Soon we were both seated. He had brought a pot of coffee out on a cloisonné tray with cups, spoons, and little stoneware ramekins for sugar and cream.
“First,” Wolhardt said, reaching into his shirt pocket, “I want to give you this.” He pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to me. It was a check for a large amount. “Ten percent right?”
“Yes, that’s the normal fee. It seems like too much in this case though.”
“Nonsense. You figured out the clue. I couldn’t have done it without you.”
“Doubtful. You would have gotten to it without my help.”
“Maybe. Who knows how long it would have been though.”
“How’s the enigma community taking it?”
He waved a hand, looking away. “Oh, you know. They still want to argue about it. I think when you spend a lifetime on something you don’t want to admit that the search is over, someone else got it first. You know they’re making a movie about Elgar? They asked me to write the incidental music.”
“Nice!”
“Enough of that, though. I want you to tell me the story if you don’t mind. What happened? How did you get my things back, and the solution?”
I looked at the floor for a minute, thinking. “I guess I owe you that,” I said and closed my eyes, pressing fingers to my lids. I thought for a moment longer. “After I was here,” I began, “I made a trip to Seattle.”
I gave him the medium version but it still took almost half an hour. When I finished he sat for a moment, unspeaking, concern in his eyes.
“There’s one thing I’m still not sure I understand,” I said. “The timeline of Dworkin coming to London. And how and when Jutting knew who I was.”
“I might be able to clear that up. I’ve spoken with Johann Benderick a couple of times by phone. You know he posted to the forum after you visited him?”
“Yes.”
“Well, Jutting was reading the forum posts too. He had his own hackers working on that forum and on you and everybody else involved. He apparently figured out who Dworkin was and sent his niece to Philadelphia to meet with him. He didn’t know Dworkin was insane. She brought him back to London. Jutting wanted to talk to him about the dark saying. He thought Dworkin might have useful information.”
“That must have been right after I left.”
“Yes. Dworkin told her you had been there apparently. They realized he was off his rocker pretty quickly but they had already brought him to London. He was staying with a friend. But then, an associate of Benderick’s, an Archibald Matthews, who was in London on vacation, had dinner with Jutting and met the cryptographer. He mentioned it in an email to Benderick and Benderick put two and two together. He figured out Jutting had the stolen notes.”
“But Jutting didn’t have the notes yet at that point if I’m following.”
“No matter. He was after them. He knew who had them. So Benderick contacted Jutting and threatened him, told him to return the notes or he would make it public. Jutting and his niece figured out a way to throw you both off the track—have Dworkin steal the notes. But a fake version, not the real thing.”
“All thrust, no vector,” I said, musing on the convoluted machinations.
“What’s that?”
“Oh, nothing. Just something Ashna said about Dworkin.”
Wolhardt nodded, eyes still crinkled with concern. “You could have been killed, you know.”
“True. They weren’t playing around.”
“He nearly killed his niece too? A madman. Why do you do it?”
“You mean go after things for people?”
“Yes. You’re a good artist. Isn’t that enough?”
“No one’s ever asked me that question before.”
“I like you Justin. You don’t seem happy.”
“Happiness. No not much. What do the words mean to you? The verse from Corinthians?”
“I guess Paul meant that our knowledge of God and his ways is incomplete or partial, that we won’t really understand until we see him face to face.”
“Do you believe that?”
“I think it’s a good metaphor. I’m not much of a Christian though.”
“Did you know that Corinth was famous for its bronze? They actually made mirrors out of bronze. That might be what he was talking about. No matter how good your bronze mirror is, it’s going to give you a dark, distorted reflection. For me, art is like that. I try to look behind the veil and make something true and honest. But most of the time, I just see the imperfections in the final product. I’m never really happy with it. I keep doing it because I have some kind of drive to do it that I can’t shake.”
“A dark bronze reflection. I think you might have just given me a title for the music I’m going to write for the film. I know the feeling you’re describing.”
“Yes. When I complete a job though, that’s something I did. No imperfections matter. It’s binary. I did it or I didn’t do it. I have the thing or I don’t.”
“Maybe if you don’t have it though, it’s because you are dead.”
“That’s the risk.”
“I get it. It doesn’t seem worth it to me. However…” The door chime rang, cutting him off. “Aha. I hope you don’t mind but I invited a friend over. She wanted to meet you.”
“I knew someone would be joining us.”
“Really? How did you know?”
I pointed to the tray. “Three cups.”
“Of course.”
“Who is it?”
“An actress. Quite a famous one.”
“Interesting. I assume she’s missing something?”
“Yes. A very valuable item.”
A word from the author…
I am a writer, teacher, and educational technology professional. I was born in the Midwest and grew up in Seattle but have been slowly migrating southward with stops in Portland, Eugene, San Francisco, and now Los Angeles where I live with my wife, son, and JiJi the cat. I studied Dance and English Literature as an undergraduate and Anthropology in grad school. Before embarking on my current career, I worked as a professional ballet dancer.
Find out more at:
web: http://bradleywwright.com
twitter: @rabbit_fighter
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