“Positive. You go get yourself a beer.”
“If you insist,” Pugh said graciously, “but while we are gone, our thoughts shall ever be with you. Dig, we shall be saying silently, wherever we are; dig and may you enjoy your toil.”
“’Good friend, for Jesu’s sake forbear,’” Simpson quoted, “’to dig the dust enclosed here.’ Shakespeare’s epitaph,” he explained, rather pleased with himself, and then seemed to realize what he had said. “Well, I don’t really mean you should forbear, of course,” he added hastily. “Shakespeare isn’t buried anywhere near the University Hospital.”
“’Dig till you gently perspire,’” Briggs donated. “That’s Kipling.” Kipling had always been more Briggs’s cup of tea than Shakespeare. “Only dig!”
“’Dig we must,’” Harold suddenly said. He had been silent most of the day and the strain was telling. “That’s Con Ed in New York,” he added proudly.
“Yes,” Pugh said, before Carruthers might be tempted to contribute. He glanced at his watch. “But however you do it, you’d best get on with it, or you’ll still be digging after dawn in daylight, and that would, indeed, appear conspicuous.”
“Right!” Clarence said, champing at the bit. “Hal, get that pick and shovel from the barn, and the lantern there, too. And then let’s go!” He picked up the scroll, rolled it into a tube and tucked it into his pocket, turning to Pugh. “You lead the way!”
“A pleasure,” Pugh said, and led the way.
They came down the Western Avenue Extension in tandem, looking somewhat as if Pugh’s limousine might be towing Clarence’s smaller car, came through Lisson Grove to the Marylebone Road, past Regents Park station into Gower Street. Pugh slowed down, turning once again into Grafton Way and drew to the curb. Behind him Clarence also came to a stop; a moment later he was out of the car and inspecting the area. He nodded and bent through the window of the limousine.
“That’s the powerhouse?”
“Exactly.”
“Good. I’ll take it from here,” Clarence said in a low voice. “And thanks. Now you four go off and get yourself a beer or two at some pub, and we’ll get together later. If we don’t see you here, we’ll see you back at the house.” He smiled. “Have a good time.”
“We shall do our best,” Pugh said bravely, and waved a hand. A moment later he had driven off.
Behind him Clarence suddenly frowned as he watched the tail lights of the limousine turn into Tottenham Court Road and disappear. He had expected far more opposition from Pugh, or at least from Carruthers — and definitely from the runt, Briggs — to his being left alone with Harold at the site of the treasure, and he had prepared many fine arguments to get them to leave. It was odd that they left so easily; suspicious, really. It was certain that under no circumstance would he have been talked out of standing right there and watching every move of the opposition had the shoe been on the other foot.
Then he smiled. Pugh, undoubtedly, was on his way back to the farmhouse at top speed, ready to tackle the safe while they worked at the treasure. Well, if that was the case, more power to him. True, there was fifty grand of Clarence’s money in that safe, along with forty each from Pugh and the old men, but that was a drop in the bucket compared to the treasure he was digging for. And if Pugh thought he, Clarence, was going to return to the farmhouse just for that measly sixty grand, if he found the treasure, then Sir Percival was dreaming.
And even if they didn’t find the treasure, Pugh still wouldn’t have that safe open before they got back; it was a lot tougher safe than maybe it appeared. And if he found that Pugh had been monkeying with the safe when he got back — if he found it necessary to go back — then Pugh and the old men were going to lose their share of the dough in the safe! But one thing was sure; Pugh couldn’t bust into the safe, so let them try until hell froze over, or the brandy and champagne ran out at the house, whichever came first.
With a grin he jerked his head at Harold and walked over to mark the spot to start their excavation.
Chapter 15
There was a time, in the memory of ancients, when a hospital worried more about the curing of patients and less about the physical conditions under which these cures were effected. One wonders how Florence Nightingale, going her nightly rounds, made do with a mere candle, rather than the multitudinous collection of rheostat-modulated, varying-wattage, multiple-voltage, floor, desk, wall, ceiling, or handheld lamps. One ponders her remarkable ability to dispense needed nostrums under conditions of sweltering heat, rather than find indispensable properly installed, direction-oriented, humidity-controlled, temperature-regulated air-conditioning units. One is dumbfounded by her ability to entertain a patient with a smile and a small squeeze of the hand, rather than requiring the presence of a battery of good-will ladies, a traveling library, AM-FM stereo radios, or one of those full-color, remote-controlled, gooseneck-mounted television receivers that make up in drugging the patient what the pharmacist has failed to provide.
Clarence Wellington Alexander, however, would have been the last to cavil at the modern improvements in hospital equipment; because of them, there also were required huge powerhouses, and it was within the protective shade of one that he and Harold now stood. The building was windowless, and of a size that would have given pause to the pyramid builders, forced the erectors of Machu Picchu to second thoughts, and even led the Easter Islanders to seriously consider miniatures. It loomed over the two men like the Great Wall of China, and gave them complete protection from the stares of possible passers-by. It was pleasant to think that London was still a city where one could peacefully excavate a treasure in the middle of the night without every householder in the neighborhood poking his nose in your business. New York, Clarence knew, would never meet these high standards.
He checked the sketch by the light of a street lamp, and then proceeded to march to the proper corner of the huge building. Here he took a deep breath and marched off the proper number of paces north and then the proper number east that the sketch called for, pleased that he was walking on grass, which should be simple to dig through. At the proper point he started to dig in his heel to mark the spot where Harold could begin to wield the pick and shovel, but to his surprise, at that particular point it seemed the grass had been replaced by a heavy steel plate of some sort. With a frown Clarence lit the lantern and stared down. Facing him in the ground was this steel plate, apparently firmly fixed and obviously marking something. He bent closer; written across its face was the word: danger.
Clarence’s frown deepened. In the light of the lantern he checked the sketch again, but there was no doubt he was at the correct spot, give or take a few inches. He looked at the steel plate again, noting small letters above and below the larger word danger. He got to his knees, holding the lantern at a favorable angle to read the message. It was all too clear. Above the danger it read: Do Not Excavate in This Area, while below it simply said: High Tension Electricals Below. As if to emphasize the importance of the warning, some electrician at some time had added in white paint the numbers, 50,000 volts.
Clarence knew exactly what fifty thousand volts could do to a person; he had seen too many James Cagney prison movies not to know. A horrible suspicion began to form in his brain. He came to his feet, brushing the knees of his trousers automatically, and then walked back to the car, turning the lantern off as he walked. Harold, puzzled by this inexplicable change in plans, followed along obediently, carrying the pick and shovel. At the car Clarence set down the lantern and turned to his large companion. His face was white, his eyes glazed. He seemed to speak with an effort.