The Girl Who Remembered the Snow (24 page)

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Authors: Charles Mathes

BOOK: The Girl Who Remembered the Snow
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“What would such a treasure be worth?”
“Oh, hundreds of millions of dollars, no doubt. Of course, even if our dragon did belong to the commander of the
Santa Maria de Espinal
, it would not be much help in locating the lost treasure ships unless you knew where it had been found. But being a commercial-minded soul, God help me, I figured it wouldn't hurt the sale to present this theory in the catalog as an amusing anecdote. It did provide a bit of publicity, though no one really took it seriously.”
Emma was almost afraid to breathe. What if there really was a treasure? Bernal Zuberan had said that Pépé had made a map to the spot where they had found the dragon. Could that be what all this was about? The map to a whole fleet of sunken ships filled with gold? Or was it just her idiot imagination running amok again? Pictures of her on a treasure chest doing high kicks for pirates sprang into her mind. Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum.
Emma closed the catalog and looked at the date on the cover. The auction had taken place a full week before Jacques Passant's death. Perhaps she had just been wrong about the sequence of events. Maybe Pépé had put the dragon up for sale himself this past July, and by so doing had set into motion a chain of events that had led to his—and Henri-Pierre's—death.
“Who consigned this piece?” Emma asked in a quiet voice, bracing herself to hear her grandfather's name. “Whom did it belong to?”
“Ordinarily I couldn't tell you, you know,” said Pilkington. “Client confidentiality and all that. But in this case the provenance is a matter of public record. It was part of the collection of the late Esmond Dauber.”
“Esmond Dauber?” said Emma, startled. “Who was he?”
“Ah, Esmond,” said Pilkington with a deep sigh. “There won't be another like Esmond very soon—at least not another with so much money. He was a wonderful old coot. Collected functional gold objects. Letter openers. Nutmeg graters. Thimbles. Anything, really, as long as it was gold, had some functional purpose and was beautiful. He bought many of his things here, I'm happy to say, though he would go to the ends of the earth for an interesting piece. You'd be amazed at the things that people have made out of gold over the centuries.”
“I don't understand,” said Emma. “Did he know about this theory of a treasure?”
“Oh, yes. But couldn't care less. To him the thing was just a useful thing made of gold. As I said, when you blow through it, you really do get a very nice whistle.”
“When did this Esmond Dauber die?”
“About a year ago. His delightful widow graciously consigned the entire collection to us. The jewelry department got much of it. The table items and gold flatware are going through our silver department—a bit in the present sale, though most will have to wait until May. If you're around next month, however, you will be
able to bid on Esmond's snuff boxes. They are the real prizes of the collection as far as I'm concerned, and I shall be wielding the hammer.”
With obvious pride Pilkington handed Emma the other catalog he was holding. Emma opened it to a page with a photograph of a sober-looking man in a three-piece suit identified in the caption as Esmond Dauber. On the adjacent page was a picture of a woman with the shoulders of a fullback and the face of a hatchet. Beneath this were a few paragraphs under the headline HOMAGE TO A COLLECTOR, signed
Henriette Tawson Dauber, New York City.
“How long was the dragon in Mr. Dauber's collection?” asked Emma, leafing through the pictures of gold boxes and of the monarchs and military heroes for whom they had been made. Nothing seemed to make sense anymore.
“I really have no idea.”
“I'd like to talk with his widow, this Henriette Dauber. Is it possible to get her address?”
“I'm sorry,” said Pilkington, opening the door of the viewing room to signify that their meeting was at an end. “That kind of information we really cannot give out.”
“You've been very kind,” said Emma, following him out into the reception area. “This was very informative.”
“We try to be of help. I shall keep my eyes open and alert you if another dragon badge should appear. Obviously this couldn't have been the one that was stolen from you. Where may I reach you?”
Emma gave N. C. Pilkington Charlemagne's number in San Francisco and thanked him again. Then she took the elevator back downstairs to the lobby, where a guard directed her to a bank of telephones. It was time to bring in the professionals.
“Poteet,” answered the familiar short, fat, bald voice when Emma finally reached the proper extension at the San Francisco Police Department.
“It's Emma Passant, Detective Poteet. I took your advice and went on a trip.”
“Oh?”
Emma launched into a summary of what she had learned on San Marcos: about the golden dragon; how it had been smuggled off the island in a secret compartment of the
Kaito Spirit
—the very model that had disappeared off her grandfather's bedroom dresser; how a suspiciously similar dragon had come up for sale at Sotheby's barely a week before Jacques Passant's murder; how Pilkington had possibly traced the artifact to a sunken treasure fleet worth millions; how Jacques Passant had once made a map to what might be the very spot where it was located.
Poteet did not say a word throughout her entire story. He waited a full five seconds after she had finished before he finally spoke.
“That's very interestin', Miz Passant.”
“It's more than just interesting, I think,” said Emma. “It provides a motive for Pépé's murder—a reason why it was not just a random mugging.”
“Oh? And what's that?”
“Didn't you hear what I said about the flagship of the Spanish treasure fleet of 1690?”
“I heard. I just don't see the relevance.”
“The relevance is the map my grandfather made to the treasure.”
“The map your grandpa made was to where the gold dragon thing and one little coin was found, if I heard you correctly. There's no proof there was ever any treasure.”
“My grandfather told me he couldn't go back to San Marcos because he had stolen the greatest treasure of the sea. A map could have been what was in the secret compartment of the model boat. That would explain why it was stolen. Why he was killed. A map to such a treasure would be worth killing for.”
“Then why didn't your grandpa go back to San Marcos and
get it? Thirty years is a mighty long time to tarry when you've got a sunken treasure waitin' for you.”
“Maybe he was afraid of Peguero's men,” sputtered Emma, amazed that Poteet could be so matter-of-fact in light of what she had learned. “Peguero was the dictator. They must have believed that the treasure was theirs. That Pépé had stolen it from them.”
“You have evidence that such a map is still in existence, Miz Passant?” said Poteet in his quiet drawl. He seemed strangely uninterested, remote.
“No.”
“Lots of things disappear over the course of time on their own, you know.”
“Then what was in the model boat? Why else was it stolen?”
“Can you prove now there was something in the model boat?”
“No.”
“Can you prove that it was in fact stolen?”
“No.”
“Have you learned anything that would tie your grandfather to Mr. Caraignac?”
“No, but—”
“Then you don't got nothin' new, do you, Miz Passant?”
“What about the man who was following me?” said Emma angrily.
“What man was this?”
Emma recounted the appearance of Big Ed Garalachek on San Marcos, and how he was not who he claimed to be. In her excitement about the treasure she had almost forgotten about him.
“He doesn't sound like someone to worry about,” said Poteet when she had finished.
“I'm glad you think so!” exclaimed Emma. What was it that Zuberan had called the police? Bunglers and fools.
“We'd check him out if it would make you feel better; only there doesn't seem much to go on.”
“He gave me a telephone number,” said Emma, digging into
her purse for Big Ed's card. “Maybe you can track him through that.”
Emma read the phone number.
“Got it,” said the policeman. “Anything else I can do for you, Miz Passant?”
“How is your investigation going? Have you learned anything new?”
“We're working on a few things.”
“Anything interesting?”
“As I say, we're working on a few things. Now, if there's nothin' else, I hope you'll excuse me. I've got a lot to do today.”
Emma hung up the receiver, feeling as if she had just had a conversation with a wall. She had expected that the detective might bawl her out for continuing to poke around, but it had never occurred to her that he wouldn't take what she had learned seriously. Obviously he just didn't care anymore. Jacques Passant was yesterday's murder; Poteet had other crimes to attend to, easier ones to solve.
Emma wasn't going to give up, however.
She pulled out the Manhattan white pages from under the counter and looked through the listings for Dauber. Perhaps the wife of Esmond Dauber would be able to tell her something. From the catalog Emma knew that the woman lived in the city.
No Henriette Tawson Dauber was listed in the phone book, but Esmond Dauber still was. The phone number was followed by an address on Central Park West. Emma put a quarter in the phone and dialed.
“Yeah?” answered a gruff female voice.
“Hello,” said Emma, taken a little aback. “I'd like to speak with Henriette Tawson Dauber.”
“That's my name. Who the hell are you?”
Just another loopy New Yorker, Emma told herself. She had just been telling someone about how New York was full of nutcases.
Who had it been? Henri-Pierre Caraignac, Emma remembered, swallowing hard.
“Mrs. Dauber, my name is Emma Passant. Mr. Pilkington at Sotheby's has been telling me about your late husband's collection. I wonder if I might be able to speak to you about one of the items that sold recently.”
“All right,” said the voice. “Come on over.”
“You mean now?” said Emma.
“At my age, honey, it don't pay to put things off. I could go at any minute. By this time next week I could be forgotten by everyone but the IRS. I haven't any family, you know. Esmond wasn't interested in collecting children, except gold ones you could light cigarettes with.”
“I'm sorry.”
“I'll pull out some chops. You're not one of those nouvelle people, are you? Lunch on a radish, dine on grass?”
“I can handle a chop.”
“Good. I'm at the Malvern. Eighty-second Street and Central Park West.”
“I'm afraid I'm not from the city, Mrs. Dauber. Could you tell me how to get there?”
“Sure,” said Mrs. Dauber. “You go outside and holler, ‘Taxi!' at the top of your lungs. Then you get in and I'll see you here soon.”
The line went dead. Emma made her way back through the lobby and retrieved her coat, wondering if everyone in New York City was crazy.
The doorman was occupied with an elderly couple, but Emma didn't need his help to get a cab. There wasn't one in sight, anyway. At least not an unoccupied one—you could tell whether a cab had a fare or not by the TAXI sign on the roof. If it was lit, they were available. When they took a fare and started the meter, the light went out.
Emma looked down the block. There was a large hospital below Sotheby's. Several people were standing on curbs of various cross streets, obviously looking for cabs. Across the street, not looking in her direction, was a man who might also be looking for a cab. A man with a heart-shaped scar on his cheek.
Emma was surprised to see him again, but it wasn't so unlikely, she told herself. Maybe he had been at Christie's because he was looking to buy his wife or girlfriend a present and had settled on something in silver instead of something in lingerie. Sotheby's was also having a silver sale, according to the schedule she had noticed in the lobby. There was nothing sinister about comparison shopping, was there?
Still, after her experience with Big Ed, and Detective Poteet's treating her as if she were crying wolf, Emma's nerves were frayed to the point of unraveling. She didn't want even to consider the notion that someone else might be following her. She turned, crossed Seventy-second Street and walked briskly up York Avenue. After a block she glanced back over her shoulder. The man with the heart-shaped scar was walking uptown, too, on the other side of the street.
There was still no reason to panic. It was probably just an innocent coincidence. It was only when Emma saw the city bus going up York Avenue a block ahead of her, and another one heading downtown on the opposite side of the street, that she realized how frightened she was.

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