The Tavernier Stones (22 page)

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Authors: Stephen Parrish

BOOK: The Tavernier Stones
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A loudspeaker began a commentary in German, repeating everything afterwards in English and French.
“So much for peace and quiet,” Gebhardt muttered.
The first landmark, visible even from Bingen’s harbor, was the Mäuseturm, a thirteenth-century tower jutting up from the middle of the channel in starkly medieval orange and white. In its prime, it had served as a lookout for Burg Ehrenfels, a castle built on the north bank without a clear view downriver. The castle, picturesque even in ruins, had been destroyed by the French during their pillage of 1689.
Ruins of more castles drifted lazily past on the hilltops.
“After half a dozen or so of those brick piles,” Gebhardt said, “they all begin to look alike.”
“Pity,” Blumenfeld responded. “You should visit some of them. That one, for instance.” She pointed up at Burg Rheinstein, its gray, menacing battlements growing out of the schist and slate high above the south bank. “The interior is splendid.”
“I’ll take your word for it. I like it down here, where the air is dense.”
The boat docked at Bacharach and picked up more passengers, including a large group of Japanese tourists. Gebhardt commented that should his party come to power, there would be fewer such elements in the country, and therefore more seats on the boat.
“Yes,” Blumenfeld agreed, “and fewer boats.”
The jewel of Bacharach was its picturesque Gothic chapel. Looming on the hill above, Burg Stahleck was yet another medieval fortress defeated in 1689, yet again by the French.
“This is where I’d live, where I’d buy a house,” Gebhardt nodded toward the town. “It’s pretty and unpretentious.”
“Oberwesel for me,” Blumenfeld said. “The architecture is better preserved.”
The boat stopped at Oberwesel, too. While they were waiting for the tourists to board, Blumenfeld ordered another glass of wine, then frowned at the stem of the glass. “I read in the paper that Dr. Spengler had a bizarre accident over the weekend.”
“Yes,” Gebhardt answered. “It was a tragedy. He fell down the stairs of his university office building.”
“Funny how such an accident can break so many bones.”
“One can never be too careful.”
She sipped her wine. “According to the paper, first he fell down a flight of stairs, then he somehow rolled across the landing and fell down a second flight. It was during the first fall he cracked his skull, and during the second he broke his neck and died.”
“He had a bad day.”
“I gather if he had broken his neck during the first fall, the second might not have been necessary. Did he, by any chance, reveal anything interesting on the way down?”
“No, unfortunately, he was reluctant to cooperate. He got so scared on the upper landing, looking down, that he started crying and peed his pants. He called out his wife’s name over and over. I thought maybe the first flight of stairs would inspire him to share information with me, but it only gave him a headache. A
splitting
headache.”
“Poor bastard. I also tasked you to find—”
“—the wine, I know. As we speak, an amphora of Château Aliénor d’Aquitaine is gathering dust in the cellar of an Ingelheim merchant. It happens to be for sale.”
“Good work. Weinbrenner delivered a child right around the time of her arrest. I have a suspicion about who the father was. Here’s a chance to put your ‘history’ training to work: take a look into the Weinbrenner family genealogy and see what you can come up with.”
“What has that got to do with finding the lost Tavernier stones?”
“Indulge me. Now, what’s the next step in getting Cellarius’s keyword?”
“There’s a guy in Bonn who seems to be the acknowledged expert on code breaking.”
“Good. See if you can pry something from him without killing him. Failing him, try the Americans at some of their military installations. They rather devote themselves to that kind of thing.” Blumenfeld laughed. “America: the source and hapless market, all at the same time, for turquoise. But God bless them, they drink our Liebfraumilch so we don’t have to.”
She returned to frowning at the stem of her wine glass. Gebhardt, gauging the deterioration of her mood, finally asked, “All right, what?”
“I’m troubled … by your diminishing enthusiasm.”
“My enthusiasm is a function of our success. We haven’t had any.”
“Oh, I think we’ve come a long way. We have a long way to go, that’s true, but we’re making steady progress.”
“We have no idea where the lost Tavernier stones are. We don’t even know what continent they’re on. We can’t even say for sure they exist.”
“I trust Tavernier, who said they existed. He drew pictures of them.”
“Tavernier also said there were lions in India and two-headed snakes in Siam.”
“I’m getting upset, Mannfred.”
“That makes two of us. The search for the lost Tavernier stones has turned into an Easter egg hunt. If we don’t make some real progress soon, I can think of more profitable ways to spend my discretionary time.”
The cruise ship’s loudspeaker announced the approach of the Loreley, then began the traditional song by Heine and Silcher.
“I’m going up top,” Gebhardt said. There was no response from Blumenfeld, so he left the table and climbed the steps alone to the upper deck, where wind blowing through the bottlenecked valley whipped his clothes. He crossed to the starboard side of the boat to get a better view.
Most boat passengers had paused in their drinking, talking, and card playing to do what Gebhardt was doing: listen to the music and stare at the Loreley. The landmark was little more than a big rock on the north bank of the Rhein, but it was one too famous to ignore. According to legend, boats used to wreck in the narrow passage because a maiden singing on top of the rock distracted the pilots with her lovely voice. That she was stark naked was not documented as having had any effect on their piloting. After the channel was deepened and widened, and the passage made safer, the maiden never returned.
Gebhardt, like everyone else, gave the rock its due, hesitant to admit even to himself that what he was really pondering was what the hell the big deal was all about.
He felt a presence immediately behind him and turned to find Blumenfeld standing there. Her mouth was open and she seemed transfixed. But she wasn’t looking at Gebhardt or even the Loreley; she was looking over the side of the boat, at the water below.
Gebhardt thought for a wild moment she was going to jump. “What is it?” he asked. “What’s wrong?”
“Spengler’s death on the stairs. You said he called out his wife’s name, over and over.” She was still looking at the water.
“Yes. Yes, he did.”
“What was the name?”
“Interesting you should ask, because I’ve never known anyone by that name before, and it’s been bouncing around in my head ever since. It was a pretty name, an exotic one: Carminea.”
“Carminea?”
“Yes. He cried out for Carminea. Over and over.”
 
John was spending his lunch hour in Long’s Park on Harrisburg Avenue, a mile northwest of Franklin & Marshall. It had been a favorite haunt during his college days. Despite hurrying there on his bicycle, he knew he wouldn’t make it back to work on time and that Harry Tokuhisa would be counting the minutes, wearing an expression of injury.
Long’s Park was where the poor went to escape from their futile routines, to sit on benches and eat egg salad sandwiches. And to warn their children away from the water: dominating the park was a manmade lake garnished with a pair of fountains. The lake’s wildlife didn’t mind or even seem to notice the people. Both populations, one hardly wild and the other not quite tame, enjoyed the park and its regenerating powers.
John leaned his bike against a bench in the most secluded spot he could find. He sat with arms draped over the backrest and watched one of the fountains. The biblical quote that appeared on Cellarius’s last map had been ringing in his ears all morning:
All the rivers run into the sea, yet the sea is not full; unto the place from whence the rivers come, thither they return again.
The lake water roiled with goldfish that almost leaped out after crusts of bread were thrown to them. Ducks tried to sleep amid the commotion with their beaks tucked into their feathers; babies slept under mothers, each one squirming to get a warmer spot. Once in a while, a bird swooped down from the tall trees and snatched a meal from beneath the surface of the lake, then raced back up to the canopy, fighting off lazier competitors.
All the rivers run into the sea, yet the sea is not full …
Why make a treasure map, John wondered, if you’re not going to fill it with clues? Isn’t it reasonable to expect that everything you put on the map is fair game for treasure hunters? Isn’t it reasonable to demand that codes be breakable, that keys be provided? If you hide clues in places other than the map, how is anyone to find them?
Like the proverbial drunk who loses his house key walking home from a bar late at night: while backtracking, he only searches under street lamps, because if it’s anywhere else, he won’t see it in the dark.
And it just so happens the key is in his pocket the whole time.
All the rivers run into the sea …
All the rivers run into the sea!
John raced out of the park on foot, forgetting his bicycle next to the lake. He wouldn’t be returning to work that afternoon. Nor would the potential damage to his career even occur to him.
 
Back in Germany, Blumenfeld tried in vain to get the Köln-Düsseldorfer cruise ship to dock early and let her off. She paused only long enough to berate Gebhardt: “All those years of Latin …
for nothing
! Spengler wasn’t crying out for his wife.
Carminea is the Latin form of Charmaine
!”
 
In Kensington that evening, in his apartment above the Ahmadabad Theater, Barclay Zimmerman decided to take a bath. He’d been neglecting meals, hygiene, and anything not related to the lost Tavernier stones. His hair, always looking like it needed to be washed even when it was clean, needed to be washed.
He didn’t have the luxury of a shower, not in this neighborhood, not above an X-rated theater. He watched as the thin trickle of rust-laden water filled his tub.

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