“Sorry,” said Henny, shaking her head. “Frenchie took it with him. I figured he'd bought the dragon, so he should have the bill. I didn't have no use for it anymore. He said
merci
and kissed my hand.
“Do you have a copy?”
Henriette Dawson stared at her plate and didn't answer.
“Please, Henny. It's very important. It may have had something to do with why he was killed.”
“You figure someone knocked him off for this dragon thing?” asked the old woman, glancing up. “Same guy who stole your grandfather's, maybe? Some wacko collector or something?”
“I know it sounds unlikely ⦔
“Hell, collectors are damned strange people. Believe me, I know. Tell you what. I got some records upstairs you're welcome to check through if you want. Finish your lunch first. I'll clean up later. I seem to have lost my appetite.”
“I'm done, too.”
“No, you're not, you're just being polite. Don't worry, I'm okay. It's just the shock of hearing about that nice young man. Go on now and eat. You're a growing girl.”
Emma cut up what remained on her chop, shoveled it into her mouth and washed everything down with beer.
Henny Dauber waited until Emma was through. Then she rose and led the way back through the dining room and up the hall stairs. At the top was a corridor lined with paintings and prints. Emma followed Henny past bedrooms and marble baths to a closed door with fancy brass hardware. Henny turned the handle and flipped on a light switch. The room was full of filing cabinets and trunks, aside from a simple wooden table and several hardbacked chairs.
“Esmond kept every single bit of paper ever came his way,” said Henny, looking around in disgust. “The old fool was scared to death he'd need to prove to the IRS one day where he bought that fifteen-cent washer in 1956. Fat lot of good it did him. I think he was the only millionaire in America never got audited.”
Emma walked over to the nearest file cabinet. Each drawer was neatly marked with the year and a typed list of contents.
“You're welcome to poke around,” said Henny. “Esmond got appraisals every few years on his stuff. He was always trying to keep track of how much he was worth, for some reason I never understood. You might find a copy of the bill you're looking for in one of the appraisals.”
“Are you sure it's all right?” said Emma.
“Sure,” said Henny. “I ain't got no secrets. You just make yourself at home. I'm gonna go have me a lie-down for a while if you don't mind. Haven't been feeling myself lately. Maybe I'm getting old. Either that or I just need to get laid; I don't know. I'll be in that first bedroom at the top of the stairs if you need me.”
“Thank you, Henny.”
The old lady nodded and padded off. Emma began working her way through the cabinets. Half an hour later, in a decades-old file, she found what she was looking for. Attached to an old appraisal was a Xerox copy of the original bill of sale dated thirty years ago for “one fine Spanish gold dragon and chain, circa 1700.”
The buyer was Esmond Dauber. The purchase price was fortyfive
thousand dollarsâjust ten thousand less than it had brought three weeks ago, after more than thirty years of inflation. Gold dragons apparently weren't the best investments in the world. It was the seller's name, however, that was the real surprise.
Emma stared at the familiar signature with a mixture of surprise and dismay. She had followed this trail back dozens of years and across thousands of miles, looking for the one common thread, the thing that would unite Henri-Pierre Caraignac, Jacques Passant, and a golden dragon that had waited in the sand off San Marcos for nearly three hundred years. At last she had found it. The name at the bottom of the page, in bold block letters on the line marked “Agent for seller,” was Charlemagne Moussy, Esquire.
Â
“Law offices of Charlemagne Moussy,” said the cheerful nasal voice on the other end of the line.
“Hi, Jean. It's Emma Passant.”
“Emma! How are you? What are you doing? Are you having a nice vacation? I want to hear all about everything, but my other line is ringing, so I'm going to put you on hold; but don't worry, I'll be right back and we can talk. Okay?”
“Fine,” said Emma as telephone music filled the receiver. She rolled over on the bed, happy to be back in her room at the hotel.
Finding that Charlemagne had been involved with the original sale of the dragon was disconcerting, but at least things were finally beginning to make a little sense. As she waited for Jean to come back on the line, Emma took the moment to review mentally the events as she had reconstructed them.
After smuggling the dragon out of San Marcos three decades ago, Jacques Passant had apparently contracted Charlemagne to broker a saleâEmma vaguely remembered that the lawyer had once lived in New York City.
It would have made good sense for her grandfather to go to an attorney, Emma realized. Because of the San Marcan laws regarding
recovery of treasure and because it had been smuggled into the United States, the ownership of the dragonâand hence Pépé's right to sellâwas murky. Moreover, her grandfather probably didn't speak much English then, may have just changed his name to throw Peguero's agents off his trail, and had a desperately ill young daughterâEmma's motherâto look after. Jacques Passant would have needed someone to protect his interests. Who better than a French-speaking lawyer like Charlemagne Moussy, who obviously had contacts with collectors?
Charlemagne must have arranged an anonymous private sale so the dragon would not have to appear on the open market. It had then remained in Esmond Dauber's collection until Dauber's death. When the dragon came up for auction at Sotheby's three weeks ago, it had been purchased by Henri-Pierre Caraignac.
But why Henri-Pierre?
This was where Emma's knowledge of the facts broke down and speculation took over. There was still no evidence to take to Poteet. The Frenchman might have bought the dragon simply because he had an interest in seventeenth-century badges of office. Or perhaps he had been bidding for someone else, some woman with gaudy taste in jewelry. Unless, of course, Henri-Pierre's knowledge as an antique dealer had led him to see something in the dragon that no one else had seen. Had he attempted to track down its original owner because he believed there was a treasure, and that the dragon was the key to finding it?
“Hi, Emma, I'm back,” said the machine-gun nasal voice of Jean Bean in Emma's ear. “So tell me all about it. Did you have a good time? Did you meet anybody? God, I wish I could go to the Caribbean; I once went to Miami Beach, but I was with Mother and she got stung by a Portuguese man-of-war our first day and we had to spend practically the whole week in our room. Not that I wasn't concerned, mind you, but I really would have liked to get out just a little and see the sights and have some drinks and maybe meet someone niceâlike that's too much to ask for? But you
don't want to hear about my lousy trip, I want to hear about yours, so tell me all about it.”
“I will later, Jean, I promise. Only right now I have to talk to Charlemagne. Is he there?”
“No, and it's funny you should be calling for him, because I know he wanted to talk to you. He had some interesting news for you, he said. Isn't it funny how things happen like that sometime? You're thinking about somebody and suddenly they call, or don't call, in my case, at least when it comes to menâsynchronicity, I think they call itâthat kind of coincidence. Has anything like that ever happened to you?
“All too often,” said Emma. “Maybe you can help me, Jean. Do you know if Charlemagne met with a Frenchman in the past few weeks? Someone who hadn't been in beforeâa new client, maybe?”
“I don't think so,” said Jean. “No, wait a minute, I remember. There was a man with a French accent who called up a few weeks ago. He asked for an appointment to discuss a problem with a mortgage, said he had been referred by an acquaintanceâanother Frenchman who had done business with Charlemagne some thirty years ago, a man who had raised a granddaughter by himself, and I said, âOh, you must mean Jacques Passant,' since I knew that your grandfather was Charlemagne's oldest client, and the man said yes, that was his friendâdid he still live in that same delightful area? And I said, âYes, if you mean Potrero Hill,' though I don't know if âdelightful' is the word I would use, no offense, Emma. Then we scheduled a time and he said thank you, but he never showed up, which I thought was very strange, and so did Charlemagne, because the man had sounded so nice on the telephone, but what can you do? I thought maybe he would call back, but he never did. I didn't do anything wrong, did I?”
“No, Jean,” said Emma, taking a deep breath. “You didn't do anything wrong. What did the man say his name was?”
“Dubois. Jean Dubois.”
It must have been Henri-Pierre, thought Emma. Dubois is as common a French name as Smith is in English.
But something was terribly wrong in all this. All Henri-Pierre had had was a bill of sale for the dragon listing Charlemagne's name as the agent for the seller. How then had he known about Jacques Passant? How had he known that he was a Frenchman who had raised a granddaughter alone?
“I really need to speak with Charlemagne, Jean,” said Emma, feeling more confused than ever. “Could you have him call me as soon as he gets in?”
Perhaps the little lawyer would be able to shed some light on all this, Emma hoped. After all, he had been the one who had sold the dragon originally.
“Oh, that's what I've been meaning to tell you,” said Jean brightly. “He's out of town on business, in New York City.
“New York!”
“Yes, isn't it wonderful? The Big Apple. Times Square. Broadway. He wanted you to call him there. He's staying at the Plaza Hotel. Would you like the number?”
Â
Â
“
T
hen you are not really certain that this scarred-face man was indeed following you at all,” declared Charlemagne Moussy, smoothing his tiny mustache with a manicured finger and handing his menu to the waiter.
“No,” admitted Emma angrily, surrendering her own menu and waiting to explode until the waiter had departed. “It might be just another coincidence. Like the phony car salesman just happening to show up in San Marcos. Like Henri-Pierre Caraignac just happening to be the person who bought the dragon. Like you just happening to have been involved in this whole thing up to your neck and now just happening to be in New York.”
“Please calm down,” said Charlemagne, glancing around uncomfortably.
The other diners in the Plaza's Edwardian Room didn't seem to have noticed Emma's tiradeâor, if they had noticed, didn't seem to care. It was as if the enormous restaurant with its soaring wooden ceiling, white-jacketed staff, and preposterous prices had been invented specifically for indiscreet admissions and intrigue.
A significant number of patrons looked as if they might have pilfered military secrets at some point in their afternoons. Charlemagne had suggested dinner here when Emma had finally reached him on the phone that afternoon. Hearing about sunken treasure and men with scars apparently brought out the gourmet in him.
“What are you doing in New York, Charlemagne?” Emma demanded, not attempting to conceal her frustration. “Why didn't you tell me about the dragon? Is there anything else you forgot to mention?”
“One question at the same time, please,” said the little lawyer, raising his hand. “You make it sound like I might have had some involvement in this tragedy of events that has befallen us. This hurts me very deeply, Emma. Have not you known me since you were just the tiny little child? Do you not remember that Jacques was my best friend?”
Emma took a sip of her margarita and didn't answer. She had ordered a drink only because Charlemagne had wanted to start with a martini, but now she was glad she had one.
Emma had never dined with Charlemagne alone before. She had been dragged along to his office by her grandfather and seen him at large social gatherings like weddings and funerals. She hadn't even known that he drank. What else did she not know about him?
“All right, Emma,” said Charlemagne, stiffening in reaction to her silence. “To answer your questions, I did not tell you about the dragon whistle that I sold on Jacques's behalf because this happened many years ago, and it never occurred to me that such a transaction had anything to do with the price of fishes. If you had asked me, gladly would I have told you, but you did not, so neither did I.”
“You said in your office,” said Emma, “that Pépé was able to put the down payment on the house because you helped him sell a âcertain property.' That certain property was the dragon, wasn't it?”
“Yes.”
“So why didn't you tell me about it then?”
“Because I am a lawyer,” replied Charlemagne in a low, irritated hiss. “Because I am discreet. I do not go around telling everybody everything I know about anything that comes up in conversation. I do not hang myself with my big mouth. By my nature and my training I respond precisely to questions. If I went around volunteering information about things that I had not been asked, half of my clients would be in jail or more deeply in debt than they find themselves already.”
“Wonderful, Charlemagne. Marvelous.”
“Disapprove if you must,” declared the lawyer, glancing at his watch. “But in our society people they are not required to incriminate themselves. Nor is it necessary for them to hire the blabbermouth lawyer to do it for them.”
“All right,” said Emma in disgust. “Have it your way. Just tell me about the dragon now. Tell me everything.”
Charlemagne pursed his lips, straightened his bow tie, and took a sniff of the carnation in his buttonhole.
“There is not a great deal to tell,” he pronounced in a calm voice. “I was a young lawyer just starting out when Jacques came to see me those many years ago. My practiceâsuch as it wasâwas then in New York because this is where my family had emigrated. But I hated it here. The city that is so glorious when one has money is equally dismal when one is poor, and we had been very poor indeed. As a young lawyer of French origin I sought out the business of my former countrymen by writing a legal-advice column for one of the French-language newspapers that were then being published. It was from seeing this column that Jacques learned of me and came forward with his dragon whistle to sell.”
“So you knew all about it,” said Emma in an accusatory tone.
“I knew nothing about it,” replied Charlemagne indignantly. “Jacques told me that his dragon whistle was the heirloom that had been in his family for generations.”
“And you believed that?”
“It is not the business of lawyers to doubt their own clients. What if he had stolen the dragon whistle? If I had forced Jacques to tell me this, then I would not have been able to help him pursue his interests and sell it, would I? I am an officer of the court. I have a responsibility.”
“But it was okay if you didn't know.”
“What was I supposed to do, Emma?” erupted Charlemagne. “Cross-question him until he confessed that Jacques Passant was not his real name and that he was in the country illegally?”
“Oh my God,” said Emma. “Do you think he was?”
“Thank goodness that I did not ask,” said Charlemagne with a visible I-told-you-so kind of satisfaction, “so this was not my concern. You see how we lawyers make the strange kind of sense? I knew all I had to knowâthat your grandfather was my client and that he needed my help, which I was happy to give him. Okay?”
Emma nodded.
“I didn't mean to imply that you were doing anything improper,” she said in a conciliatory voice. “I just need to get to the bottom of all this, that's all.”
“Of course you do,” said Charlemagne, glancing at his watch, apparently placated.
“Do you have to get somewhere?” said Emma.
“No, why?”
“You keep looking at your watch.”
Charlemagne looked at his watch again.
“Do I?”
“Yes. You just did it again.”
“It is the time change,” said the lawyer with a shrug. “My clock, she says seven but the rest of me says four. My doctor wishes me to take a pill each night at the dinnertime, and I am confused. Is the dinnertime now, or is it later?”
“Later,” said Emma. “How did you know Esmond Dauber?”
“Who?”
“The man you sold the dragon to. Don't tell me he read about you in the newspaper, too.”
“No, it was the other way around,” said Charlemagne. “It was I who had read about him. In an article in the
New York Times
. I looked the collector of the gold objects up in the phone book and we were able to consummate a saleâat a very good price, I might add.”
“That's all there was to it?”
“What more is necessary? Sometime later Jacques came back to me and asked me to help him relocate to some nice city, far away from New York. I thought of San Francisco because my brother, Napoleon, then lived there. We flew out together to California and with Napoleon's help were able to buy the house you grew up in and now wish to sellâJacques still had much of the money left from the sale of the dragon. In the process I found that I, too, liked San Francisco, and moved there myself, several years later. I reconnected with my friend Jacques, made your tiny acquaintance, and that, my dear Emma, is the whole storyâlocks, stocks and barrels.”
“I wish you had said something before,” said Emma. “It would have saved me a lot of time.”
“Oh, yes,” said Charlemagne, throwing up his hands. “There you are in my office having fled your home because you believed some crazed murderer has just been there to steal a model boat, and what do I say? âExcuse me, Emma. I am sorry to interrupt your fear and panic, but how would you like to hear the story of how I sold a family heirloom for Jacques several decades ago?' That would have been very supportive, yes?”
“I'm sorry, Charlemagne. I know you would never do anything to harm me.”
The little lawyer nodded and finished the rest of his martini in
a single gulp. Their conversation apparently had upset him. He usually was the soul of calmness, but tonight he was more nervous than she had ever seen him.
“It's just that I'm so sure the dragon must have something to do with all of this,” Emma went on. “Did Pépé ever say anything to you about a treasure?”
“The word was all over his vocabulary,” said the lawyer with a dismissive wave of his little pink hand. “But that does not mean anything. You know how obscure was the way Jacques spoke, how he never called a thing directly. Even me he referred to as âthe treasure of the civil court,' when it was not âmy friend with his hand in my pocket.' Dear Jacques was always philosophizing about wealth and wisdom and things obscure. Who knows what he meant? Why do you ask?”
“Because I think there might have been a treasure map in the model boat that was stolen.”
“Mon Dieu
. But how can this be?”
Emma briefly recounted Zuberan's story of how the dragon had been found and about the Spanish plate fleet that had gone down in the hurricane in 1690.
Charlemagne listened intently, asking an occasional question, shaking his head in increasing bewilderment.
“I knew nothing of any of this,” he said finally.
“The model boat had a secret compartment. That's how Pépé smuggled in the dragon. Obviously the dragon wasn't in there anymore. It would have been a great place to hide a map.”
“Perhaps you should tell this to the police.”
“I did. I spoke to Detective Poteet this afternoon.”
“And what did he say?”
“Nothing.”
“So he was not convinced there was a map. Why are you?”
“Look, Charlemagne, there must have been something valuable in the model, or why else would Pépé have told me about it in the will? âThat she may take her place at the helm and turn the wheel
on the legacy that I have kept hidden from her.' You turned the wheel of the model and the secret compartment opened. What else could have been in there but the map?”
“Maybe he kept money in there, Emma,” said Charlemagne gently. “Have you thought of this? Maybe that was the legacy Jacques wished you to have. And if there was a thief, perhaps he was just looking for money. That is what thiefs seek to find, is it not?”
They both fell silent as the waiter approached with their dinners. Emma was still full from lunch, but the Cobb salad she had ordered looked wonderful. She confirmed this with a taste as the waiter deposited Charlemagne's fish in front of him and departed.
“Well,” said Emma, sighing, “at least we know for sure now that Henri-Pierre Caraignac wasn't killed just because he had the bad luck to let me pick him up on the ferry. He bought the dragon and came to San Francisco because of it. He must have been following me that day. Do you know that Jean Bean practically gave him our address when he called your office? He pretended to be a potential client. A Mr. Dubois.”
“Oh?” said Charlemagne, picking at his fish.
“Don't you remember? Jean said she told you. He never arrived for his appointment.”
“I don't recall. How do you know it was Caraignac?”
“Who else could it have been? He had a French accent.”
“My dear girl,” said Charlemagne in a kind voice, “half of the people who call my office have French accents; I am a French lawyer. I think your imagination, she is working overtime, yes?”
Emma started to say something but stopped. Charlemagne was right. She was doing it again. It was all just speculation, fantasy. She felt like a fool.
“Have the police learned anything new?” Emma said unhappily, nibbling at a piece of lettuce. “Detective Poteet wouldn't tell me anything when I talked with him.”
Charlemagne put down his fork.
“There has been a development, Emma,” he said gravely. “This is in fact the reason I have come to New York, why I have needed to talk with you.”
“What development? Why haven't you told me?”
“I have been wanting to tell you since I sat down, only you have not allowed me to get the word in edgewise.”
“Sorry. So what is it?”
“It is difficult. I am not sure how to say this to you.”
“Please, Charlemagne. Just tell me. My nerves are totally shot.”
“The police, they have taken you very seriously, Emma,” said Charlemagne in a quiet, sober voice. “Although their experience would suggest that the deaths of Jacques and Monsieur Caraignac were random and unrelated acts of violence, Monsieur Poteet was impressed enough with your arguments to keep the cases open, to focus on the common thread.”