The Last Coin (32 page)

Before Andrew could protest, Pickett was out the door and running at a crouch toward a distant oil pump. Uncle Arthur was a hundred yards away, busy with something involving the turtles. Andrew could see the cardboard box lying on the ground ten feet beyond where the old man was bent over. Pulling the keys out of the ignition, Andrew followed Pickett, feeling like a fool. They’d be caught, is what they’d be, and arrested for trespassing. And when the police got a look at the Metropolitan, the two of them would be identified as the thugs that had terrorized Leisure World.

He hunched in behind Pickett, who was jammed up against a rusting chain-link fence and partly hidden by the machinery of the oil pump. “He’s got the turtles,” said Pickett. “What’s on the other side of the fence?”

“Naval Weapons Station,” said Andrew.

“What in the devil is he doing? Let’s get closer. We can’t mess up here.” With that Pickett scuttled away toward the mountain of pallets, and Andrew followed again, looking back over his shoulder toward his car. There was still no one in sight. The traffic on the highway zoomed along, dim through the fog. He should have driven farther onto the fields, where the Metropolitan couldn’t be seen from the road. That’s what would give them away. Maybe they’d be lucky, though. Maybe the police, if they drove past, would suppose it belonged to workmen.

They peered around the edge of the pallet heap, deadly silent. They could just hear Uncle Arthur humming or singing to himself. Either that or he was talking to the turtles. He bent over and picked one up, then crouched into the oleanders, disappearing. There was a rustling of brush, and then he stooped back out and reached into the box, where the last of the turtles waited. He seemed to be setting them free, shoving them in among the bushes, maybe under the fence. It was obvious: He was directing his squadron of turtles, running them out into the fields of the weapons station. This was the last one.

There was something odd about the turtle; it seemed to be wearing a gaudy sort of belt. “What in the world …?” Andrew muttered. Then suddenly he saw what it was—a belt all right, made of Navajo silver in the form of great, strung-together squash blossoms. Uncle Arthur pushed his way into the oleanders again.

“It’s the treasure hunt,” Andrew whispered into Pickett’s ear. Pickett turned to give him a look. Andrew put his finger to his lips and jerked his head back toward the car, tiptoeing along the pallets. They’d have to make a rush for the road, get out before they were seen. But it was too late. Uncle Arthur had got rid of the last turtle and was stepping along toward his machine, oblivious to their presence. If they ran for it now he’d see them for sure. Pickett, clearly realizing it, crouched as low as he could and jerked on Andrew’s jacket, pulling him down, too. Both of them edged around clockwise, keeping just out of sight. They heard the tiny slam of the door and the click and whir of the engine. Quickly they hunched around counter-clockwise now, as Uncle Arthur drove away forward. They stayed hidden, watching the old man make a wide U-turn around an oil derrick and head back toward them, beeping his horn as he swept past on the far side of the pile, humming away east, bumping across ruts, bound, apparently, for home.

“Damn it,” said Pickett out loud, standing up and thrusting his hands into his coat pockets. “He was honking at
us
. He knew we were here. We haven’t fooled him for a moment.”

“He couldn’t have known. The Metropolitan is lost in the fog, and he sure as hell didn’t
see
us. He was honking at the turtles, I think.”

Pickett peered at him as the two of them set out toward the highway. “What do you know about this? It doesn’t seem to surprise you?—him covering turtles with silver and scattering them in the fog? What about this treasure hunt? He’s hunting treasure with turtles?”

They drove back toward Seal Beach Boulevard and the freeway as Andrew told Pickett about the mysterious treasure hunt. Pickett, true to form, didn’t seem to find it half so innocent as Andrew had. Andrew told him about how such treasure hunts were carried out in the old days, implying that this wasn’t any sort of precedent, any sort of real mystery. But Pickett swept his suggestions away with a belittling wave of his hand.

“It’s the
key
, is what it is,” said Pickett. “And the old man wants the pig spoon there. Why? Why the turtles? Why in heaven is he trafficking in farm animals? That’s what I want to know. What’s all this pig business?
The One Pig
—strange title for a book, isn’t it? It wouldn’t signify much, though, except for the rest of this. I’ve got some work to do in the library. Care to run into L.A.?”

“Not me,” said Andrew. “I’m shot for the rest of the day. For the week. Are you still maitre d’ing?”

“Of course I am,” said Pickett. “I’ll be there with bells on.”

“Well, look—don’t take all this so damned seriously. It’s probably a lot of silly nonsense and none of our business. It looks awfully wild and important at two o’clock in the morning, but in the light of day it’s exposed as foolishness—a couple of old men cutting senile capers. Am I right?”

Pickett gave him a withering look. “A man has been sawed in half in Vancouver. Another man has been swallowed by a fish in Puget Sound. There’s a herd of decorated turtles scouring across the pumpkin fields of the Naval Weapons Station. There’s … Wait a minute. Where did you put the spoon, anyway?”

“In behind my books,” said Andrew.

“I’d do better than that if I were you. You rooted through Pennyman’s bedroom; we better suppose that he’s going to root through yours. Get it out of there. Bury it under the house.”

“I hate getting under the house. There’s spiders under the house.”

“Put it out in the cafe then. He doesn’t go out there much, does he?”

“No,” said Andrew. “He’s afraid to run into me, I guess. He’s a coward when you get right down to it, and doesn’t want a confrontation. I’ll put it somewhere safe. Leave it to me.”

Pickett nodded, gazing out the window, lost already in the idea of killing the day in the library, of stumbling onto The Answer. They drove off into Garden Grove, bumping up into the parking lot of Rodent Control, where two brown-shirted employees mashed cornmeal and rat poison in an enormous wooden tub. Andrew slipped into a parking space and cut the engine. Pickett twisted the mirror around and peered into it, smoothing away at his hair and mustache. “Damn it,” he said, unable to subdue his fog-frizzled cowlick. Andrew grinned at him, and Pickett frowned and got out.

Pickett pretended to be very businesslike when they pushed in through the glass door, nodding at the receptionist, who at once smiled broadly and raised her eyebrows as if of all the people she hoped would walk in that day, it was Pickett she hoped to see most of all. He reddened and looked at Andrew, who grinned at him. Then he croaked just a bit, as if he had something in his throat. “Georgia busy?” he asked.

“She’s in the euphemism.”

“Ah,” said Pickett.

Just then there were footfalls on the carpet behind them, and Pickett’s girlfriend appeared. Andrew wondered whether, in her Oriental shirt and black, Chinatown slip-on shoes, she didn’t look more like a mystic than a secretary.

“Andrew,” Pickett said, gesturing too widely, “you’ve met Georgia?”

“About a half-dozen times, actually.”

“Of course,” said Pickett. “Of course.”

“Hi, Beamsy,” she said, winking at Andrew.

“Beamsy?” Andrew whispered, and Pickett grinned crookedly at him.

She was slight and pretty, with crinkly eyes and a nice mouth and half-unruly curly hair. All in all she radiated a sort of go-to-hell attitude—necessary, maybe, for a psychic in a world full of doubters. Andrew said to her, “Would you and Beamsy like to be left alone for a bit?”

She blushed, and Pickett stuttered for a moment, then bent down suddenly to peer at a display of stuffed rats in a case along with various examples of their enormities: a gnawed wire, a chewed bit of avocado encased in Lucite, the stuffing out of a chair. “Very informative,” he said weakly. “Imagine what a rat could do in your attic.”

“Almost inconceivable, isn’t it?” said Andrew, smiling at Georgia, who stepped toward the counter as if to explain the curiosities in the case. Andrew motioned toward a nearby door that stood half-ajar. “Is Mr. Chateau in his office?”

“Yes,” she said. “I don’t think he’s up to anything. There was a gentleman in there ten minutes ago, but he’s gone out.”

“I’ll just pop in, then, and leave you two to hash over the rat display.”

Pickett looked half-betrayed and half-relieved, and as Andrew pushed through the door and out of the room, the two launched into earnest conversation that Andrew made no effort to overhear.

“What ho?” said Andrew cheerfully to the man who sat holding his head at the cluttered desk.

“What!” he half-shouted, sweeping an illustrated book on insects off onto the floor in a gesture of startled bewilderment. His face had on it the look of someone who half-expected to see something ghastly coming in through the door. “Mr. Vanbergen! Why … It’s you, is it?” He grinned oddly. He had a jolly round sort of a face, almost cherubic, but it was tainted now as if with the memory of a recent fright, and he peered past Andrew, toward the parking lot visible through a far window. He seemed to relax suddenly. The wall behind him was covered with tray upon tray of beetles—thousands of them, some enormous, some microscopic, and all, except for their size, identical to the untrained eye. Andrew had always thought that a man would be worn down by the perpetual stare of countless beetle eyes, and here, perhaps, was evidence to support it.

“Feeling well?” asked Andrew. “Sorry to have burst in.”

“Yes. No. I’m … I dozed off for a moment. I … I think it’s a matter of biorhythms. I’m in a downswing. Feeling poorly, to tell you the truth.” He waved his hand in a little explanatory squiggle.

“Sorry about that. I won’t waste your time. I’m in a hurry myself. What did you come up with on the fish elixir?”

The man grinned again weakly. “Oh, yes. The … what did you call it? Elixir? It’s nothing for you to worry about, actually.”

“Excuse me?” said Andrew, blinking at him. “I wasn’t actually
worried
about it; I was wondering what on earth it was.”

“Of course, of course. I’m terribly sorry about it.”

“Sorry?”

“It broke. In the sink. Slippery stuff, I’m afraid. Cracked to bits on the porcelain and went down the drain. Nothing but cracked glass. All of it gone. And the water was running, too. That was the pity of it. Washed all the goop off the fragments even. There wasn’t enough left over to have a look at. I was disappointed, of course. It appeared to be fascinating stuff, although not entirely in my line.” He bent over to pick up the insect book, avoiding Andrew’s gaze.

“It’s
all
gone?”

“I’m afraid so.” He coughed into his hand. “Swept the glass into the trash can. Jaycox hauled it away this morning at six.”

Andrew opened his mouth to speak, then stopped and stared at the man. He took a step closer to the desk, bent over, and stared harder. He knew he was revealing too much curiosity, too much wonder. He was giving himself away entirely, but he didn’t care. Down the center of Biff Chateau’s forehead was drawn the telltale line, charcoal gray, wavering where the silver quarter had crossed onto the bridge of his nose, and smudged where he’d been leaning against his arm when Andrew had come in.

Edward Topsell
Historie of Foure-footed Beasts

“B
OUGHT OFF!” SHOUTED
Pickett as they bumped out of the parking lot and turned toward the freeway.

“I don’t think so,” Andrew said. “He was terrified. I’ve never seen the like. He thought I was Pennyman coming in through the door like that—coming back to deal with him further. You should have seen the look on his face. Stark terror. I think he put up a fight before he gave in. He’s an honest man, Chateau is, and he wouldn’t have given the elixir up easily. Maybe Pennyman threatened him with the same sort of business he’d pulled on Pfennig.” Andrew shivered with a sudden chill, thinking about it.

Pickett nodded. “Well, now we know what we’re up against, don’t we? We’ve been pretty casual about all of this so far. Pennyman’s probably already found the spoon. He probably hunted it out this morning while we were hightailing it around Leisure World.
He
hasn’t been lounging around. Clearly, he followed you yesterday morning when you hauled the elixir down here. He’s a careful man. We know that. You say you heard him refusing Mrs. Gummidge—wouldn’t give her a drop of it even though she begged. The whole business becomes plain: It was out in his room that night because Mrs. Gummidge had been setting in to steal it. You sneezed out in the hallway and she hid, just like I said. You only took half an ounce, but then, maybe, she took a bit more. And here comes Pennyman to find his store of it depleted while he’s out of town sawing Pfennig in half. Maybe there’s only an ounce gone—not much, we say. But who knows? What if it were drugs of some sort—an ounce of cocaine, an ounce of heroin? There’d be murder in his eyes, wouldn’t there? So what does he do? He looks around a bit and finds your penlight; simple as that. One, two, three. And he follows you down the freeway next morning, and figures he’s struck pay dirt when you stop in to talk to Chateau. He waits for you to leave, and then he goes in and has a little talk with Chateau himself. Do you know what Pennyman told Georgia?”