“Me? You’re the one who found it. I was thinking of the piano bench. That’s where you keep music, isn’t it?”
Sam put his arm around Remi’s shoulders. “Sure it is,” he whispered, as Oliver and Chad searched for the clips to remove the front of the piano. The antique bench didn’t have storage for music, and he doubted his wife would’ve forgotten that fact from their visit that first night at Payton Manor.
“Here, now,” Albert said, marching over to the piano as Oliver and Chad removed the front cover. “What are you doing there?”
“Have a look, Uncle Albert,” Oliver said.
He peered in, saw something, harrumphed, shaking his head as he returned to the dining room to finish his lemon ice. “No wonder that thing never sounded right.”
They fished out a single leather satchel from the depths, and Oliver carried it to the table.
“Open it,” Trevor said, excited.
Oliver opened it. There were a handful of gold sovereigns shimmering in the lamplight—along with a much larger rectangular flat item wrapped in oilcloth.
Sam read the date on one of the sovereigns: 1905. “Talk about mint condition. Considering the price of gold, I’ll bet they’re worth close to three hundred times their face value.”
“Hardly the half million in gold still missing,” Oliver said.
Trevor moved in for a closer look. “Do we get to keep any of it?”
“Sorry, lad,” Oliver said. “Stolen. Which means it all goes back to the Crown.” He lifted a corner of the oilcloth, his brows going up. He looked at Remi. “What was it you were saying about British irony earlier in the evening?” He removed the cloth entirely, showing them stacks upon stacks of white one-hundred-pound notes from the Bank of England, as well as the engraving plates. “I daresay, this might be the King of Irony.”
“Why?” Trevor asked. “That’s the missing money, isn’t it? Half a million?”
“Worthless,” Oliver said, nodding at the stacks of money. “Since 1945.” He gave a deep sigh. “This might’ve all been avoided, had the journal specified the money stolen was banknotes instead of gold sovereigns.”
* * *
—
IT WAS LATE by the time Sam and Remi made it to bed.
Remi snuggled in close next to Sam. “Not quite the haul we thought.”
“Still, quite the find. Just thinking about what might’ve happened if those plates made it into Reggie Oren’s hands, had Isaac Bell not stopped him. Boggles the mind.”
“I’ll bet those stolen engraving plates are why they decided to hire someone with Isaac Bell’s expertise.” She scooted up onto her elbows and kissed him. “Job well done, Fargo.”
“I do have one question, Remi . . . How’d you figure out the money was hidden in the piano?”
“The piano was the only thing that Payton had helped Reggie move.”
“Brilliant and beautiful.”
87
A year after Sam and Remi returned to their home on the cliffs above the restless surf, they were enjoying a late breakfast when a semitruck and trailer pulled up and stopped in front of their driveway. A few minutes later, Selma and the driver came out on the balcony.
Selma did not look happy. “Mr. and Mrs. Fargo, this fellow claims he has a large shipment that is scheduled to be delivered to this address. I told him he was crazy, but he has a bill of lading with your name on it.”
Remi laughed and said, “Obviously, a mistake.”
Sam quickly interrupted, “Oh, I think I might have failed to mention . . .”
“Sam, you failed to mention what?”
“It’s your birthday present,” Sam said, with a big smile on his face.
Remi began to smell a rat. “You know very well my birthday is in April, not July.”
The driver shrugged and said, “Sorry, folks, I have no choice but to unload the shipment here.”
“Yes, let’s take a look at it,” said Remi. “I can’t wait to see what it is.”
The driver entered the trailer, banging and clanging around. He lowered a ramp and stepped out with a small electronic transmitter. A motor tautened the cable as the shipment began to move from the darkened interior of the trailer. When something big and red made its appearance, Remi broke into unrestrained laughter.
“It took a year to give it a first-rate restoration, but she’s a beauty,” Sam said.
Selma and Lazlo stood in awe, seeing the 1917 Ahrens-Fox fire engine gleaming under a bright sun. The front repair of the sterling valves and silver pump were touched up with chrome and nickel plating, creating a blinding reflection. The original red paint and beautiful gold-leafed decorations were buffed to a shiny patina.
Sam lightly rubbed his hand over a fender, as if it was a shrine. “They were able to save the ladders, hoses, and the wooden wheels. It’s still all original. Just think, one hundred years old,” said Sam, “and ready to put out a fire.”
“It looks like new,” said Remi, as she admired the golden trim. “I can’t believe it’s the same vehicle we crashed through those iron doors with. How did you get it looking so new?”
“I hired a company in London who are experts at restoring vehicles,” answered Sam. “I think you’ll agree, they did a flawless job.”
After writing a check to satisfy the truck driver, Sam and Lazlo disappeared and returned with a battery and a jerry jug of fuel. “Everyone ready!” Sam called out as he helped Remi and Selma on board. Even Zoltán jumped onto the floorboard, next to Remi.
“He’s not a Dalmatian, but he’ll have to do,” said Remi.
Then with Sam at the wheel, Lazlo ringing the bell, Remi leaning on the siren, and Zoltán howling, the Ahrens-Fox flew through the streets of La Jolla like a dragon from the past.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
Clive Cussler is the author of more than fifty books in five bestselling series, including Dirk Pitt®, NUMA® Files, Oregon® Files, Isaac Bell, and Sam and Remi Fargo. His life nearly parallels that of his hero Dirk Pitt. Whether searching for lost aircraft or leading expeditions to find famous shipwrecks, he and his NUMA crew of volunteers have discovered more than seventy-five lost ships of historic significance, including the long-lost Confederate submarine Hunley, which was raised in 2000 with much press publicity. Like Pitt, Cussler collects classic automobiles. His collection features more than eighty examples of custom coachwork. Cussler lives in Arizona.
Robin Burcell spent nearly three decades working in California law enforcement as a police officer, detective, hostage negotiator, and FBI-trained forensic artist. She is the author of eleven novels, most recently The Last Good Place. Burcell lives in Northern California.
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Clive Cussler, The Gray Ghost
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