“It’d be nice if I could read it first.”
“It says you relinquish any claim to evidence you gave the Asbury Park police.”
“The double eagle,” the taller agent said.
Now Balenger understood. He disliked them even more.
“The Gold Reserve Act of 1933 makes it illegal to use gold coins as currency,” the heavier agent said. “It does permit citizens to own them as collectibles. But you can’t own something if you stole it.”
“I didn’t steal it.” Balenger felt heat rise to his face. “The original owner died in 1939. The coins were hidden in the Paragon Hotel. For all these years, nobody owned that coin until I put it in my pocket.”
“The only coin that survived the fire. Did you take a close look?”
Balenger worked to steady his voice. “I was a little preoccupied, trying to stay alive.”
“It’s dated 1933. Before the government made it illegal to use gold as currency, the mint manufactured the double eagles for that year. All the coins needed to be destroyed.” The taller agent paused. “But some were stolen.”
“Including the one you put in your pocket,” the other agent said. “Which means it’s the property of the U.S. government. They’re so rare, the last time we got our hands on one, it was auctioned at Sotheby’s.”
The first agent added, “For almost eight million dollars.”
The number had so much weight that Balenger didn’t trust himself to speak.
“Because of legal technicalities, we gave the person we got it from a portion of the money,” the agent continued. “We’re prepared to offer you a similar deal. We’ll call it a finder’s fee. Something generous enough to get a lot of publicity and encourage collectors to surrender similar illegally acquired coins, no questions asked.”
Balenger tried to sound casual. “What kind of fee are we talking about?”
“Assuming this coin sells for as much as the previous one? You’ll keep two million dollars.”
Balenger needed to remind himself to breathe.
6
A glorious Saturday in May. Sweating after a long jog around Prospect Park, Balenger and Amanda unlocked the brownstone’s front door and sorted through the mail the postman had shoved through the slot.
“Anything interesting?” Amanda asked as they climbed the stairs.
“More financial advisors eager to tell me what to do with the money we got from the coin. Pleas from more charities. Bills.”
“At least, we can pay them now.”
“Weird,” Balenger said.
“What’s wrong?”
“Take a look.”
Outside their apartment, Balenger handed her an envelope. Its old, brittle feel made Amanda frown. She raised it to her nostrils. “Smells musty.”
“It ought to. Check the stamp.”
“Two cents? That’s impossible.”
“Now look at the postmark.”
It was faded with age but readable.
“December thirty first?”
“Keep reading.”
“Eighteen ninety-nine? What the…” Amanda shook her head. “Is this a joke?”
“Maybe an advertising gimmick,” Balenger said.
After they entered the apartment, Amanda tore open the envelope and removed a sheet of paper. “Feels as brittle as the envelope. Smells as musty.”
The message was handwritten in thick strokes. Like the postmark, the ink was faded with age.
Mr. Frank Balenger
Dear Sir,
Forgive the intrusion. Knowing your fascination with the past, I took the liberty of using an old postmark to attract your attention. I invite you and Ms. Evert to join me and a group of guests on the first Saturday of June at one p.m. at the Manhattan History Club (address below). After refreshments, I shall deliver a lecture about messages to the future that we open in the present to understand the past. I refer, of course, to those fascinating future-past artifacts known as time capsules.
Yours,
Adrian Murdock
“Time capsules?” Amanda looked bewildered. “What on earth?”
“The first Saturday of June?” Balenger leaned into the kitchen and glanced at a calendar. “That’s next weekend. The Manhattan History Club?”
“You’re right. It’s got to be an advertising gimmick.” Amanda examined the paper. “Sure seems old. It ought to, considering it comes from a history club. They’re probably looking for new members. But how did they get our names and address?”
“Last fall, when everything happened, the newspapers indicated you live in Park Slope,” Balenger said.
“The club waited an awfully long time to get in touch with us.”
Balenger thought about it. “When the coin was auctioned last month, there was more publicity. The media dredged up what happened at the Paragon Hotel. They mentioned my fascination with history. Maybe this guy thinks he can persuade me to give his club a donation.”
“Sure. Just like those financial advisors eager to get commissions from you,” Amanda decided.
“Time capsules.” Balenger’s tone was wistful.
“You sound like you’re actually tempted to go.”
“When I was a kid…” He paused, transported by the memory. “My father taught high-school history in Buffalo. His school was tearing down an old classroom building to make space for a new one. There was a rumor about a time capsule — that a graduating class from years earlier put one in the foundation when the building was new. After the demolition workers went home each day, a couple of kids and I used to search for the capsule in the wreckage. Of course, we had no idea what something like that would look like. It took me a week, but by God, I finally spotted a big stone block in an excavated corner of the building. The block had a plaque that said CLASS OF 1942. ALWAYS TO BE REMEMBERED. AT THE THRESHOLD OF OUR FUTURE. What happened was, over the years, grime covered the plaque. Shrubs grew in front of it. People forgot.”
Amanda gestured for him to continue.
“Anyway, the block had a hole in it,” Balenger explained. “I saw a metal box inside. When I ran home and told my father, at first he got angry that I was playing in a demolition area and could have gotten hurt. But when he learned what I’d found, he made me take him there. The next morning, he asked the workers to pry open the block. ”For God’s sake, don’t damage what’s inside,“ I remember him saying. The workers were as fascinated as we were. In fact, a lot of teachers and students heard what was happening and came over, too. A worker used a crowbar and finally pulled out a metal box about the size of a big phone book. It was rusted shut. The students urged the worker to break it open, but my father said we should make a ceremony of it and have a fundraiser. People could buy tickets to watch the time capsule get opened. The money would pay for library books. ”Great idea,“ everybody said. So the principal called the newspaper and the radio and TV stations to publicize the event, and the grand opening was scheduled for a Sunday afternoon in the school auditorium. TV cameras were there. A thousand people paid a dollar apiece to watch.”
“What was in it?” Amanda asked.
“Nobody ever found out.”
“What?” Amanda looked surprised.
“The principal had the time capsule locked in a cabinet in his office. The night before the grand opening, someone broke into the office, pried open the cabinet, and stole the box. You can imagine how disappointed everybody was. I always wondered what those students from 1942 thought was important enough for the future to see.”
7
The building was one block south of Gramercy Park, on East 19th Street, in the area’s historic preservation district. Saturday traffic was quiet. An overcast sky made the air cool enough for light jackets. Balenger and Amanda stood outside the brick row house and studied a weathered brass plaque that read 1854. Above the entrance, another plaque read MANHATTAN HISTORY CLUB.