A Crossworder's Gift (8 page)

“I know what you're thinking,” she said. “A Wordsworth, he was not.”

“Maybe something was lost in translation,” Belle observed, returning her focus to the crossword.

“But that's just it. The puzzle is in English … Besides, our moms said their father was an excellent linguist and spoke several languages fluently. I don't believe his poem—if you will—is a mistake. On the other hand, I've never been able to make any sense of it.”

“Enfin
…” Belle muttered. “REGRET … REGRET … REPENT … That was the translation you used in your show!”

Pamela stared at her uncomprehending. “It's common usage.”

Belle bounced on the bed as she stared up at Pamela. “But what if old Verbeux is ‘repenting'? What if this is a message of apology? REGRET CONFOUNDS sure seems like an indication of remorse to me.”

Pamela smiled sadly. “I don't know, Belle—”

“And
enfin
… which sounds like
enfants
—children.”

“They're not completely similar—” Pamela began, but Belle, in her excitement, cut her short.

“The words are alike if you say them fast enough.” Belle repeated both
enfin
and
enfants
ten times, increasing in speed until the vowels and consonants blurred. “And that's what happened at your installation. “Everything began running together—which you said hadn't been your intention at all.”

“This is pretty far-fetched, Belle,” Rosco interjected. “Even for you.”

“Look, we're all in agreement about the ghost thing, right?”

Rosco shook his head. “Well, I didn't hear it—”

“Nothing wakes you up,” Belle chortled, before returning to her hypothesis. “Okay … 17-Across: REGRET CONFOUNDS … Your grandfather is stating that he is deeply troubled by his past actions toward his
enfants
, his children …”

Pamela squinted in skepticism while Rosco asked a straightforward:

“AGED IS THE LEVEE?”

“I don't know. We'll get to that in a moment—”

“And the FRESH CLAY?” Pamela teased, but Belle was too all-consumed to note the tone.

“SWEETNESS,” she mumbled, “SWEETNESS …” Then all at once she gasped. “What's ‘SWEETNESS' in French?”

“Douceur.”

“Which sounds like
deux soeurs
—‘two sisters'!”

“Well, the intonation isn't precisely—” Pamela started to protest.

“But it's close! And
Pour
in English is ‘for' …
Pour deux soeurs
. ‘For two sisters'!” She bounced higher on the bed. “And ON …”

By now Pamela was beginning to catch a little of Belle's enthusiasm.
“ON
in French can mean either ‘one,' ‘people,' or ‘they'—”

“That's you!” Belle all but yipped. “You and Helene—the offspring of
les deux soeurs!
”

Rosco picked up the crossword. “So, Mr. Verbeux's two offspring—the sisters and their daughters—are supposed to find some ancient riverbank, and patch it up with new clay? That doesn't sound like much of an apology—”

“Bank,” Belle almost shouted. “You're brilliant, Rosco! Old bank …” She stared at Pamela, whose eyes had grown enormous:

“La Vieille Banque de Montréal
—”

“Where it's conceivable,” Belle continued, “that a patron might use a key which in French is
clef
pronounced ‘CLAY.'”

“To open a safe-deposit box?” Rosco demanded. “I admit it's an intriguing story, but …”

Pamela's shoulders slumped dispiritedly. “And which
Vieille Banque de Montréal?
There must be twenty branches within the city limits alone … Sorry, Belle. Thank you for spinning this lovely fairy tale, but I'm afraid that's all it is.” She sighed. “Maybe it's simply another case of my grandfather's meanness. Give hope, and then dash it.”

But Belle, once convinced, was stubbornness itself. “Let's go back to the first line of the
Poetic Justice
haiku thing … We must have missed something … REGRET … REPENT … synonyms: bewail, mourn, rue …
rue
, as in street! There's your clue! The bank's on—”

“Confounded Street?” Rosco demanded.

Belle gave him a temperamental glance, then turned to Pamela. “Do you have a phone book that lists the bank's branch offices? We should look for one in a place where—”

“Where everything's confused and blurred,” Rosco said; then shrugged. “It's all French to me.”

“Rosco!”

“I'm just trying to help—”

“No, you're not—”

But Pamela interrupted. “Here,” she announced. “There's a bank on the
rue de Bluery.
”

Belle's mouth fell open. “Blurry … that's what happened to the words in your installation—”

“I still don't—” Rosco started, but Belle silenced him with an impassioned:

“The old man was probably heartsick at cutting his children out of his will. That makes sense, doesn't it? More so than simply being a self-serving old miser who disowned his true heirs … But maybe he couldn't change the official document, Rosco … Maybe his then wife or her sons had some means of preventing him from making the necessary …” The theory vanished as Belle began to attack a more immediate conundrum. “What we need is a FRESH
clef
—key … Green, do you think, Pamela? It can't mean ‘new,' because your grandfather …?”

Pamela shook her head, a small smile growing on her lips. “FRESH translates to
frais
… but
fraise
means a ‘strawberry.' I found a number of odd-looking large and small keys among Maxime's puzzles. Helene tossed them out in a fit of pique when none proved serviceable, but I kept the smallest. It has a charming mark of a berry.”

T
HE
cousins, with Rosco and Belle, stood in the venerable vault of the equally venerable banking institution situated on the
rue de Bluery;
aiding them, however, was not a remnant from the city's past but a young man in a new and ultramodern suit. He looked no more than eighteen; and his clothing appeared to have just come off the rack at some impossibly hip and trendy store. “One of the old ‘strawberry' keys,” he mused with a lofty smile. “I didn't realize they were still in private hands.” He regarded the bank of vaults, searching for the corresponding number.

“But wouldn't we—or our mothers—have been contacted when the box's lessee died?” Helene ventured.

The “boy” scowled as he drew himself and his shiny black suit up in a perfect replica of austere and wounded age.
“Madame
, we at
La Vieille Banque de Montréal
pride ourselves on our discretion. The gentleman in whose name the contract was held paid a considerable sum for a quarter of a century's worth of service and security. In fact, it is the responsibility of said
heirs
to inform
La Vieille Banque de Montréal
of a lessee's demise.” He all but glowered at their naiveté and fecklessness.

“And after the contract expires?” Helene persisted.

“The contents are auctioned. No names are supplied—again, for discretion's sake; but objects such as jewelry and so forth are listed in the newspaper.” He studied the card that contained Maxime Verbeux's particulars. “At the close of this calendar year, we would have drilled out the lock, and emptied the vault. We abide by strict protocol here at
La Vieille Banque.
”

“We're lucky we found this when we did, then,” Pamela offered, but the “boy” merely gave her a glance that further established his superiority. “Lucky” was not a term employed in old and respected financial institutions.

Pamela said no more; neither did Helene, but they held each other's hands in anxious anticipation as the key turned in the lock. A bronze and steel door swung open to reveal a box twelve inches square and two feet in length. Normally, banking patrons would be given the courtesy of examining the contents in a private room, but the boy clearly considered the cousins too irresponsible to be left alone. He opened the box's lid in front of them.

Inside was a typed list cataloging the contents. Below were ancient books wrapped in translucent tissue. From the edges of the vellum pages shimmered gold leaf and cobalt blue, ruby red and a green as pure as fresh-mown grass: Maxime Verbeux's renowned collection of medieval manuscripts. Infirm and shaky handwriting scrawled across the top of the list.
Pour les deux soeurs
.

Letters from the past.

A Crossworder's Gift

O
H
yeah, you can bet your very last wooden nickel on that, pardner, there is no place, I mean
no
place, in the world like Vegas for the holidays.” The bellhop, dressed in a movie-set version of a Native American Indian—war paint, feathered headdress, and all—pulled Belle and Rosco's bags from the trunk of their bright green rental car, then tossed them onto a gold-trimmed luggage cart that vaguely resembled a high-end stagecoach—
sans
horses. As he wheeled the cart into the hotel lobby, he added, “Just look at that, will you … Where else do you get that on Turkey Day? Where?” He was pointing to a statuesque redhead manning the concierge desk of Cactus Cal's Hotel and Casino. Since it was just the Friday following Thanksgiving, she had not yet changed from her abbreviated “Puritan” outfit into something more “Christmasy.” The “Puritan” number consisted of a low-cut black dress whose full skirt was a micromini, and a bibbed apron that was even shorter at the hem and deeper at the neckline. A starched white hat that was a combination of wimple and bonnet seemed to contain more fabric than either skirt or bodice.

“Who knew those early settlers were so well … put together,” Rosco said, “Is that scarlet ‘A' on her, er, whatever, chest … is it a real tattoo?”

Belle narrowed her eyes into a squint that failed to cover any potential jealous streak. “We just flew in from Massachusetts,” she said, addressing the bellhop with a small smile, “and the temperature at Plymouth Rock was only twenty-eight degrees this morning … I think your concierge would stand a good chance of freezing to death in that getup.”

The bellhop chuckled. “Oh that's nothing. In a day or two Angie, that's what the ‘A' stands for, will be changing into her ‘Santa's Little Helper' wardrobe. I don't know how she keeps from popping out of it, I really don't.”

“Hmmm,” Rosco replied. “That's something to look forward to.”

“Yep, the colder it gets in the East, the skimpier the outfits seem to get—go figure. Yes sirree, Bob, there's no place like Vegas for the holidays.”

Belle smiled again, albeit a bit stiffly. However, despite Angie and her female cohorts' singular apparel, Belle was truly pleased to be in a locale that hadn't rushed the season. Unlike the New England shopping malls, there were no Christmas trees, no menorahs, no plastic icicles dangling from the chandeliers, no giant snowflakes, reindeer, merry little elves, or Santas anywhere to be found—not yet, at least. Here was a place that seemed to take every season according to the calendar—finish up with one before taking on the decor of another. She found it refreshing.

“So what brings you nice young folks out to Las Vegas on this sunny Friday afternoon? Business or pleasure?” the bellhop asked as he maneuvered their luggage down a long corridor toward Cactus Cal's front desk. The passage was lined with nickel slots; over half the machines had players perched anxiously before them. Both Belle and Rosco became mesmerized by the flashing lights; the whirling cartoon pictures of cherries, bananas, and plums; the chime of bells, whistles, horns, and electronic keyboard crescendos—and the shrieks of the latest winners. The couple had never seen—or heard—anything like it; the bellhop was forced to repeat his question.

“You don't look like seasoned gamblers to me,” he added. “You have what I call that ‘starry-eyed-rookie-can't-wait-to-get-at-it' gaze. So what is it, business or pleasure?”

Simultaneously Belle said, “Business,” while Rosco voiced, “Pleasure.”

The bellhop laughed. “Well, whatever. Enjoy your stay. I'll get your car keys from valet parking, and have your bags transferred to your room as soon as you're finished checking in.”

The desk clerk, a short, ball-shaped, middle-aged male, was decked out in a more modified “Puritan” garb than the concierge—his attire being dark trousers, a high-buttoned black jacket that rounded over his ample belly, a white jabot, and a miniature version of a Pilgrim's tall buckled hat, which he wore tilted Stetson-like on his head: twenty-first-century Nevada meets seventeenth-century England. He greeted them with a warm and friendly smile, adding a laconic “Howdy, folks” that didn't seem in keeping with the implied severity of his costume.

Rosco returned the smile and said, “We have a reservation for three nights. The name is Polycrates.” He placed his credit card on the counter.

The clerk entered the name into his computer and waited for information to appear on the screen.

“Hmmm,” he eventually said, “I don't seem to have anything here under that name.”

“P-O-L-Y-C-R—”

“Yes, sir, I've spelled it the same as it appears on the card.” He continued to stare at the screen. “Nope … Sorry, sir, but I—”

“The reservation should have been made by the Blue Diamond Wildlife Shelter.”

“Nope … I don't have Blue Diamond in here either—”

Belle stepped forward. “Perhaps, you have it under my name … Annabella … Belle Graham?”

The clerk's fleshy face jerked upward. “Oh, sure … yes,
of course
, Miss Graham. I didn't realize … I mean, we've been expecting you. I'm sorry I didn't recognize you on the spot. Everyone was
so
excited to hear that you'd be staying with us for a few days. I mean, my sister and niece sure were … They have every one of your crossword collections. Those two just adore your puzzles.”