“Hal — first thing in the morning I want you to get over to the nearest school and bring me back a professor who can read this thing. Understand?”
“It’s Latin,” Simpson said helpfully. “That should limit your search.”
“Don’t tell him a thing!” Briggs said angrily.
“Shut up. A Latin professor,” Clarence said. “Understand? Bring him back.”
“You mean, snatch him?” Harold asked. He looked disturbed. “Gee, Clare, we ain’t got no more beds, and we’re runnin’ low on sheets. And I don’t know no five-handed card games—”
“No, stupid! Not snatch him! Or maybe I’d better go myself if I want to get somebody who knows what I’m talking about, and you guys can play four-handed potsie!” He turned to the three old men. “I’m going to find out what this is all about, believe me! I figure this thing must have some value, since the three of you characters are so anxious to get out of here with it—”
“Hey, Clare!” Harold had come up with another thought, his second in a week, and he was proud of it.
“Now, what is it?” Clarence asked, irritated.
“Hey, supposin’ it’s like pops says, a real pirate map,” Harold said, his brain now as awake as it ever got, and bumping along on the rails. “Or supposin’ even if it ain’t a pirate map, but it still says somethin’ on it that maybe means dough, which even you think maybe it does. Now, supposin’ one of us gets ahold of this professor to come here and read the thing. How do we know he’s goin’ to tell us the truth? How do we know he ain’t goin’ to come up with some story like it’s just an old shoppin’ list, or a laundry bill, or somethin’ like that? And then he goes out and collects on what it really says in the thing. What about that?”
It was a long speech, even for Harold, who enjoyed talking. Clarence had been listening to the exposition with growing concern for his own sagacity, of which he had always been so proud. Harold had raised a perfectly legitimate point, and one he should have thought of himself. Possibly it was the lateness of the hour that was fogging his mind, or at least he hoped so. He would hate to think he was losing his touch to the extent that he had to take suggestions from a meat-head like Harold.
Still, what was the answer? Surely there had to be someone in the entire British Isles who was knowledgeable enough in Latin to translate the gibberish for him, and who could still be trusted. But who? He became aware that Carruthers was mumbling something that was disturbing his concentration, and looked up, irritated.
“What?”
“Solicitors — lawyers to you, of course,” Carruthers was saying.
“What about them?”
“I merely said that I shall see my solicitors regarding this situation,” Carruthers said coldly. “My solicitors look most unfavorably upon people having their rightful possessions taken from them without due process. Solicitors — lawyers, that is, as I believe I’ve already mentioned — frown upon such things. Lawyers — solicitors, that is—”
“Ah, shut up!” Clarence said impolitely, and went back to his pondering. That old buzzard and his prattling about lawyers, lawyers, lawyers! He ought to — wait a second! Hold the phone! A lawyer — that really wasn’t a bad idea, now that he thought about it. Lawyers and judges, they had to know Latin, didn’t they? And they were sworn to uphold the law, so they had to be honest — or relatively honest, anyway. And if they made the dough here in England that lawyers raked in back home, they wouldn’t be as hungry as some professor who was probably starving to death. He ought to thank old baggy-pants for having given him the idea.
But where to find a lawyer, and one who was guaranteed to have enough scratch to be — relatively — honest. Where?
“Phew!” Simpson said suddenly. “It’s hot in here!”
“Phew, indeed,” Briggs said, agreeing. “P.U., in fact. It also smells.”
“Keep quiet—” Clarence began, and then paused. What other lawyer than the one mentioned in that newspaper article about the three old men? What was his name? Pugh! That was it, Sir Percival Pugh! The article said he demanded and received the highest fees, so that should mean he ought to have enough money not to cheat a couple of visitors to British shores like Clarence and Harold. Oh, sure, he’d give the guy a decent fee for translating the thing, but it would be worth it. Pugh! He turned and smiled at Carruthers, a chilling smile.
“Okay, fatso,” he said, his tone precluding the slightest argument, “now, here’s the way we’re going to play it. Tomorrow morning first thing you’re going to write a note to an old friend of yours — this Sir Percival Pugh. I don’t care what you say, but it better be good, because I don’t want any argument from him. I want him to come back here with Harold and translate that thing. And don’t get cute in what you write,” he added direly, “because I’m going to be reading every word over your shoulder while you write it.” He suddenly grinned, a savage grin. “You wanted a lawyer; well, you’re going to get one.”
“We don’t want Pugh!” Briggs said forcefully. “We—”
“You’ll take what you get and like it,” Clarence said, and his smile went as quickly as it had come. He looked over at Harold. “Hal, put our guests back to bed. And you sleep in a chair in front of their door in case any of them gets to walking in his sleep and picks up some more of the Avery estate. This—” he held up the scroll — “goes to bed with me.” His smile came back briefly. “Good night, then, gentlemen. Pleasant dreams...”
“Well,” Briggs said, “it was lucky that Harold raised the point about the possibility of an outside professor’s being venal, rather than our raising it, as planned.” They were back in the privacy of their bed chamber. Carruthers had changed again into his horrendous pajamas and was lying quite contentedly on his bed. From beyond the door they could hear the reassuring snores of Harold, propped in a chair across the sill.
“Yes,” Carruthers said, “it just goes to prove that even the blindest sow finds an acorn now and then.”
“Agreed,” Simpson said with a faint smile. He looked over at Briggs. “You don’t really mind old Pugh being involved, do you?”
Briggs laughed. “Lord, no! My objection in the library was purely cosmetic. To lock in Clarence’s decision. Actually,” he said, “this is one time I think old Pugh’s abilities might come in handy for us. And about time, too!” he added darkly under his breath, and rolled over to go to sleep.
“It reminds me of a plot I used in one of my earliest endeavors,” Simpson said nostalgically. “It was called Strychnine in the Solicitor, I believe, or did we finally end up calling it Arsenic in the Advocate? I know it was one or the other; they were the only two we considered. At any rate, it dealt with—”
He became aware that the snores of his two companions had joined those of Harold in an almost hypnotic chorus, and with a sigh he rolled over to seek slumber himself.
Chapter 13
Dear Herr Pugh:
(“Pugh comes from German aristocracy, you know,” Carruthers explained, “and is very fussy about how he’s addressed.” “Be as polite as you want,” Clarence said, “just get him here!” “Yes, sir,” Carruthers said, and went back to his composing.)