'None.'.
'Right. So the gizmo, as you call it, has got to arouse suspicion. It's in fact more of a key than a lever since it's shaped uniquely. Doc, he wouldn't tote it around. He wouldn't want to lose it; he wouldn't want it seen.'
'You're absolutely right. And he wouldn't hide it anywhere near the hole either, would he?'
'No!'
'Then let's follow the example of Poe's Purloined Letter: Do you remember where the missing letter was hidden?'
'Can't say as I've ever read the story.'
'It was hidden in the most inconspicuous place: with a bunch of other letters. So where do we look for this tool?'
Walter Kincaid's workshop was very big, as one would expect of a millionaire engineer. There were drill presses, lathes, joiners, jigsaws, a drafting board, tap and die sets-the works. We rummaged through a whole passel of exotic micrometers, gauges, metal rules, combination squares, and just about everything that places like Woodcrafters and Brookstone's sell. We looked through exotic hardwood tool chests lined with green felt that held tools from Sweden and Germany. We looked through drawers and racks of lowly screwdrivers and nailpullers.
Nothing.
And then Joe saw a rack of carefully labeled cigar boxes that lined a high shelf. One of these was labeled 'Miscellaneous Bits.'
He took this down. Of the twenty or so metal drills and bits inside, one had a curious head. It was a round terminus as thick as my thumb, with a triangular socket at its end. My pulse revved up like a jackhammer. The base of the bit was the standard four-sided tapered shank that fits into an old-fashioned crank brace. I grabbed the brace from its place on the pegboard, inserted the strange bit,` and tightened the chuck. Then we made our way back to the furnace room. I inserted the crank contraption into the hole. The socket thunked home perfectly.
'Does it?' asked Joe.
'Like the proverbial hand garment.'
I turned the brace; it wouldn't budge. Then I reversed the crank, and heard a slow regular grinding deep in the wall. Joe ran over to the ash door and shined the flashlight in; I kept grinding away, like a storekeeper cranking in an awning.
'Son… of… a.. bitch. It's moving!'
I joined him and peered inside. The brick back of the flue was half an inch to the right. A narrow fissure was now visible along the left side. Darkness, the darkness of space, lay beyond.
'Walter Kincaid, you genius you-'
'The guy was an engineer, yes?'
'Uh huh, and it shows too. He was an expert at locks. I think he also realized that concealment and secrecy are far stronger security than the thickest bank-vault doors.'
'Sure. If you don't know where the money is, how can you get it?'
Joe took a turn at the crank. I supposed it was a rack and pinion design, in which a geared-down wheel with teeth moved a straight piece of steel with matching teeth; There were probably ball bearings or smooth metal wheels to help move along the slab of genuine brick, which would weigh a few hundred pounds. It worked slick as a whistle, and showed the inventiveness and determination of Kincaid, No wonder the guy was loaded. He was smart, cagey, and worked like a dog. He had probably designed the set-up, machined and fabricated most of it himself or at the Wheel-Lock factory, and installed it alone, perhaps in the space of three or four grueling days of long labor during one of Laura's rendezvous with Schilling.
As Joe turned the crank I watched the fissure widen. For every eight turns of the crank the slab opened another inch. The bricks had been mounted in a steel frame set on big steel dolly wheels. I shined the light through a circular concrete tunnel a yard long and saw the glint of gold eight feet away.
Now I knew how Howard Carter must have felt when they broke the seals of the last chamber in Tutankhamen's tomb, and entering, he saw the gold sarcophagus still in place. 'Howdja like to retire, Joe?' I said laughing.
We spent only about twenty minutes in the small concrete cubicle fashioned from the shell of the septic tank. A description of the treasure trove wouldn't do it justice. The most spectacular part of it was twenty-two gold ingots. Kincaid had lined them up like miniature loaves of bread on a clean pine, board. I hefted one of the li'l critters. It weighed ten kilograms, and felt like it. It was stamped with an embossed seal of the double eagle of Austria on the bottom. What was it worth?
'Dunno, Charlie. Let's see, gold's going for about seven hundred dollars an ounce, that's, uh, over eleven thousand dollars a pound, and these things weigh twenty-two pounds each-'
'Each one's worth almost a quarter of a million dollars.'
'Doc, I feel dizzy.'
'Twenty-two ingots, that's well over five million in the gold bars alone.'
'Charlie, I feel really dizzy.'
We rummaged briefly through the rest of it. There were polyethylene file card cases filled with old coins. There were various historic relics in a big wooden box. There were pieces of scrimshaw and pewter. But mainly, there was the gold. In bars and coins, it sat there and glimmered in the beam of our flashlight.
'How we gonna carry this out?' he asked me.
'Wecan't. It's not ours.'
'C'mon Doc. Listen, if we each take two bars we c-'
'No I'm serious, Joe. You're a cop; you know the rules.'
'So? I'll quit being a cop. I'll retire, as you wisely suggested. Now listen, we'll just-'
'Now you listen, the last thing we want to do is screw this whole thing up by taking it illegally. By the laws of maritime salvage, this gold and treasure is the property of Walter Kincaid, deceased-or at least presumed deceased.'
'Right. And then, it would gosto his next-of-kin, wife Laura-also deceased, and without relatives.'
'So-and I've checked this-the treasure belongs, again by law of salvage, to whoever owns the house.'
Joe was so dizzy he went topside for a breath of air while I tidied up the chamber and left it intact. We cranked the brickway shut behind us and re-puttied the seams with caulking seams with wood ashes, making them look astoundingly like mortar, placed new ashes in the bottom of the flue, swept up clean, and departed. I had the funny-shaped bit with me. 'I wanna keep this key,' I said.
I stumbled on the way out in the dark basement hallway. I limped all the way to the car. In my pocket were a dozen color prints of the treasure. I had taken them for a special reason.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
We formed a syndicate for the sole and express purpose of purchasing the Kincaid residence and splitting the swag. Since the realtor was asking a cool four hundred-grand, a fairly hefty down payment would be required. We- Joe and Mary and I-figured that five thousand earnest money plus a hundred grand down payment would seal it up for us. But we had to move fast. Beside the three of us were Jim and Janice DeGroot, Tom Costello, and, at my insistence, Morris Abramson. Jim balked a bit at this. Who the hell was Morris Abramson and what part did he play in finding the treasure? After all, he said, another member meant another cut of the action. But I insisted. To maker our stand official, Mary suggested that if Jim didn't like the arrangement he could always pull out of the syndicate altogether.
Jim shut up right away.
Leave it to Mary to nail things down when they get a bit sticky. I figured that with Moe in on the deal some worthwhile cause would come out smelling like a rose. But when I called him he told me he had no spare money at
