerged was a composite picture of a young girl from an impeccable background in France, early given to pleasure and vice, and eventually winding up in London where she became, according to the entranced Rowan, a, highly successful madam. All this could be checked out quite easily, Randy decided.
For the moment, it was merely a diversion which would serve to keep Rowan interested and perhaps make her a stronger ally for the enterprise to come. Step by step he brought her back to the threshold of birth, suggesting that her age was again that of a baby, then that of a child, and eventually, her present age. All that time he admonished her not to awaken until he awakened her and to stay asleep until she was told to wake up. Now she was fast asleep, breathing heavily again, and her face had returned to the lovely contours it had had prior to the sudden arrival of Francoise Legere. He contemplated the lovely picture before him for a moment, then decided to make use of the opportunity to find out more about her present incarnation. "You are Rowan Dorset," he began. "You must tell me everything you know, and you must speak the truth, you cannot help but speak the truth, but you will not awaken until I awaken you. Do you understand?" "Yes, I understand," she said, with her voice again dropping down to an almost inaudible level. "What do you know about Adam Pitt?" "He is a business man. He takes care of my finances." "What sort of business is he in?" "I really don't know too much about him. He has an office on Water Street. Goes to the Exchange and has lots of money." Her voice seemed strangely halting, as if she were searching her memory for an answer. To Randy, this was an indication of the genuineness of her efforts. It reflected her own uncertainty concerning Pitt's business, for one does not lie under hypnosis, especially not in the third stage. "Where does Mr. Pitt's money come from? What sort of goods does he handle?" "I really don't know. Tea, I believe, yes, I remember his telling me, rare, foreign tea." "Does he have any other business?" "Not that I know of." "Do you work for him at times?" "Yes, three or four times he's asked me to deliver a small package to someone in the city. I don't know much about it." "Can you tell me the names of the people you delivered a package to?" "There was a Franklin Morehouse, and then I recall one large letter I brought to an office on Fleet Street, in a building where there was a newspaper as well, the man's name was Dunn, either Ernest or Eric Dunn." There was time enough to check into these names, Randy thought, and made a note to have them checked out by his London contacts.
But it didn't seem to satisfy Randy's curiosity as to why a girl of Rowan's appearance and possibilities would attach herself to Adam Pitt. Clearly, money was not the only incentive. Or was it? "Why are you going with Adam Pitt?" "I've got to." "Is it because of his money? Or what he does for you?" There was the mere suggestion of a sardonic smile on her lips when she replied. "Neither his money nor what he can dq for me." "Why then are you going with him?" The entranced Rowan hesitated to answer. "Remember, Rowan," Randy insisted, "you must tell me everything, you cannot hide anything from me, nothing but the truth." He then repeated the question, why was Rowan attrached to Adam Pitt. After a brief moment of silence, Rowan began, hesitatingly at first, and then gaining momentum. "I once had a sister named Doreen. She is dead now. Three years older than I, she was. Lovely, blonde hair, sky blue eyes, a figure men whistled at. She was everything I wasn't�"keen, smart, good. A year before I met Adam Pitt, Doreen was going with him. She was working in one of Raymond's bars at the time, trying to get into legit. Pitt saw her doing one of the shows and started to date her. They began to take weekends in the lake district, where he had a little house. Eventually, Pitt got her pregnant. He urged her to have an abortion, but she wouldn't do it. Instead, she committed suicide. He didn't even show up at the funeral." "But didn't you recognize him when he started to court you?" "Of course I did. Why do you think I encouraged him?" "Then your relationship with Adam Pitt was to get even for your sister's death. Is that it?" Rowan's face was suddenly flushed. "Sooner or later, there would be an opening. I knew in my heart that I could and would avenge my poor sister. My relationship with Adam Pitt was going to be the most difficult part in my entire career, I felt, but I wanted to do it. Doreen and I had been very close. It was the least I could do for her, take care of that faithless man who had Doreen's death on his conscience, even though he wouldn't own up to it." Rowan began getting agitated now and Randy thought it best to bring her out of her hypnotic state, to avoid her coming out of it suddenly with possible shock results.
Again, he suggested that she was leaving the seashore and slowly walking back to the forest. Ten steps at a time, Randy brought her up to the surface. All that time he suggested that upon awakening she would feel extremely well, as if she had rested for several hours. Moreover, upon awakening, she would not be able to recall what had transpired under hypnosis. This was a precautionary move on his part, since he didn't want her unconscious mind to be troubled by the conflicts which were still in it, until it could be resolved by exterior action. On the other hand, he had every intention of confronting Rowan with the material that had come through her while under hypnosis.
It was half past four when Rowan opened her eyes again. At first, she seemed genuinely baffled as to where she was. Quickly regaining her composure, however, she realized that she had been under hypnosis for well over an hour. "What happened?" she asked, indicating that she did not recall a thing from the moment when Randy had sent her into the meadow, the meadow of her mind, that is. Randy secretly congratulated himself. Quite obviously, Rowan was an excellent subject and he had succeeded in getting her "under" to the third stage on the very first try. After she had stretched a bit and taken a glass of water, she wanted to know whether anything special had come through her. Quickly, Randy acquainted her with her 17th Century incarnation, which caused Rowan to break into a delightful giggle. Imagine her being a 17th Century madam in London! However, when Randy went on to explain what she had said concerning Adam Pitt and her late sister, her face became very serious. "I should have known," she commented, "all this would come out under hypnosis. But I trusted you, and I still do. Somehow I have the feeling that you and I have to do things together." "Of course, everything you said under hypnosis is on the tape," he said, to see whether it bothered her. After all, he could blackmail her with Adam Pitt, if he wanted to, but she obviously didn't care. Her feelings were genuine, and she offered to help him in whatever it was he was searching for. For it had become abundantly clear to Rowan that the man from San Francisco wasn't at Corley Hall just to assist Adam Pitt in the finding of a Spanish treasure. Now it was Randy's turn to surprise her. Briefly sketching in Pitt's real activities, he found that Rowan was more than eager to help him destroy Pitt. "I had no idea," she kept repeating. "Had I known, I would never have delivered those papers."
Randy assured her that her part in delivering the packages could not be considered criminal by any Court of Law, since she had no knowledge of what was in them. "We've got work to do," Randy said, "please stay here for a little while and rest. I shall return in about fifteen minutes."
Quietly, Randy returned to his room. There was a telephone in it, for Adam Pitt had equipped Corley Hall with the latest conveniences. Randy was not sure whether the butler was listening in on his conversations or not, or whether someone, of whom he had no knowledge, might be intercepting his calls. On the surface of it, at least, it didn't look that way since he had a direct line. But Randy Knowles was not a man to take chances. He had worked out an elaborate code system which made even the most important communication from him sound like an innocent fairy tale. The number he was dialing in central London rang three times before being answered. "This is Johnson speaking," a pleasant voice said at the other end. "Hello, this is Randy Knowles. How is Mrs. Johnson?" "Thank you, Mrs.
Johnson is fine and ready to go out tonight." "Is it all right with her doctor?" Randy inquired. Seemingly, they were discussing the state of health of a dear friend. But the casual listener or interceptor didn't realize, of course, that Mrs. Johnson was the code name for the operation due to take place that night, that the term "doctor" referred to "clearing it with th�ż higher-ups," and that Randy's conversation wasn't with his old friend Johnson, but Timothy B. Johnson, head of the Special Branch, the most effective police machinery in Europe, if not the entire world.
"Did the doctor allow Mrs. Johnson to travel by plane?" Randy inquired, with a tone of genuine worry in his voice. "Quite," the other man replied. "She's even allowed to take a very small plane. Of course, it has got to be a good pilot. Otherwise she may get sick." "Did you contact my friend yet?" "Oh yes, we did. He was most interested at the news." "Then he will come to see you?" "Oh yes, he will see me just as I've asked him to." "How are your eyes, Johnson?" Randy inquired, again displaying the tone of voice in which a friend might inquire after the failing eyesight of a dear friend. "Oh thank you, Mr. Knowles," Johnson replied, in a calm tone of voice, "my eyes are just fine. They see everything. Don't worry about them."
Of course, Randy knew very well that they were not speaking about Mr. Johnson's eyes but about his operatives, his "eyes" which were to follow Pitt and his henchmen every step of the way. Evidental-ly the initial contact had been made. "Is there anything else you wish to know, Mr. Knowles?" Johnson inquired. "Nothing important, really, thank you," Randy replied. "Oh yes, there is, do you happen to know a couple of friends of mine, I believe they are some sort of stock brokers. Morehouse and
149
Dunn are their names." There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line. "I seem to recall the names, yes. If I'm not mistaken, they are in the tea distribution business." "It is a small world, isn't it?" Randy remarked, before hanging up. He was pleased with himself. Everything went the way he had wanted it to go, at least until now. Thanks to psychometry, Randy had reconstructed Pitt's operation in every detail.
Later that night, Adam Pitt would be receiving some real narcotics. They would be just like any other shipment he had received through the years, landed from offshore boats and transferred by him by small aircraft to his favorite landing field. The reference to Mrs. Johnson's desire to fly was, of course, not without meaning. In his earlier call, Randy had suggested that the pilot usually used by Pitt for his operation, should be "prevented" from showing up for work, and that a substitute should take his place at short notice. In view of the risk involved in the short time left, Pitt could not very well refuse, especially as the man sent to him would be a friend, allegedly, of his sick pilot. What Pitt couldn't know, however, was the fact that the pilot landing the little beach craft for him and transferring his precious cargo was a Special Branch man, as were the lorry drivers helping him take the narcotics to his London warehouse. This time Randy had suggested that a rendezvous with distributors on the road was not feasible, as too risky. Instead, he suggested that the distributors pick up theirs at Pitt's warehouse. Through Johnson, he had discovered that Pitt did not only maintain an office on Water Street, but had a loft in the same building which was locked most of the time. Since Pitt's usual distributors had no idea of the shipment, substitute distributors had to be found, all of them Special Branch men of course, and they were the ones to suggest a rendezvous at the warehouse instead of the open road. Pitt might object to this, because it was different from his usual routine. On the other hand, Randy had assumed him to be greedy enough not to let the deal go by because some details had been changed. Randy never liked raids in open territory, if he could avoid them. There was nothing as cozy as a building with one, or possibly two, staircases and a lot less likelihood for a criminal to make a getaway.
Satisfied, Randy returned to Rowan's room. She had locked herself in, but his signal, three sharp knocks, readily opened the door to him. Locking it again after himself, he looked at his watch and discovered that they had at least two hours until dinner time. "Under the circumstances," he said, looking directly at Rowan, who was lounging on the bed, "under the circumstances, you and I ought to relax in order to be fit for what follows." "I quite agree," Rowan replied, undoing her Indian robe, and Randy was now able to discover that she hadn't anything else on under it. Under the circumstances, he felt that he could do no less and removed his clothes as rapidly as the intricate nature of male clothing permits. In that respect, Randy had observed on earlier occasions, women are so much better off. One pull, or possibly two, and the moment of truth is at hand. As it was, this moment of truth was delightful and Randy congratulated himself secretly on his excellent taste in allies. He found Rowan's ample curves a soothing influence, letting him even forget the confrontation that lay ahead, or the precarious task that was yet to be done that evening, after dinner. For the moment, at least, Randy Knowles was off duty.
Chapter 9
Adam Pitt was pleased. The unexpected shipment turned out to be quite substantial, even though there were two disquieting factors involved in the operation. Why on earth Charles Carsgrove had to take sick j ust when he needed him. But even a dependable pilot can take sick sometime, his calmer self argued, and since Carsgrove had been decent enough to supply a substitute, he couldn't very well be angry. Frankly, Pitt did not believe in Cars-grove's illness. He knew only too well how much the pilot was given to over-indulging, and how much he liked hanging around pubs till all hours of the morning. Most likely, he had over-indulged and would have been unable to fly anyway. That was just as well, since a crash would have had disastrous results, not just for the pilot. The man's license seemed in order, and though Pitt had never met him before, Frank Roundhouse was a personable chap. Apparently, he had been in a couple of jams before, and could use the extra cash. Pitt never asked people what difficulties they might have encountered. He was satisfied when they did their job well and asked him not too many questions either. Of course, Roundhouse was only told that he was bringing in some expensive tea without benefit of Customs.
Pitt also missed his usual lorry drivers. But he realized that the men had other jobs to do. The fact that others were available was of course convenient. It did seem odd that the men offered themselves for any unusual jobs just when he was about to go through his list of availabilities. But that was probably just a coincidence. What he didn't like was their insistence of bringing the merchandise to a warehouse or office and their absolute refusal to meet distributors on the open road. The other fellows had simply taken orders and hadn't cared one iota where they were met by the buyers. But the older one of the two lorry drivers explained that they had once been caught in an open air operation and ever since had taken an oath not to do it again. Under the circumstances, Pitt suggested they bring the merchandise to his loft. That loft had been in use on and off, mainly for storage, but on occasion for similar purposes. Nobody would question them, so there was no risk involved, but Pitt had always preferrsd doing business way out in the country, so that the possibility of a raid was entirely eliminated.
Just the same, everything went smoothly. By one a.m., the parcels had all been stowed in the loft, the lorry drivers paid off and the loft locked. Shortly after, his two best distributors, Morehouse and Dunn, had arrived with spot cash and their own cars. By two a.m. everything had left the loft again and the two distributors were well on their way to their own premises. With a song from one of Rowan's musicals on his lips, Pitt had locked up his loft and gone home to his apartment. Thus he was unaware of two black sedans following his two favorite distributors and stopping them several blocks away from his loft. By the time Adam Pitt's head hit the pillow to waft into sweet dreams of still another fifty thousand pounds profit, Morehouse and Dunn were being escorted to Scotland Yard. Of course, Special Branch knew very well that the case might be thrown out of court, since the evidence had been planted upon Pitt; that was not really their purpose. What they hoped to gain from the arrests was information about Pitt himself, and since the two distributors had no idea that the drugs had been planted by Special Branch, they would most likely be cooperative in order to get a lighter sentence. It was all part of the game, a game that the forces of law and order knew just as well to play as those of crime and violence. Pitt, of course, would be dealt with in exactly the same manner. The lorry drivers had managed to take a number of infra-red photographs of their "employer," and of the operation itself. All of this would be used to force Pitt into a confession.
Pitt, ever the greedy one, would have been happier had the operation yielded full results: it so happened that his third London distributor was unavailable or perhaps low in cash. Uncfer the circumstances, Pitt was able to dispose of only two-thirds of the merchandise brought in during the night. The final third had been left in the loft, to be disposed of just as soon as he could locate another distributor. For a day or two, the "hot" cargo would have to remain in the loft, but Pitt had carefully camouflaged it in the middle of tea parcels, so that no one who was not in the know would suspect anything amiss. No, Pitt wasn't worried about the presence of some drugs in his loft; he was annoyed that his usual administrative genius had been unable to complete the entire operation within the night as usual. McPherson, his secretary, was not likely to go to the loft, since the key was kept in Pitt's drawer. That night, Pitt dreamt of golden clouds, clouds on which he floated through a sky populated by lovely girls not unlike Rowan Dorset.
Mrs. Berris had again outdone herself with dinner. Whether it was the absence of the master which gave her a feeling of less pressure, or whether she had simply taken a liking to Randy and Rowan, Mrs. Berris seemed in an unusual jovial mood that evening and the dinner reflected it. After a generous helping of banana flambee, Randy thanked Ludlow, who was serving them, stressing his satisfaction of having had such a restful and wonderful stay at Corley Hall. Under the circumstances, Randy remarked, would it be in order for Ludlow to join him in a toast to the master of Corley Hall? Ludlow was somewhat taken aback by the suggestion; he was too much the butler to break into toasts with his master or the guests of the house. However, Randy seemed rather insistent that he do, so Ludlow smiled and nodded assent. Swiftly, Randy took two glasses from the bar, filled them with Brandy, but with his back turned towards the table. Thus he was able to put a small white pill which he had secreted in the palm of his left hand into the glass destined for the butler. By the time Randy had turned around and offered Ludlow his glass, the pill had dissolved in the Brandy.
"To the master of Corley Hall," Randy said cheerfully, lifting his Brandy and motioning to Ludlow to do the same. Obediently, the butler did and with a swift move, both men emptied their glasses. Ludlow then bowed and asked permission to withdraw. As the butler left the room, Randy consulted his wristwatch. It was exactly eight thirty. By nine o'clock, Ludlow would be fast asleep, dead to the world for at least three or four hours. Offering Rowan his arm, he suggested a brief walk through the garden, in order to partake of the pleasant aroma of spring flowers now fully in bloom. It was around nine o'clock or a little after, when Randy and Rowan returned to the manor house. Everything seemed very quiet. Calling for Mrs. Berries, Randy remarked that it was time to turn in, since they had such a big day ahead tomorrow. A moment later, Mrs. Berries appeared, already in her nightgown. Randy excused himself, saying only that he wanted to commend her on the excellence of her meal. With that he wished her a good night and went to his room. As he looked out the window towards the entrance gate, he noticed a furtive figure. Fortunately, it was a moonlit night, so he could easily make out that it was Janet, on her way to her lover.
Retracing his steps to Rowan's room next, Randy knocked softly, and was quickly admitted. Rowan had waited for him, for she wanted to share his nightly adventure, whether or not there was any risk involved. Quietly, the two went down to Pitt's office. This time, there was no need to hurry. Pitt wasn't likely to be back until morning, and everyone else was safely out of the way. Nevertheless, Randy closed the door behind themselves, locking it from the inside. His search of Pitt's office was as thorough as it was cautious. Meticulously making sure that every paper, every object he picked up was also put back exactly as it had been before, wiping the handles of the drawers with a handkerchief after he had closed them again and in every way making sure that their presence in the office could not be noticed, should Pitt become suspicious for one reason or the other, Randy nevertheless realized before long that his search wasn't going to be particularly fruitful. The interesting document which he had discovered on his first visit to Pitt's office, was nowhere to be seen.
Nothing of the same kind could be located either on the desk, in the desk drawers, or in the files. Evidently, Mr. Pitt did not attach too much importance to his files, for they were all unlocked. Going through them at random, Randy realized that they contained nothing more interesting than stock market reports, buying orders, correspondence with stock brokers all over the world and sundry legitimate correspondence. One entire drawer, however, was given over to archeological matters, evidently Pitt's correspondence pertaining to the Spanish treasure. Although the matter was now academic, Randy examined the file somewhat more closely. There was an enormous amount of misinformation contained in it, he realized right away, letters from so-called experts, opinions expressed by British museum Keepers, and legal opinions as to his rights, should he unearth the treasure. Evidently Adam Pitt had spent a great deal of time with his favorite hobby. But nowheres in the large office was there any indication that Adam Pitt had another business, a business far more lucrative than his stock exchange operation.
It puzzled Randy; surely, there had to be some sort of depository in the house, but probably not easily visible to the casual visitor. With that in mind, he began to examine the walls of the office inch by inch. When Randy and Rowan had reached the side wall of the office, they began to pay closer attention to the dark red velvet curtains framing the windows. The right hand curtain extending from the far side of the window into the room itself seemed unusually wide. Quickly, Randy put his hands underneath the heavy curtain and immediately felt a chill. His fingers had come in touch with a steel door. Pushing the curtains aside now, they discovered a narrow steel door leading to another room. One look at the double lock securing the door convinced Randy that he had come to the end of his resources. "What do you suppose is behind this door?" "Adam spoke of the workshop where he used to experiment whenever he had bought some excavations," Rowan said. "Couldn't this be the door leading to it?" "Possibly," Randy replied, then knocked at the steel door and listened. From the lack of sound, he deduced its heaviness. Quite obviously, whatever lay behind the door was of some importance to Pitt. "Let us leave now," Randy said, "there's nothing here of further interest." Quietly, as they had come, they let themselves out of the office, and Randy sent Rowan to bed. As soon as he was alone, Randy proceeded to the garden. Walking close to the wall of Corley Hall, he examined it carefully inch by inch. It had occurred to him that there could be a cellar, in fact that there should be a cellar, yet he had not seen any stairs leading down into it. Above him were the French windows of Pitt's office. He continued his walk to the corner and then around it. Suddenly he saw what he had been looking for. Almost at ground level, there were two small, heavily barred windows, indicating that there were subterranean rooms adjacent to Pitt's office. Lying flat on his stomach, Randy tried to peer through the windows, but the room or rooms behind them lay in total darkness. After he had made the entire tour of the house and convinced himself that there was no other egress from the cellar nor entrance into it, Randy returned to the main floor and searched for a possible cellar stairs there. Again, the results were negative. It was obvious to him now that the only entrance to the cellar was through the steel door from Pitt's office.
Short of using violence to obtain access to the basement, Randy had no choice but to leave the matter alone. Under the circumstances, Randy could do with some sleep; too, since the next day promised to be lively, if not to say, exhausting.
Chapter 10
Promptly at eight, Adam Pitt arrived at Corley Hall. An early riser despite his nocturnal habits, he could barely wait to begin the dig. Randy was already up, getting dressed and as he went down to breakfast, he found a beaming Pitt already waiting for him. "Splendid weather we are having," his "employer" greeted him, "Today or never." "Today or never," Randy replied, and raised his orange juice. By nine, Rowan had descended in all her splendor, dressed in a khaki outfit in keeping with the nature of the expedition. She was going to be the lady archaeologist, looking on while the others worked hard. Chatting gaily about the amenities of London, which he somehow missed at Corley Hall, Pitt then led the little expedition back to the spot where they had dug several days before. "Well, men," he said, "let us get at it again and this time, let us find it." But before any pick-ax could touch the soil, Randy took Pitt's arm and asked to speak to him privately. "Look," he said, keeping his voice down, "I think we are several yards off the mark." "What do you mean, off the mark?" Pitt demanded, "didn't you yourself pinpoint the spot?" "Right. But I had time to re-examine the map and go over some measurements again. Since the map was drawn, the sands have shifted. We forgot to take into account the passage of time, you see." This contention seemed to make an impression on Pitt, even though on careful examination, the logic of Randy's remark would have dissipated like the sands of the shore with the first sign of wind. "Quite. What have you found?"
There was a renewed tone of tenseness in Pitt's voice. Nobody was going to rob him of his triumph today, this was it and the treasure had better be there. "The way I figure it, sir," Randy said in a businesslike voice, pulling the map from his pocket, "I feel we are between three to four yards off, and ought to be digging here." With that, he put his finger on a spot slightly to the right of the spot indicated on the map. "Very well then," Pitt said resolutely, "let us try it." Commanding his men to follow him, Pitt then allowed Randy to steer him to the spot where Randy and Slaughter had removed the treasure several days before. By now the ground was smoothed out again but it was obvious to anyone looking at it that there had been some digging done before. Pitt, however, took it to be the sign of the original digging and exclaimed, "Look, by Jove, you are right, Knowles. It looks as if there has been some digging here in the past." Half an hour later, the men had reached the level at which the treasure had been buried. "There's something hard down there, Governor," the gardener said. "Hard, eh?" Pitt replied with undisguised greed, "bring it up, bring it up!"
With baited breath, the little group surrounded the hole now. Even Randy was swept up in the fever of imminent discovery although in his case the reaction was entirely different. What would Pitt do when he discovered the truth? Moments later a dirty suitcase was flung on the ground in front of Pitt. "Here it is then," Pitt said, still overjoyed that he was at last close to his goal, but his face fell when he realized that the suitcase before him was scarcely more than twenty years old. "What is this?" he demanded, and reached out for it. Lifting the suitcase, he realized immediately that it was empty, and swiftly turned towards Randy. "What is this, some kind of hoax?" he demanded to know. There was steel-cold anger in his eyes now. Randy said nothing. Gesticulating wildly, Pitt approached him, yelling, "You bastard, you' stole my treasure. Where did you put it, quick, tell me, where did you put it?" "I'm sure you're mistaken, sir," Randy managed to say in as quiet a voice as he could muster. "You know where to dig, you led me here," Pitt bellowed. With the force of fury, he tore the suitcase open. It was empty all right, but the little note Slaughter had managed to insert when Randy and he had placed the suitcase in the hole, immediately attracted Pitt's attention. "What is this?" he demanded and read it. "Is this some more of your work? Some kind of a grim joke?" With that, he handed the note to Randy.
"Mr. Pitt, long before you came on the scene, we were working hard and long to find this treasure. It is as much ours as it is yours. As I write this, I do not know when the treasure will be found. But if you want your share, you must come to me for it. Signed, Constable Derek Slaughter." Pitt was visibly shaken by the discovery. "A dead man's writing," he mumbled, and turned away. "Look, sir," Randy said, trying to sound as smooth as he could, "you can see yourself that I had nothing to do with it. Someone evidently got here first, but believe me, sir, we will find it." Pitt gave Randy a dirty look but a look that was no longer filled with the kind of hatred he had displayed a moment before. Quite obviously, Randy was not the guilty party to him, but he still felt betrayed, feeling that Randy should have known of the theft of the treasure, even before it had happened.
Without another word, Pitt stalked back to Corley Hall, the others following him at a distance, discussing amongst themselves the strange discovery they had just made. Rowan and Randy were last. "I trust you know where it is," Rowan said quietly, "but you realize that old Adam is not going to take this lying down. Better be on your guard. He is capable of anything now." "I know," Randy said, quietly, "I am fully prepared."
Back at Corley Hall, an atmosphere of disaster pervaded the house. Somehow, word of the failure had reached the staff which had remained behind, even before the principals had returned to the house. Randy consulted his wristwatch again. It was just ten thirty. If all went according to plan, Randy thought, the day would end quite differently than it had started. There was nothing to do now but play for time and wait. Consequently, Randy seated himself in the drawing room, pretending to leaf through old magazines on a cocktail table. Sooner or later the enraged Pitt would appear and engage him in conversation. Randy was right. Less than five minutes later, a fuming and obviously disturbed Pitt walked into the room. "Now see here, Knowles," he began unceremoniously, walking up and down nervously, without looking Randy in the face, "I paid you a handsome sum to help me find this treasure. I did not pay you so that someone else could find it." "Quite so, sir," Randy replied, "I don't blame you a bit for being upset." "Then what do you intend to do about it?" "I will of course go to work immediately to recover the stolen treasure," Randy said, casually, emphasizing the term "stolen." He seemed to hit a responsive cord in Pitt. In a somewhat less aggressive tone, he inquired, "Who do you suppose took it?" "Well, sir, you read the note, it was signed in the hand of the late Constable
Slaughter." "Rubbish," Pitt replied, pearls of sweat standing on his forehead, despite the fact that it was fairly cool. "Slaughter has been dead for some time." That clinches it, Randy thought, Slaughter's death had not been announced publicly, there had been nothing in the newspapers, yet Pitt referred to it as a fait accompli. "Perhaps it is someone faking the Constable's signature then," Randy suggested. Again, Pitt shook his head. "No, I don't believe that. This is a gang of local thieves who are trying to steal my treasure." "Any idea who they are?" "Yes, I know some of them, but not all, not all." There was an ominous overtone in the way he said the latter words. Quite obviously, Pitt thought, if he knew the one member of the gang he had missed, he would call his henchmen and have him done away with, too. There could be no survivors in this game.
"I cannot guarantee it, sir," Randy began again, "but I daresay that within twenty-four hours, I will be able to put my finger on the treasure. I have certain leads already." "Leads?" Pitt asked, his curiosity again aroused. "Yes, I am convinced that this is the work of some local men. When I was at the inn a few days ago, I overheard them talking," Randy lied. "One of them was the innkeeper himself, the other one was a young man I didn't recognize."
Pitt took the bait. "Yes, yes," he said, eagerly, "go on." Randy realized that he had to give him something more tangible, if he wanted Pitt off his back for now. He continued to describe the young man, giving him all the attributes of young Mark Slaughter. There was no danger that Slaughter could become Pitt's fourth victim. At this very moment, Mark Slaughter was hiding in the abandoned barn, two guns in his pockets, with explicit orders not to move until Randy himself came for him.
Suddenly, there was a glimmer of recognition on Pitt's face. "That young man you mention, I know who he is. That is young Mark Slaughter, the Constable's brother. Of course, it all fits in. It is he who faked his brother's signature on the note." "Well, then," Randy said and rose, "let us see what he is up to." "Yes, let's," Pitt said, his composure once again returned. "Let us see indeed what young Slaughter is up to. But I'll go alone. You, however, will follow me." With that, Pitt whipped out a small gun, pointed it at Randy, and motioned him to go up the stairs ahead of him. Randy hadn't thought that Pitt would show force openly so soon, but evidently events ran very much ahead of time now and, as he had himself said, anything could happen. "I don't understand you, sir," Randy mumbled, still playing the part of the surprised detective, "but I'll do whatever you say." "You will kindly stay in your room until further notice. I don't think I can trust you," Pitt said as he locked a protesting Randy in his room, taking the key with him. Then he descended the stairs again, stopping briefly in at his office on the main floor and depositing the key to Randy's room in the drawer of his desk. Checking his gun whether it was fully loaded and satisfied that it was, he replaced it in his hip pocket and prepared to leave the office again. As he reached the door, the telephone rang. "What now," he said, half under his breath, retracing his steps and picking up the telephone.
Chapter 11
On the other end of the telephone was McPher-son's shaky voice. "I don't understand it sir," the secretary said, obviously very much upset. "The police are here. They're ransacking the place. What shall I do?" The police, Pitt thought, how was that possible? Who had betrayed him? Randy Knowles perhaps? Immediately he rejected this notion. Had he himself made a mistake? But this was no time to reflect on the causes of his problem. He had to deal with it, and deal with it in such a manner that nothing was lost. "Put whoever is in charge of the police on the telephone immediately," he commanded. A moment later a flat, nasal voice resounded in the telephone. "Sergeant Peters speaking." "Sergeant, this is Adam Pitt. I understand from my secretary that the police are in my premises. May I ask what is the meaning of this outrageous intrusion?" "Orders, we've got orders." "On what grounds, may I ask?" "I rightly don't know, sir, I've got my orders from higher up," the Sergeant replied. "What exactly are you looking for at my office?" Pitt demanded. "I rightly don't know, sir," the Sergeant replied, "me orders are to look the place over, and bring back to headquarters anything suspicious." Then there was hope, Pitt thought, for he knew only too well that the police couldn't find anything suspicious at his offices on Water Street. Except, for the key to the loft. Only he, Pitt, knew what the key was for. McPherson might remember that Pitt had stored some records somewhere up under the roof, but he wasn't likely to have any bright ideas about the loft either. Still, one has to be sure. "May I speak to my secretary again?" Pitt demanded in a somewhat quieter voice. "Right you are, sir," the policeman said and handed the telephone back to McPherson, "Listen carefully, McPherson," Pitt began, "above all don't get excited and don't lose your sense of balance. I don't know what this is all about, but there is no point interfering with the police, you understand?" "Yes, sir," McPherson replied, seemingly somewhat quieter now because he was speaking to his superior. "Now then," Pitt continued, "listen very carefully and don't say anything except yes or no. I don't want the police to get ideas, you understand? Let them look through every thing, let them take whatever they want, but be sure they give you a receipt for whatever papers they take." Pitt thought it would sound more rational to his secretary, if he insisted on getting receipts for the papers to be taken. "If they should ask you any questions, refuse to answer on the grounds that yon want an attorney present. If they should ask you whether I have any other offices, inform them that to your knowledge there is no other office. It is really none of their business that I have an office here in my country house or that I have on occasion stored things with a friend upstairs, you understand?" "Yes, sir, I understand," McPherson replied. By casually mentioning the "friend upstairs," Pitt thought he would cover the times when McPherson had seen him carry documents and packages upstairs to the loft. "I don't know what this is all about, you understand, but I have a sneaking suspicion that one of my competitors on the Stock Exchange is trying to make trouble for me, because I just made a big killing," he lied, hoping that McPherson would buy the idea. "You understand now, don't you McPherson," Pitt repeated, "if they should ask you, and only if they should ask you, I have no other place than the one you're in. Is that clear?" "Yes, sir, Mr. Pitt, don't worry about a thing. I'll hold the fort." "I'll be back in London just as soon as I can. But I've got to do some things here, so it'll be at least three hours before I can get back to town. Meanwhile, keep me posted, will you?"
Fortunately, Pitt had put Noonan Jack's telephone onto the special list which he always carried on his person. Now he took out the list and dialed the number. It was the middle of the day and the man might very well be out on a job, but luck was with Pitt and the strange, gruffy voice of Noonan Jack answered directly. "There is a little job I want you to do," Pitt began, trying to disguise the excitement in his voice, "but you've got to do it right away. Are you available?" "That depends, governor," the man replied, "what do you want me to do?" "There js a certain loft on Water Street which I want you to blow up for me," Pitt said, hoping that Jack wouldn't trace the call back to Adam Pitt, since he only knew the voice now speaking to him as the voice of The Unicorn. Jack wanted to know whether any people were involved, and when he realized that it was merely a matter of destroying the premises thoroughly, he readily agreed. From Pitt's description, it appeared to him that two or three sticks of dynamite might do the job. He instructed Jack to lay in wait until the police had left the premises, and until McPherson had gone too. As soon as the coast was clear, he was to go up to the loft, and destroy the lock. For a man of Jack's talents, that would take no more than a minute or two. Once inside, he was to put all the boxes he could find into the center of the premises, and destroy them. If possible, he was to avoid a conflagration, however, if the fire could not be contained, he was to wait until he was sure that the boxes had been consumed before turning in an alarm.
As soon as he had completed his conversation with Jack, Pitt called McPherson once more and instructed him to leave just as soon as the police had left. He was to lock up the premises and go home and telephone him from there. This done, Pitt sat down at his desk for a moment, trying to sort things out.
His squaring away things with Randy Knowles would have to wait now. There was more urgent business to be done, and no time to be lost. He wasn't sure how much the police already knew, or whether they were linking him to The Unicorn or not. No matter what their information might have been, he was confident that they could not have found anything of value in his offices. How could Pitt know the real facts behind the police raid?
Through one of the fine ironies of fate, which sometimes occur when least expected, the police had gotten wind of last night's delivery to the loft by sheer accident. An officer on duty not far from the Water Street building happened to pass by just when the two distributors, Morehouse and Dunn, were leaving the building, heavily loaded with the parcels they had just picked up. This officer happened to have been on duty with the drug squad for some time prior to returning to the street beat and he recognized the two men immediately. Rather than trying to arrest them on the spot, and either run a risk for his life or, in case they were innocent of any wrong-doings, risk a wrongful arrest suit, he decided to go through channels and advise his superiors of what he had seen. For several minutes prior to recognizing the two men, he had watched the building, which was the only one in the block with some of the windows still lit, despite the late hour. It wasn't too difficult to remember which set of windows had been lit after the two men had left with their parcels. Pitt had opened his offices as part of the operation, and thus there were lights; but the loft itself had no windows and consequently no lights could be seen from the street. After everyone had left the building, the officer checked and discovered that the windows belonged to the offices of a certain Adam Pitt. When he turned his report in at headquarters, a routine investigation was ordered. Why were two well-known drug merchants leaving the offices of a respectable stock broker in the dead of night, loaded down with heavy packages. It was enough for a local j udge to issue an order to search the premises. That is how the police decided to raid the offices of Adam Pitt, respectable stock broker. They weren't sure what they would find, but it seemed strange that Mr. Pitt had such unusual friends, especially in the middle of the night. The whole thing was nothing more than a routine investigation. Special Branch had of course not notified the local police precinct of their own role in the rather complicated venture. Had the officer come by ten minutes earlier, he would have seen some of the Special Branch officers, disguised as lorry drivers, delivering the packages to the Water Street address. In that case, the Special Branch operation might very well have been discovered and the raid on Adam Pitt's premises would never have taken place. But as it was, the finger of fate decided to move on and cause Mr. Pitt some anxious moments, driving him to take action he would not have normally taken.
Pitt of course couldn't figure out why his offices should be raided by the police, but he thought that blowing up the loft with its remaining drug supplies was a matter of prudence, even if the raid proved to be entirely inconsequential. It was a matter of taking a calculated risk, he figured, for the police might sooner or later have stumbled upon the key to the loft and used it; in that case, the drugs would have been discovered, for Pitt couldn't have gone to recover them himself, nor could he have sent anyone in his stead. He was sure that the building was now under surveillance, and that the best he could do was have the premises destroyed by a true professional. He wasn't worried about Noonan Jack being caught; the man knew his business, and even if he should, against all expectations, run into the hands of the police, he knew how to handle himself. Jack had been in and out of jail so many times in his life that he knew all the angles.
Adam Pitt was a man who did not believe in taking chances. All his life, that had been his credo. An insignificant slip-up, perhaps, or the revengeful denunciation by a competitor, or a mistake by a subordinate or by someone he was doing business with, all of these possibilities might be behind the unexpected police raid. It wasn't the raid itself that worried him, for he had covered himself well, as far as his offices on Water Street were concerned. It was the consequence of such a raid, that concerned him much more. Adam Pitt, stock broker and importer, Water Street, had nothing to fear from the authorities. Adam Pitt, country squire and owner of Corley Hall, on the other hand, wouldn't want to be raided by the police just now. With the loft taken care of, and presumably no traces of anything illicit to be discovered there, if Jack did the job well, there remained the problem of what to do about his records and other incriminating evidence at Corley Hall. True, there might never be a follow-up, and the entire matter might blow over, perhaps only due to a mistaken notion by some local police captain. Then again, it might not. The police, or Scotland Yard perhaps, might be at Corley Hall in a matter of hours. Adam Pitt did not cherish the notion of spending the rest of his life behind bars. He decided to leave nothing to chance.
Carefully locking the door of his office, Pitt then drew the heavy curtain shielding the steel door leading to the cellar and prepared to open it. From his pocket, he took two small keys, swiftly inserted them in the complicated locks which had stopped Randy the previous night. A moment later, the door swung open almost noiselessly, disclosing a narrow stairwell leading down into the basement. Suddenly, a notion came to Pitt which made him walk up the stairs again, carefully locking the door once more and opening the office door. Somehow, in his troubled state, he had completely forgotten about Rowan. Rowan knew the names of people he had done business with, not as Adam Pitt but as The Unicorn. He had a choice now: to kill her, or to involve her even deeper into his machinations. In his own way, Pitt had come to love Rowan, and the idea of hurting her was the furthest thing from his mind. Then, too, another pair of hands might prove very helpful under the circumstances. Gently, he knocked at Rowan's door. "Who is it?" he heard her voice from the inside. "It is I, Adam," he replied, "I'd like a word with you." She opened the door, but made no move to ask him in. "May I come in?" he said, at the same time pushing his way inside the room. "Where's Randy?" she said, somewhat imprudently, for he noticed the blush in her face. "Ah, is it that way?" he said, and looked at her, a tinge of jealousy rising within him. Quickly, the actress within her came to her aid. "Nonsense, nothing of the sort," she replied, and gently kissed him on the forehead, "just curiosity, that is all. I haven't heard of him since he got back from the treasure hunt." "Don't you worry, Randy is quite safe," Pitt replied, "he's resting in his room." "What are you up to, Adam?" Rowan said, casually brushing her arm against his. She knew that Pitt was an easy target for casual sexual touches, and her innate curiosity was aroused by the strange look she noticed about him. As much or as little as she knew Adam Pitt, she knew that he was troubled. If Randy was unable to attend to matters, as she felt somehow, then it was up to her to carry the ball. Completely feeling herself at home in her role as Randy Knowles' special assistant now, Rowan decided to play it cool with Adam.
"I want you to come with me," Pitt said, pulling her towards the door. When they arrived in front of the steel door, Pitt explained briefly that his private records were stored in an office in the basement, and that he needed her help to make sure that these records did not fall into the wrong hands.
"Are you expecting visitors?" Rowan managed to say with a mixture of studied innocence and intended curiosity. Pitt shot her a doubtful look. "Visitors? Yes and no. A man wants to be prepared for all eventualities." Again, he unlocked the double lock, carefully pulling the door shut behind them, but without locking it. Then they descended the narrow stairwell into the cellar of Corley Hall. This part of the cellar had evidently been carefully restored in recent times. Heavy, cemented walls supported the structure of the Hall itself, and the corridor was well lit. From time to time other corridors crossed it, leading into semi-darkness and disclosing uncertain objects in the distance. No doubt, Corley Hall had its secrets, not the least of which was Adam Pitt's secret office.
They had walked for perhaps twelve or fifteen yards, when the corridor seemed to end abruptly. Before them was nothing but a cement wall. To the left, another corridor opened and to the right one could hear the faint noise of the not too distant sea, indicating that they were facing in that direction. What now, Rowan thought. For a moment, panic rose in the young girl. Had Pitt brought her down here to kill her? Surely, if he meant to do it, he could not possibly be heard from the outside. Well, Rowan decided, if she was to die, she would give him a good fight. But apparently Pitt had no such intentions.
"Look," he said, pointing at the blank wall before them, "look and watch me." With his knuckles, Pitt then knocked against the wall, three short knocks, followed by two more knocks. As if by a miracle, the wall disclosed an opening large enough for a man to walk through. "It works with a sonic device," Pitt explained casually, as they walked through the door. Shades of the Arabian Nights. Rowan thought. Once inside, she realized they were standing in a comfortable, square-shaped office, about twenty by twenty foot in diameter, and perhaps twelve.foot high, but without windows. She noticed air vents on the ceiling and the faint hum of a motor indicated to her that the office was supplied with fresh air by an electric air conditioning system. The office itself was functionally but elegantly furnished. Along one wall, there were six wooden cabinets, and in the corner a number of cardboard boxes had been stacked up all the way to the ceiling. It was here where Adam Pitt had stored some valuable "merchandise", towards the day when his suppliers could no longer get through, or when his distributors wanted more merchandise than he had on hand. The stuff did not deteriorate with age, and no one was likely to suspect his having this kind of "merchandise" in the secret office below Corley Hall. Opposite the filing cabinets, there was an ancient fireplace, Rowan noticed, and she realized that the secret office might have been a kitchen or servants quarters at one time. Pitt had fixed up the fireplace so that it was in working order, she noticed, which puzzled her. Was it his antiquarian sense that made him do this, or was there an ulterior motive? Surely, the office could be well heated through central heating also, which was being used throughout Corley Hall.
"Here, Rowan, help me with these," Pitt demanded, opening the first file on the left and dumping stacks of papers on the floor. "What do you want me to do with these?" Rowan inquired. Wordlessly, Pitt pointed to the fireplace. Now she understood. The fireplace was for burning. Obediently, but as slowly as she could, following some deeper instinct within her, she carried the papers to the fireplace and threw them into the fire.
Long before Adam Pitt had descended to his secret office in the cellar, Randy Knowles had left his room. At a time when Pitt was thinking he had safely locked the famed detective away, Randy was already outside Corley Hall looking for the people he knew were to arrive at any moment. Sure enough, there was a familiar face looking out of the gardener's cottage. "Hello there, Johnson," Randy said cheerfully, "come for the show?" "Right you are, Knowles, the boys are all ready," Johnson replied and whistled softly. From the bushes and trees around Corley Hall, a dozen heads popped up, and Randy knew that the time to act was at hand. The gardener and the butler had already been taken, and Special Branch people were stationed along the walls of the Hall, and in the manor house itself.
"Come," Randy said to Johnson, "I think I have an appointment with Mr. Pitt." Quickly and noiselessly, the two men let themselves into Pitt's office. At the steel door behind the curtain, Randy discovered that it was no longer locked. Whistling softly through his teeth, he asked Johnson to stay behind and cover him, if necessary. If he didn't return within five minutes, he was to follow him. Recognizing the element of surprise in such delicate operations as they were now engaged in, Johnson agreed, somewhat reluctantly, since he feared for Randy's life. But it was Randy Knowles' game, and he did not dare dictate his own terms.
In a few moments, Randy arrived at the blank wall. It did not stump him. From his side pocket he took a delicate instrument, similar to a doctor's stethoscope. This he placed against the wall and listened. As soon as he had found the right spot, he was able to listen in on the conversation going on inside, despite the fact that the walls were thick indeed. He could clearly hear the conversation going on between Pitt and Rowan. "But why are you destroying all these papers," Rowan said, "are you going some place?" "Definitely," Pitt replied, "and I hope that you will join me. Wouldn't you like to be on the Riviera this time of year?" "Definitely,"
Randy heard Rowan reply, "but why do we have to destroy your files?" "I'll tell you later, just keep throwing them into the fire as quickly as you can. We've got lots to burn," Randy heard Pitt say somewhat impatiently, it seemed to him. Randy didn't like the sound of what he heard. He had to be inside that office before Pitt was able to destroy all the evidence. Bravely, he decided to knock at the door. Had he known the right combination of knocks, the door would have opened. As it was, the sound registered inside, but did not open the door. Pitt jumped back when he heard the knocks.
The very idea of anyone knocking on his secret door! Motioning Rowan to be silent, and stand back from the door, Pitt swiftly went to the last filing cabinet on the right, opened the bottom drawer and took a small object from it. To her horror, Rowan realized that he held a small gun equipped with a silencer in his hand. What was she to do? Gain time, her intuitive processes told her. "What are you going to do, Adam?" she said, trying to sound as concerned for his well-being as she could make herself sound. "Don't you worry," Pitt replied. "Stand back and you won't get hurt. I'm afraid I'll have to get rid of Mr. Knowles now. It is really a pity, considering I paid him all that money." "But Adam, you're not going to kill him, are you?" "Nothing illegal about that, my dear," Pitt assured her, "he is trespassing, and I'm merely defending my rights."
Meanwhile, Randy decided to astrally project himself quickly through the door to see what lay ahead. Even if there were a second exit from the cellar, the house was by now completely surrounded and it didn't matter. Johnson hadn't followed him down the stairs, so Randy was alone. He sat down on the floor, leaning against the wall, closed his eyes and commanded his Inner Self to float freely from his body, to enter the closed cellar door, and to look around. What he saw convinced him that he had used his E.S.P. powers well. Of course, he had expected Pitt to show his true colors sooner or later and a man like Pitt would naturally carry a gun. But a gun with a silencer was something else again. Obviously, Pitt was driven to desperation and was now going to use it. Immediately, Randy snapped back into his own body, and awakened himself. Breathing three or four times deeply in Yoga fashion, he then knocked once again, this time demandingly.
"Open up, Mr. Pitt. I know you are in there. We have to talk." "We'll talk all right, but when I am ready and not sooner," Pitt mumbled, more to himself than to Rowan. Rowan's eyes feverishly examined the wall. Finally, she saw what she had been looking for: the mechanism that released the entrance door and permitted it to open. Located to the right of the door, it consisted of a set of buttons which controlled the opening and closing of the door as well as the electrical lighting in the office itself.
Pitt busied himself on his gun now; swiftly opening it, he found it to be empty and returned to the file. From the bottom drawer, he took the necessary bullets, and prepared to place them into the gun. For a moment, his back was turned to Rowan and the entrance door. This was the moment, she thought, her big chance. Almost noiselessly she leapt to the door, quickly pressing the buttons. Pitt turned around in surprise, just as the door opened, disclosing Randy Knowles holding his famous water pistol in hand. Quickly, Pitt fired twice in succession, but Randy had already entered the office and the bullets went far off their mark. Never underestimate the ingenuity of a woman. While Pitt was concentrating all his efforts against the San Francisco detective, Rowan managed to get behind him and put her elbow around his neck. Although Karate was not a must subject at the Royal Academy of the Dramatic Arts, Rowan had taken some classes and found them now exceedingly useful. Within a fraction of a second, Randy had seized the gun in Pitt's hand. Johnson and two of his men now appeared at the entrance. The Unicorn was at bay.
Only, Pitt thought, never losing his cool, did they really know who he was? How could the authorities possibly connect him with The Unicorn, the man who had been importing drugs from the East for all these years? Pitt liked to get things straight, even when it was his neck he was dealing with. At the moment, he believed that Knowles had somehow caught on to his disposal of the Constable, the innkeeper and the doctor, and had brought the police because of that. Every criminal has a weakness: perhaps Adam Pitt's weakness was his treasure mania, his preoccupation with treasure hunting and his great resentment against those who were interfering with it. In his own way, he considered the death of the three men a just execution for crimes committed rather than outright murder.
If only he hadn't stored some of the excess merchandise in the cellar, he thought, when they put handcuffs on him. It didn't take the Special Branch people very long to find everything, narcotics, records, correspondence�"the lot. Perhaps it was Pitt's weakness also to keep such meticulous records of his transactions, perhaps it was part of his nature to do so, since he also pursued a legitimate career as a businessman. "I'm Johnson, from Special Branch," the chief introduced himself.
In one corner, Rowan was crying hysterically. The excitement of the moment had finally caught up with her, and the woman within needed to let go of the accumulated tensions. Much as he had wanted to, Randy could not console her at the moment. "We've got the goods on him all right, Mr. Knowles," Johnson said in his usual low voice, "I think you've done a splendid job." Pitt shot Randy an angry look at these words. "I must apologize to you, Mr. Pitt," Randy said, acknowledging the problem. "I didn't come here to send you to jail as a narcotics dealer, it just worked out that way, it would seem. On the other hand, I certainly earned my fee. After all, I did find the treasure for you." At the mention of the word treasure, Pitt's eyes lit up. "Where is the treasure? Have you taken that, too?" "As a matter of fact, the treasure is quite intact. It will be turned over to the British Museum just as soon as arrangements can be made." "I suppose it doesn't matter now," Pitt commented, with a dash of sadness replacing the arrogance in his voice. "I wish I could have seen it, though." "Incidentally, lest you have any misgivings about having paid me a fee, I am turning it over in its entirety to the British Society for the rehabilitation of drug addicts."
For a moment, everyone stood around, somewhat in awe of what had just transpired. "Well, we've got to get back to town, I guess," Johnson said finally, looking at Pitt with an unspoken command to walk
up the stairs between two of his men.
"I suppose you have to do your duty, yes," Pitt said, rather too smoothly for Randy's taste, "but there's one special favor I would like you to do for me, if possible. You see, I love antiquities, they are the most important thing in my life. Since I am not likely to see them again for quite a while, might I have a chance to have one more look at my antiques upstairs in my office, especially the tapestry over my desk which has always been one of my prize possessions?"
That tapestry, Randy thought, I knew there was something special about it. But what? Somehow, his E.S.P. warned him that Pitt was still playing a game. But Johnson, happy at his catch, was willing to be pleasant, in a strange display of British fair play which is not always understood by sterner policemen on the Continent or in the United States. "Very well, Mr. Pitt," he said, pointing towards the door, "I see nothing wrong with such a request. You may go upstairs with these men and have a look at your antiquities, if you wish. But be brief about it." "Wait a moment," Randy said and motioned the men to wait. Then he took Johnson's arm and asked him to step aside, so he could speak to him in private. Rowan had come over to join them, but when she saw Randy's serious expression, she stood back. "Look," Randy said, "I don't mean to interfere with your operation. It's your baby now. But I have a strange premonition that you oughtn't to let Pitt go upstairs into his office again. Mind you, I have no proof whatever, just a hunch, that is all." There was a slightly condescending smile on Johnson's lips. "A hunch, eh? Sort of a psychic thing?" he said, obviously not putting much stock in such phenomena. "Yes, if you will." "Don't worry, Mr. Knowles," Johnson assured Randy, "we've got enough men to take care of things now. Let him have one more look at his stuff, what harm can there possibly be? We've searched the house top to bottom. Carry on," he then added to his men, and the little procession started up the stairs. Randy shrugged. There was nothing to be done but go along.
Upstairs, things looked a little different now. The door to Pitt's office was open, and Special Branch men were all over the place. There was no mistaking them now, for they were in their usual uniforms, dark, conservative suits, sky blue eyes, and tight lips. Johnson and two of his men escorted Pitt into the office now, with Randy and Rowan following behind. Without saying anything further, Johnson motioned Pitt to stand by his desk, if he wished. If Pitt was going to pull a fast one, Randy thought, using his native idiom, he would have to do it in plain view of everyone. How could he? Randy began to doubt his own intuitive processes now; perhaps his dislike for Pitt had misled him into believing that Pitt would do something to escape? For once, Randy felt his E.S.P. had let him down.
Pitt looked around the office, sighed in most dramatic fashion, then stepped behind the desk. Looking up at the tapestry above him, he smiled at it, and again Randy noticed the uncanny similarity between Pitt's face and that of the Unicorn in the tapestry.
"Now you gentlemen know that I've had some drugs in the house, and you know that I've been dealing in them," he began, with as pleasant a tone of voice as if he were describing an operation at the stock exchange. "But now that the jig is up, you might was well know one more thing: I am The Unicorn." None of the Special Branch people showed any particular surprise. There was a moment of embarrassing silence. Finally, Pitt, looking from one face to the next, asked, "You don't seem surprised? Does the name Unicorn not ring a bell with you?" Finally Johnson spoke up. "I'm afraid it doesn't, sir," and with a sinking feeling, Pitt realized that they weren't on to him after all. True, they had raided his house and had found some heroin and all sorts of records. But for all they knew, this could have been a one-time operation, perhaps one that hadn't yet taken place. It could be fought in the courts. Now, however, he had put them on to something. But Pitt was not a man to let his errors stand in the way of further action. "The name The Unicorn is given me because I look like the unicorn in the tapestry," he explained, quickly regaining his composure, "at the Exchange, they say I'm as stubborn as a unicorn." Randy couldn't help notice the sudden change in approach, from a very boastful criminal telling his captors how great he really is, to a glib and almost apologizing stock exchange operator who tells a little anecdote about the nickname the boys down at the Exchange had given him. Something didn't seem quite right, but Randy didn't want to say anything since Johnson had already indicated his lack of faith in Randy's intuitive processes. "Might I have a glass of sherry?" Pitt asked now, looking at Johnson. "I don't see why not," Johnson replied, motioning to one of his men to bring the tray of sherry and glasses over from a corner table. Quickly pouring himself a glass, Pitt then raised it and began to toast his captors. "To the victor, the spoils. To the loser, oblivion." He raised his arm as high as he could while Johnson smiled benignly. Suddenly, his fingers grabbed at the tapestry above the desk and he yanked it down with great force. At the same instant, Adam Pitt disappeared into the ground. Apparently, there had been an extremely effective drap door below the desk, for Pitt had disappeared and the trap door closed again before anyone could be behind the desk. "Nothing could possibly happen, eh?" Randy heard himself say, somewhat against his will, for he hated telling people that he had been right, after all.
For a few minutes, Special Branch men were scurrying all over the house. The cellar was searched again and again, walls were tapped and the grounds were thoroughly searched. The result was nil. Adam Pitt had made a clean get-away. Evidently the search of the house had not been as thorough as Johnson had thought. Finally, on the third try, one of the men discovered a discrepancy in the circumference of the wall in a part of the cellar roughly corresponding to the office above. With a pick-ax, the men were able to establish that the trap door behind Pitt's desk was indeed connected with an escape corridor, wide enough for one man to go through, but not to stand up in. Following the corridor along, they found themselves several yards outside the wall. Obviously, Pitt had gone this way and was by now well on his way to freedom. Apparently, he had reconstructed an ancient "priest hole" into an escape corridor for himself.
But hindsight was of little use now. A much more subdued Johnson was forlornly stirring his coffee, as he and Randy sat in the drawing room, trying to figure out what to do next. Naturally, all the necessary alerts had been given. But a man of Pitt's talents wasn't too likely to run into the dragnet out for him now. Half an hour later, word was received that Pitt's car had been discovered, half way between Werrick and London. Obviously, Pitt had decided to get himself another vehicle, or perhaps someone was picking him up. At any rate, the fox had gotten away. "Might I suggest something?" Randy said, looking Johnson directly into the face. "I realize you have little use for E.S.P. and psychic phenomena," he began, "but under the circumstances, would it not be unwise to overlook any possibility of gaining information concerning Pitt?" "Oh quite," Johnson replied. "Please don't be offended, I just don't know enough about the subject. But by all means, go ahead and try. We'll do anything you say." "Very well," Randy replied. "All you have to do is be quiet, not to touch me, and to record everything I say. If the telephone rings, have someone else answer it. That is all."
With that, Randy stretched out on the couch in his room, with Johnson, Rowan, and two of Johnson's men, the only others present. Again, Randy commanded himself to dissociate from the physical body and to project outward towards Pitt. Since he had no idea where Pitt had gone, he projected an image of the fugitive and ordered his Inner Self to act like a homing pigeon, homing in on Pitt wherever he might be. By now Johnson was no longer skeptical about E.S.P., but ready to take down anything Randy might say.
"I think I have him," Randy began, in a voice not at all like his own, but faint and somewhat trembling. Johnson had some difficulty hearing him. "He is in a small launch. I see him heading out to sea. " "Can you tell us where?" Johnson said almost respectfully now. "It looks like an island ot sorts." "Describe it, if you can." Randy then went on to describe the island, as he projected himself closer and closer. By now Pitt in his launch was only a few yards off shore. "Sounds like the Isle of Wight," one of Johnson's men commented. "You might be correct," Johnson said, waiting for additional material to come through the projected Randy Knowles. "I see him heading towards shore. Now he's gone. I'm sorry. I must get back." With that, Randy sighed deeply and fell back onto the couch. With eyes closed, he lay there for perhaps two or three minutes, then reopened them and looked at everyone, as if he had just been away on a long trip�"which, in fact, he had.
Johnson rose abruptly. "I'll have my people check the Isle of Wight," he announced and left the room. He didn't really believe what he had just witnessed, but as a conscientious police officer, he couldn't ignore it either. If it was incorrect, no harm done. If it was the truth, he would have never forgiven himself for ignoring this unusual method, E.S.P. projection, in search of a fugitive criminal.
As soon as Randy was off the couch, he remembered that the Spanish treasure had to be removed from the barn. With Rowan and two of the men, he walked over to it. Slaughter was still there, guarding it, and quite reluctant to let the British Museum have it now. "Look, Slaughter," Randy said, "there's been enough lawlessness around here already. I'll recommend that the British Museum take only that which they need and let you have the rest. I'm sure that you will get part of the treasure. Have confidence in me. We don't want to break the law." Slaughter shook his head. No, he didn't want to break the law either. His late brother wouldn't have liked it.
"Can't we at least have a look at it then before we turn it over?" he finally said. "Of course," Randy agreed. He himself was curious what there really was in the chest. With some difficulty, they broke it open. Evidently, Pitt had been on the right track. What lay before them now was a tightly stuffed paymaster's chest, with rows upon rows of doubloons, and smaller parts thereof. Turning to one of the Special Branch officers, he said, "Take this and Mr. Slaughter to the British Museum, and see that he is fairly treated," and closed the lid of the chest. "Right you are, sir," the officer nodded. "Wait," Randy said, and opened the lid of the treasure chest once more. He then picked one of the coins from the many hundreds inside, flipped it up into the air and caught it again, saying, "This shall be my pay for the job." With that, he closed the lid of the chest and sent Slaughter and the Special Branch man on their way. Weeks later, Randy heard that the Museum had indeed been generous. They had taken about half the contents of the treasure chest, letting young Slaughter sell the rest. It didn't bring back Constable Slaughter, but it helped the young man pursue a career at the university.
There was nothing further he could do at Corley Hall, so Randy decided to return to London himself. As he had just about finished packing, there was a knock at his door. "Come in," he said, not really knowing whom to expect. It was Rowan. She, too, was dressed for travel. "Going someplace?" she said teasingly and planted a sensuous kiss on his lips. "Yes, aren't we?" he replied, "I assume you are coming back to London with me." "You assume, you assume correctly, sir," she said and it was plainly visible that the strain of the last few hours had already left her. When Randy reached his London hotel, there was an urgent message waiting for him from Angus McPherson, Pitt's secretary. Quickly, Randy dialed Pitt's office number. What could the secretary want? "Thank goodness you've called Mr. Knowles," McPherson said when he recognized Randy's voice. "I have been going to pieces here, ever since these terrible policemen came. They've been ransacking the office, it is a mess." "Sorry about that, McPherson," Randy replied, "but there is really nothing I can do about it. Have you heard from Mr. Pitt lately?" "No, sir," the secretary replied, "have you? That is why I am calling." "I suggest you close the office and go home then," Randy replied. "Mr Pitt is not likely to come back right away." "But what about my pay?" McPherson replied, and there was great anxiety in his voice. Suddenly, Randy remembered an envelope filled with banknotes, which he noticed fleetingly in Pitt's desk drawer at Corley Hall. "I'll see what I can do," Randy said, "but if you don't get your pay by tomorrow night, get in touch with me again." As soon as he put the receiver down, Randy called Corley Hall. Johnson was still there. Randy briefly explained that the money in Pitt's drawer really belonged to his secretary, and that the man should not be made to suffer. Johnson was only too eager to please Randy and promised to send the money to McPherson on the next train.
"I think I need a change of climate," Randy said, looking at Rowan. "Do you think you can leave London for a couple of days?" "That depends," she replied, "if it is with you, the answer is yes." "It is, it is," Randy assured her.
Within a matter of hours, they were in Paris. Randy had taken a leave from the British, who like to spend their weekends after a strenuous week in London in the less strenuous climate of the French capital. Also, very few people were likely to track him down here and for once Randy could relax.
Pitt had been to the Isle of Wight before. He knew the parts to avoid, if he did not want to run into people. There was no need to go into the populated areas, since he had bought some sandwiches en route. It wasn't going to be easy to get out of the country, he knew. As soon as he had abandoned his own, and rented another car, he had stopped en route to telephone Noonan Jack. Jack had not yet been paid off for his job, and was the most likely individual to help him escape. Pitt's calculation proved correct; Jack was willing, provided there would be a substantial pay-off. On his way through the corridor, Pitt had grabbed the emergency kit, prepared for j ust such a situation a long time before. Never a man to leave things entirely to chance, Pitt always felt that there might come a day when he had to make a fast get-away. In a small briefcase he had secreted a false passport, a loaded gun, and several thousand pounds and other currencies, enough to see him safely abroad. There were other deposits in Swiss banks and in New York City, for Pitt was a man who liked to spread his bets around, never to put all of his eggs into one basket. At the outskirts of London, Jack came to fetch him in his own car. Again, Pitt abandoned the car he was in and went with Jack.
Jack was not the sort of fellow who asked a lot of questions, especially when they didn't concern him. He had a pretty good idea that Pitt was a man who had done certain things against the law, but he didn't want to know about them. The only thing he wanted to know was where did Pitt want to go, and how much was he going to be paid for the job. As a starter, Pitt gave him two thousand pounds, to take care of the elimination of the three men, and another thousand pounds on account of his escape. For a man like Noonan Jack, that was a lot of money. For a man like Adam Pitt, it was nothing. Especially as his life was fit stake, a life that could easily make many times that much within a matter of months. Jack arranged for a small boat that would take Pitt to the Isle of Wight. In the wild forest of the Isle, Jack owned a small cottage. Originally, it had been his mother's, and he used it for business purposes primarily, whenever he had some dealings that required secrecy. The cottage wasn't much, it was in a state of disrepair, and consisted of a kitchen and one room, but Pitt was glad to go there and stay the night. Early the next morning, a Beachcraft Bonanza from the Flying Buzzards field would fly him out of the country. Although the cottage was surrounded by woodland, there was a small clearing nearby, large enough for a small plane to land and take off from. As Pitt started the motor of the little launch, Noonan Jack left him in order to make the arrangements at the airstrip. It was shortly after that moment that Randy Knowles had "seen" the fugitive with his pyschic eyes, crossing the straits to the Isle of Wight.
That night, Pitt could not close an eye. It wasn't that he was fearful for his life, but the uncertainty of the future and conditions he could not control directly, upset him. He trusted Noonan Jack completely, but he realized the limitations of the man. Suppose something went wrong at the airstrip, suppose his usual pilot was not available and the replacement didn't want to play ball. All sorts of supposes ran through his mind. It was close to three o'clock when he finally dozed off. The hour of departure had been set at seven o'clock. Thus it was with some surprise that he found himself awakened when it was still dark outside. It can't be more than five o'clock, he thought, still half asleep. Two men stood by his bedside. What were they doing here? "Where is Noonan Jack?" he demanded to know. "Oh, we've got him all right," one of the men replied, and with deadening suddenness, Adam Pitt realized that the jig was up. These were not men sent by Noonan Jack to help him escape�" they were Special Branch men come to arrest him. As if he had read his thoughts, one of the men said, flashing a badge at him, "Special Branch officers." "Just a moment," Pitt said, getting out of bed. The two men were watching him with eager eyes. "May I put my coat on?" Pitt asked. "It is rather chilly at this hour of the morning." One of the officers nodded. Pitt crossed the room and put on his jacket. Then he reached for his trousers and put them on. The two Special Branch men stood there, observing him carefully. "May I have a cigarette?" Pitt said, "I'm rather upset, you know." Again, the officer nodded. Pitt put his hand in his right coat pocket. Turning his back towards the two men for a moment, he then put the entire contents of a small inside pocket into his mouth and quickly swallowed it. Once again, he turned around and faced the two men. This time he smiled. He knew that within a matter of minutes he would be dead. An overdose of the very stuff he had dealt in was to be his fitting end.
Somehow, Johnson had discovered where Randy
was staying in Paris. Leave it to a Special Branch man to get his information, even when a Randy Knowles wants to remain incognito. When the telephone rang in Randy and Rowan's suite at the Ritz, Randy's E.S.P. told him that the news wasn't going to be good. After listening for a moment, he put the receiver down. "Adam Pitt is dead," he announced, "from an overdose of heroin. That was Johnson calling." Rowan didn't reply. For a moment, the two stood silent and looked out into the early morning sky.
Later that afternoon, Rowan accompanied Randy to the airport. She would stay on in Paris for a day or two, visiting with old friends. Randy was needed on the other side of the ocean, but he promised to be back for her next opening. When his plane was being called, Randy quickly handed her the gold doubloon he had taken along as his only pay for the job. "Take it for good luck," he said, pressing it into her hands. Rowan protested. "But you won't have anything to show for all your troubles!" "Not so," Randy replied, and, opening his briefcase, pulled from it the tapestry of the Lion and the Unicorn. Only now, as they both looked at it in the light of day, the unicorn's face looked like any other unicorn would, not like Adam Pitt.