“A point well taken. The professor has already considered this possibility and wished you to reach it at your own opportunity.”
“So the evidence Professor Fell is looking for may be some signal or message exchanged between the two, if indeed there are two?”
“That may be so.”
Matthew placed the pouch of gold coins upon the writing desk. He was loathe to turn his back upon Sirki, even though he trusted that today he might keep his head. Through the louvered doors that led to the balcony he could hear the shrill cries of gulls and the hammerbeat of the waves below the castle’s cliff. It was going to be a warm day, a world away from New York. He devoutly wished he were walking on snowclad streets, his hand in Berry’s to guide her away from trouble.
“Professor Fell,” Matthew said after some consideration, “puts me in the position of being a traitor myself. A traitor to my country,” he said, with a quick glance at the giant. “As I understand this, the professor is selling weaponry to England’s enemies, with the expectation that England will also have to buy the devices to keep their armories current. The so-called traitor…or traitors, perhaps…are actually working, whether they intend to or not, for the good of England. Therefore to expose them, I also become a traitor to my country. Is that not so?” Now Matthew directed a cold stare at Sirki, awaiting a response.
Sirki didn’t answer for a time. Then he said, with a shrug of his shoulders, “Money is money. Sometimes it buys patriots, and sometimes it buys traitors. Do not mislead yourself, Matthew. Both breeds of men walk the halls of Parliament. They sit in luxury and sip their wine while underneath their English wigs the worms of greed eat into their brains. But let us not use the word greed. Let us say…opportunity. That is the grease of all the great wheels that turn this world, Matthew. And I shall tell you that here you face the greatest opportunity of your life, if you take it with both hands.”
“My hands should not be so covered with English blood,” Matthew countered.
“But someone’s hands shall be,” said Sirki, in his silky way. “The professor is offering you many…incentives, I understand. He also wishes to see how you react under pressure.”
“I float,” Matthew said.
“He hopes that is so. He wishes you to float to a good conclusion here. One that benefits himself and yourself. You have no idea what he can do for you, if he perceives you are worthy.”
“Worthy to him, and unworthy to myself?”
Sirki smiled thinly, and almost sadly. “Oh, Matthew. What you don’t know of this world might fill the professor’s library ten times over.”
“Does he write all the books himself? And sign his name as ‘God’?”
Sirki for a time stared at the chessboard floor without speaking. When his voice came, it was no longer silky but edged with sawteeth like his blade. “Shall I tell the professor you are accepting or rejecting the problem to be solved?”
Now came time for Matthew’s move. He saw no way to get his knight to safety; it was going to be a hard sacrifice, but one that might yet win the game for him if he had further stomach for the playing.
“Accepting,” Matthew said.
“Very good. He will be pleased to know.” Sirki put his hand on the door’s knob, engulfing it with his grip. Matthew thought the giant could pull the door from its hinges with that one hand, if he pleased. Sirki opened the door, however, with a gentle touch. “I trust you will enjoy this day to its fullest,” he said.
The meaning of that was get to work, Matthew thought.
“Speaking of the professor’s library,” Sirki said, pausing on the threshold. “It’s on the third floor. You might be interested in visiting it, since it holds volumes you might find intriguing, and especially since I saw Edgar Smythe going up the stairs.”
“Your direction is appreciated,” said Matthew.
Sirki closed the door, and their discussion for the moment was finished.
Matthew reasoned that there was no time to lose. He had no idea how he was going to approach Edgar Smythe, the scowling weapons expert, but he decided to let that take care of itself. He left his room, locked the door, went to the main staircase and climbed it to the upper floor.
A pair of polished doors made from pale oakwood opened onto a room that nearly made Matthew’s knees buckle. It was filled with shelves of books almost from the smoothly-planked floor to the vaulted ceiling. Above his head, as per the banquet room, were painted clouds and watchful cherubs. The smell of the room was, to Matthew, the delicious and fragrantly yeasty aroma of volumes of ideas, considerations and commentary. There would be enough in here to keep his candle lit for years. He actually felt his heartbeat quickening, in the presence of so much treasure. Three hundred pounds be damned; this abundance of knowledge was the gold he truly sought. He saw across the room louvered doors that must lead to a balcony, and on either side of the doors heavy wine-red drapes with yellow tie cords were drawn across windows overlooking the sea. The library held several black leather chairs and a sofa, a table bearing bottles of what appeared to be wine and spirits for the further delight of the bibliophile, and an expansive white writing desk with a green blotter. Sitting at the desk, evidently copying something down from a slim volume onto yellow parchment with a quill pen, was Edgar Smythe, his gray-bearded and heavily-lined face absorbed in his task. He was once more wearing his ebony-black suit and white shirt—perhaps he owned a half-dozen of the exact same suit, Matthew mused—and between Smythe’s teeth was a clay pipe that showed a thin curl of smoke the color of the sea’s waves at first light.
Matthew approached the man, stopped and cleared his throat. Smythe kept right on copying something from tome to parchment. From time to time the quill went into an ink bottle, and then returned to its industrious work.
“Are you wanting something, Mr. Spade?” Smythe asked suddenly around his pipe, without interruption of his labor. The voice was as harsh as yesterday’s murder.
“Not particularly.” Matthew stepped nearer. “I wanted to have a look at the library.”
“Look all you please,” Smythe instructed. Whatever he was copying, there was no attempt to hide the effort. “But…refrain from peering over my shoulder, would you?”
“Certainly, sir.” Having said this, however, Matthew made no move to back away. “I was wondering, though, about something I hoped you might help me with.”
“I can’t help you with anything.”
“That might not be exactly true.” Matthew took one more step closer, which put him nearly at Smythe’s elbow. In for a penny, in for a pound, Matthew thought. He said, “I was hoping you might explain to me about the Cymbeline.”
The quill ceased its scratching. Matthew noted that the parchment was almost full of small but neat lines of writing, and that there were several other blank pages ready for use in the same way. Smythe’s face turned and the somber gray eyes fixed on Matthew with some force. “Pardon me?”
“Cymbeline,” Matthew repeated. “I’d like to hear about it.”
Smythe sat stock-still for what seemed a full minute. Presently he slid his quill onto its rest and removed the pipe from its clenched-teeth grip. “Cymbeline,” he said quietly, “is a play.” He held up the volume, and stamped there upon its dark brown binding were the gold letters The Tragedie Of Cymbeline, Five Acts By William Shakespeare. “Shall I read you a scrap of what I’ve written here?” He went on without waiting. “Fear no more the heat o’ the sun, Nor the furious winter rages; Thou thy worldly task has done, Home art gone and ta’en thy wages; Golden lads and girls all must, as chimney-sweepers, come to dust.” Smythe looked up from his parchment. “Would you care for more?”