“Yeah. Sure. I’m sorry.” Clarence was ashamed of himself for not having seen something that obvious. “And what about that x on the back of the scroll?”
“Yes. Well,” Pugh said, “the proper word for that is redundant, I believe.”
“Redundant?”
“Yes. The person who put it there did not need to. It did not help in the translation. But never mind.” He turned the map over and exposed the hairline cracks and the small letter x. “My first thought, before giving the message sufficient thought, was that this was a map of a town, or an area of a town, but it is now plain it is merely a plan of the University Hospital as it appeared in the days of John Avery. It also is,” he added, with another reproving glance at Carruthers, “quite useless today. However, fortunately these universities and their hospitals, particularly in England, keep exceedingly accurate records of their history, so a short visit to the hospital library and I am sure I can emerge with the exact location of Dr. C.C.C.’s admissions office in those distant days.”
He brought out his pocket watch and sighed.
“I’m afraid my bridge must suffer this afternoon. I had best get to the hospital library as soon as possible and find the proper spot for us to begin our excavation.”
“Wait a second! Wait a second! I can ask questions at a library as well as you can!” Clarence eyed Sir Percival with distrust. “How do we know you won’t dig up the treasure and disappear?”
“I?” Sir Percival’s eyebrows rose dramatically. “I, Sir Percival Pugh? Disappear?” He made it sound on the order of the pyramids of Cheops disappearing, or the Pacific Ocean. He smiled. “My dear sir, Pughs never disappear; we seldom even fade, even temporarily. I am, frankly, far too well known to disappear. And also, possibly more important from your standpoint, is the packet I saw you place in the safe. If you know anything about me at all, you should know there is no manner in which I would abandon twenty thousand pounds, regardless of other riches to be won at the University Hospital, or anywhere else.”
“Yeah, that’s true—”
“However,” Pugh said blithely, glancing at the safe in the corner with what seemed to be secret amusement, “if you wish to leave and leave us here — with Harold, of course — to guard the safe until your return, please feel free to do so.”
“Hold it! Hold it!” Clarence had often suspected that Harold was privy to the safe’s contents; after all, in Harold’s days in Chicago he had been known as the king of the keisters, with a reputation for tearing safes apart with his bare hands if no other means appeared feasible, although with his skill that contingency seldom arose. And there was something in Pugh’s secret smile that led Clarence to believe the safe and its contents had constituted a major portion of the conversational interchange between Sir Percival and Harold on the trip from Pugh’s home to the farmhouse.
“Yes?” Pugh asked politely.
“Okay, you go—” That still didn’t seem right. “Wait! We’ll both go!” But that would leave Harold here with the safe and those three old buzzards, one of whom Harold was beginning to treat like his long-lost grandfather, and none of whom could be trusted any further than he could lift the Empire State Building. With one hand and a hernia. “Wait a second! I know — Harold will go with you.” But how wise was that? If Harold couldn’t keep his mouth shut — and he couldn’t — and if he knew the combination to the safe — which seemed to be more and more a distinct possibility — and if Pugh got it out of him — which for a trial lawyer like Pugh had to be no great chore...”No,” Clarence said at last, beaten. “You go alone. “But,” he added threateningly, “as you said yourself, you can’t exactly disappear, a man in your position! And I can look a long, long time! Plus your three old pals stay here, and if you don’t come back, and before dark, then—” He drew an illustrative finger across his throat.
Pugh looked at him with a slight frown of puzzlement.
“I cannot imagine why you could think I would not come back. I shall be here with the information in two shakes of a politician’s hand.” He moved toward the door. “And now, if you’ll allow Harold to drive me to the station as being the most efficacious means of transport between this dismal swamp and London, I shall take the train and drive back in my own car. Which, I might mention, is a trifle more in keeping with my position than that miniature people-processor you have out there...”
“Dr. Charles C. Coopersmith, V.C. MD, C.C.C., V.C., as advertised,” Pugh announced modestly. He had deigned to accept a brandy from Harold, who was pouring with a look of profound admiration creasing his battered face. Pugh sipped and put aside his glass, bringing forth a bit of paper. “Here is a sketch I made. Dr. Coopersmith had his office, according to the old records in the hospital library, on the ground floor, obviously, since one could scarcely bury treasure by digging through an upper story. Today that area is just outside of a new building being used as a powerhouse. You will note the small x I have placed on the sketch, indicating a spot exactly three yards north and four yards east of the indicated corner of the building. It is here you must dig. It should give little trouble; the area is unpaved.”
Clarence took the paper and studied it. “Grafton Way? Where’s that? How do we get there?”
“I shall take my friends in my more commodious vehicle and you can follow with Harold in your car. I shall deliver you. When you find the treasure it may be too large for the trunk of your car, in which case we can relieve you of some of the weight.”
“Oh, yeah? We’ll manage,” Clarence said and suddenly thought of something else, as he studied the sketch. “Hey! This x shows a spot outside of the building!”
“I said it was outside,” Pugh said patiently. “One would scarcely expect the inside of a powerhouse to be unpaved.”
“Yeah, but how are we going to dig outside of a building, in the open, without a lot of questions being asked? I figured in a powerhouse, with nobody around, or even just one guy Harold could handle, there’d be no problem. But outside—?”
“Worry not,” Pugh assured him with a wave of one manicured hand. “Should anyone ask you any questions, merely state that you are from the Gas Board, or the Electricity Board, if you prefer.”
“But-at night?”
“People in major cities would be highly suspicious if you dug at any other time,” Pugh said positively. Clarence, thinking about it, knew he was right. Pugh glanced at his watch. “We’d best be going.”
“Right,” Clarence said. He took another look at the sketch, admiring its detail. The entire affair was quite exciting to him; with the sketch in his hand it seemed to move from the dreamlike fantasy he had felt while the parchment was being deciphered, to the hard reality of the possibility of hard cash. Twenty million bucks! He shook his head and then thought of something. “Me and Harold,” he announced. “We’ll do the hard work, the digging. The old men are too old, and you — you don’t have the proper clothes for the job.”
“True,” Sir Percival said, admitting the undeniable fact. “We shall, instead, stand by and cheer on your efforts. Pretend you are Eton and Harold is Harrow. Make a sporting event out of it, so to speak. Possibly even lay a bob or two on who strikes oil — or gold — first—”
“You don’t have to do that,” Clarence said hastily. “No sense in bringing a crowd to watch us. While we’re digging, you go to a pub and enjoy yourself.”
“You’re sure our huzzas would not stimulate you in your efforts?”