The Lost Choice (20 page)

In the seaport of Venice,Nigel spent a month's wages in one evening, satisfying the thirst of a passenger who claimed to know the location of one such place. Prodigious amounts of the most expensive liquor finally managed to pry the secret from the man. The very next day Nigel left the employ of his captain.

The location turned out to be bogus—the drunken boasting of a determined storyteller. The search to that place, however, pointed to stepping-stones of more and better information, leading Nigel on an extended journey of months and miles, which finally, and quite by chance, bore fruit.

Nigel had worked throughout Spain and Italy, mostly as a woodcutter, earning enough money to pay his modest living expenses. One day, searching for hardwood on the estate of a wine producer, he happened upon a series of mounds. Having read newspaper descriptions of burial sites that had been located and unearthed, Nigel knew that, often, the only evidence of a tomb's existence was a small hill which sprang from otherwise level ground. Despite the realization that he was on private property, he ignored the possibility of imprisonment—Italy had already enacted strong legislation regarding the opening of ancient graves without government supervision—set aside his ax, and picked up a shovel.

There were five mounds, and it had taken him a full day to penetrate the first two. What he found in each was a single skeleton, fully formed, and fitted with a breastplate. A spearhead made of some kind of metal lay near both skeletons' heads. Nigel assumed the spear's shafts would have been wooden, thus decaying long ago. Both burial sites were empty except for the warriors who were laid directly onto the stone floor.

Studying the layout of the mounds, Nigel saw that he had opened two of the four graves that surrounded the one in the center. Mentally connecting the soldiers with the arrangement of the five mounds, and wondering what, if anything, they were guarding, Nigel dug into the side of the center mound and was rewarded for his effort.

When he had entered the tomb of Constantine XI, he did so on his knees. The single candle Nigel held flickered as the stale air brushed his face. At first, he had been disappointed. Parchment scrolls that turned to dust when he picked them up, several cracked vases, and some wooden carvings were all he noticed at first glance. No stacks of gold or silver. No diamonds or jewels.

The bones of the emperor were laid on a stone slab at the back of the tomb. The flesh had long since disappeared. The thumb of the emperor's right hand yielded a ring of gold, decorated with a green stone of some sort. On his left hand, which had separated into a pile of tiny bones as it was moved, there were three more rings of similar design. Nigel almost missed the medallion, dull and sifted with powdered human tissue, that was lying inside the chest cavity. He reached through the rib bones to draw out the disk. It had evidently been worn on the great man's chest and, over the years, gradually fallen through the decaying body.

As he pulled it into the candlelight, Nigel had seen a hole that had been drilled into one side with a leather strap run through it. At least he thought it was leather. Whatever it
had
been was now reduced to dark, disintegrated pieces that had wound up and over the ribs, across the collarbone, around the base of the skull, and back down the other side. Nigel brushed the remnants of the strap from the medallion and blew a final piece from the hole. Tucking it into his pocket with the rings, he opened a cloth sack, which he proceeded to fill with every other loose item in the tomb. Nigel looked at his pocket watch as he threw his cigarette into the street.
Now to sell the lot,
he thought, as he spotted a black coach easing to a stop in front of the pub. Pulled by four matching horses, also black, the coach was magnificent, trimmed in gold with red leather accent. The driver opened the side door and offered a hand to the man Nigel had come to America to see.

Alfred Vanderbilt stepped out of the coach and straightened. Tall and elegant, he wore a pink carnation in the buttonhole of his knee-length, charcoal-gray, pinstriped jacket. Matching trousers, black lambskin gloves, and a silk-banded top hat completed the fashionable ensemble. Vanderbilt stepped aside as his personal valet, Ronald Denyer, followed him from the coach. Finally, two other men, one after the other, emerged in the coach's doorway and stepped to the street.

Nigel watched from the pub's entrance as one of the world's wealthiest men approached.

He had done his research well and knew Vanderbilt to be a student of art and antiquities, a hobby on which he spent money lavishly. And he had the money to spend. Only thirty-eight years old, Alfred had already inherited the bulk of the Vanderbilt estate. Upon their father's death, each of his brothers and sisters—some younger, some older—had been willed seven million dollars. Alfred received seventy-six million.

While Vanderbilt was immediately recognized everywhere he went, he was also well respected. He was known to be a kind man and was not considered one of the robber barons—men who used their wealth as a weapon and, with it, bludgeoned the poor. It was common knowledge that, as a young man, Alfred alone among his siblings had insisted on beginning his business experience by “starting at the bottom” as a clerk in one of his father's offices. The public never forgot it. Neither did his father, as was evidenced by the division of his wealth.

“Mr.Vanderbilt!” Nigel called as he stepped to the curb with his hand outstretched. “Nigel Bailey, sir.”

Vanderbilt expertly shucked his gloves and shook the man's hand.“Pleased to make your acquaintance,Mr. Bailey,” he said. “Please meet my valet. This is Mr. Denyer.” Nigel shook the hand of the shorter man, who was dressed well, though not so handsomely as his employer.

Then Vanderbilt introduced the other two men who were standing to the side in simple, dark suits.“These gentlemen are Drs. Osborn and Tate.Dr. Henry Fairfield Osborn, Director, and Dr. Lawrence Hardy Tate, Curator, of the American Museum of Natural History on Seventy-seventh Street.”Nigel shook hands with both.“Shall we?”Vanderbilt asked, indicating the pub's entrance with a sweep of his arm as his valet hurried to open the door.

As Nigel followed the group into the restaurant, his mind raced. He hadn't counted on the presence of experts. Especially ones who might question his methods, which Nigel admitted were amateurish at best.
No worries,
he thought,
I'll bluster my way through.

Inside, the waiters scurried to seat the Vanderbilt party at a round table beside the front window. Alfred and Nigel sat down and shifted their chairs a bit toward each other while the valet and Drs. Osborn and Tate discreetly took positions to the side. Not close enough to the lunch hour, Vanderbilt ordered only hot beverages for the table, which were delivered at once. Alone for the time being,Vanderbilt addressed his guest.“Mr. Bailey! My attorney tells me you are a recent arrival on our shores.”

“Yes, sir. Only two weeks ago. Tramp steamer from Genoa.” Nigel noticed that the valet, Ronald Denyer, was standing, circling the table and pouring the tea and coffee.
Cripes,
he thought,
this is a different life. This man has his own personal waiter!

“The accent . . . Australian, am I correct?” Vanderbilt inquired.

“Yeah, right,” Nigel grinned.“Down under. Ever been?” “Several times, actually,” Vanderbilt responded. “Lovely people with a spirit much the same as our own.” He cleared his throat. “It is not my intention to rush you, Mr. Bailey. I am interested in your presentation. My attorney has filled me in on your efforts in a general way. I am, however, on a rather tight schedule. I'm booked for passage to Europe this afternoon. In fact, we leave for the port from here.”

“No worries. Where would you like me to begin?”

“How about with the location of the tomb,”Vanderbilt said congenially.“Where is it exactly?”

“Exactly, eh?” Nigel said innocently. “Yeah. I was prepared to give you the tomb's general location—that being the continent of Europe—but you want me to tell you the tomb's exact location. All right . . . the tomb's exact location is Italy.”

Vanderbilt laughed and winked at his valet.“Point taken, Mr. Bailey. Do answer this question though: How do you know that the tomb you raided—”

“
Explored
would be a much nicer choice of words, Mr. Vanderbilt,” Nigel interrupted with a thoughtful expression on his face.“
Raided
is one of those terms that gets me in trouble with the law”—he shot a knowing look at Osborn—“and the items removed from your museum.”

“Let me phrase it your way, then,” Vanderbilt began again. “How do you know that the tomb you ‘explored' was that of . . . Constantine, I believe I was told?”

“Because the bones were lying on a slab that was engraved with his bloody name on it! I'll admit, I'm not the brightest lad you'll meet, but cripes, give me a fair crack of the whip! I've been readin' for a while now and there's no gettin' around the big
C-O-N
and all those other letters followed by an
XI
.”

Vanderbilt laughed at the man's sarcastic wit, but looked to Tate for confirmation of Nigel's assertion. Understanding the question in his patron's eyes, the museum curator responded with validation.“All the Roman Caesars—at least those whose tombs we have found—were laid on slabs of marble. Their names were always cut into the stone. I'm curious, Mr. Bailey, was the marble of the rare, dark variety? And the slab like a large gravestone?”

Nigel's eyes narrowed and he replied instantly. “I am aware that I don't possess your sophistication, that to you I am just some galah in kangaroo hide jumping around the big city, but I don't appreciate being suspected of fraud.” Tate tried to interrupt but was stopped as Nigel held up a hand. Softening, he said,“But seeing as how you have a job to do”—Nigel looked at Vanderbilt—“and a fine one he is doing . . .” Back to Tate, he continued. “I'll give you the answers you need for verification. However,” he warned with a pointed finger,“no more mucking about with your sneaky questions. I won't take kindly to it. I'm not in the mood.”

Vanderbilt watched the exchange with interest. Tate had paled at the Australian's aggressive posture. It was he who had earlier suggested a series of traps to ensure the validity of the material being offered for sale. Hoaxes were common, and he had already saved the museum from embarrassment on several occasions. Osborn, for his part, maintained his composure and managed a stiff smile as he grudgingly nodded.

Taking a deep breath, Nigel grinned and said,“Right. All friends again? Here we go. No, the marble wasn't of the ‘rare, dark variety.' It was pure white, as you well know. And the great man wasn't lying on a slab like a gravestone. He was lying on a slab like somebody's house! It was mammoth. I'd loved to have brought it along, but I didn't have a herd of elephants with me at that moment to yank it out of the ground. Criminy! Are they all that big?”

Tate tried to chuckle politely but was so nervous that his laugh came out like a gargle. Nevertheless, he answered. “Actually, yes, they are. The marble has always been white and the blocks weighing in excess of thirty tons. It is a bit of a mystery how they were placed to begin with. Certainly, removing them has been ridiculously difficult. Incidentally, I apologize for my obviously bumbled attempt at subterfuge a moment ago. A person of Mr.Vanderbilt's position is often the target of those willing to take advantage of his generosity. I needed to have some assurance that you'd really found Constantine XI.”

Changing the subject, Dr. Osborn asked, “Mr. Bailey, what do you know about Constantine?”

“A mite,” Nigel answered with a shrug.“You don't rattle a man's bones and not become a speck curious about what was happening when they were walking about! In any event, I know you gents are on a schedule. So am I. You want it straight? Here's what I know: Emperor Constantine XI”—Nigel crossed his arms—“taken by the invading Turkish forces of Sultan Mehmet in 1453. Offered his life in exchange for the safety of his people, Constantine was rumored to have been slain by the sultan himself. His heroic death was legend, perhaps burnished a bit by the fact that no one knew where the bloke was buried. At least until yours truly hacked him out with a shovel.

“It was the mystery of a lifetime . . . buried in a secret location, giving rise to all manner of pious tales about ‘the sleeping emperor,' in seclusion, one day to awaken, driving out the bloodthirsty barbarians and restoring the Holy Roman Empire. In conclusion: one, it's really him. Two, I've got some of his stuff. And three, I've seen the man. He's not sleepin'. He's bloody dead. My point being, he doesn't need the items anymore. They're worth a fortune and I'd like to sell them to you.There .That straight enough for you?”

Vanderbilt's eyes twinkled as he leaned forward. “Fine, Mr. Bailey. But you still haven't told me what you found inside the tomb.”

Nigel kept a straight face. He had dreaded this question, for in truth, he had been unhappy with his haul.
All the dead kings in the world,
he thought,
and I have to find the tomb of the only poor one!
The carvings and pottery had a certain value, he knew, but there was nothing spectacular with which to fan the flame of a buyer's desire. Especially a buyer as cultured as the one before him.

“I have everything secreted away,” Nigel replied calmly. Maintaining eye contact, he drew the medallion from his pocket and passed it to Vanderbilt.“But there's a sample. Keep it. I'm sure we can come to an arrangement on the rest.”

“Possibly,” the wealthy man said as he took the object. It was circular, flat, and about the size of his palm—plain and exquisite all at once. Vanderbilt was quite sure that the man before him was running a bit of a bluff. He was presenting this, the best of the lot, as a gift, and gambling that the remaining items would be purchased sight unseen. And indeed,Vanderbilt knew, he might do just that.
In this gentleman's mind,
Vanderbilt mused,
there is only merit in gold. He would never understand that I do not want or need another jewel. A centuries-old clay pot, now, I will spend some money on that!