Hunt for the Lost Treasure

Chapter 20 — Leaving the Ferryman Wanting

The woman stared casually at the new arrivals, bourbon in hand as she gently rocked in the stormy weather. Purdue winced visibly at the sight of her, an evil-looking woman with features close to that of a troll. He estimated her age at approximately seventy years, but her body was deceiving. Like a wasp, her waist exhibited none of the weight gain associated with age in most women and her hands looked like marble, they seemed like the hands of a pianist in how they moved around her glass.

“Wonderful night, is it not, Mr. Purdue?” she croaked in a surprisingly smooth voice over words laden with Austrian flavor. “I must say, I favor the wet weather of your country and the calamity of the clouds! Such ferocious gales.” Her deep set eyes fell hard on his and she smirked, “Like the sublime howling of demons.”

“Does that make you homesick, Madam?” Purdue sneered.

“Watch your mouth!” Beck clobbered the white haired prize he’d dragged to his mistress like a cat with a vermin kill. Purdue fell to his knees, trying not to give them the pleasure of crying out. Instead he groaned and laughed it off, looking more displeased with the mud his knees were buried in, as the downpour wet his clothing and hair.

“Mother, I beg your pardon, but I am in a hurry. If we could conclude our business?” Beck suggested respectfully. “The Ferryman needs to be paid for bringing the cursed soul across the black river,” he winked at Purdue, who was still trying to shake off the bludgeoning he’d just taken from the handle of Beck's flashlight.

“Are you?” she asked sternly. “Are you in a hurry? For what, Mr. Beck? What is your haste?”

“I just have other business to attend to,” he shrugged.

She scoffed and looked the other way dismissively, lifting her glass to drink. “You will stay for dinner, Mr. Beck. I will not allow my hospitality to be abused by flippant callers. Now, bring Mr. Purdue inside before he catches his death… too… early.”

Her voice was decisive. Purdue could feel the cold hand of death brushing over his cheek. Something about Mother was deadly serious, the type of person who did not need to make idle threats in the face of her absolute execution of will. Apart from her foul features, Purdue found her worthy of the subordination she provoked in those who worked for her. As Beck lifted him to his feet in the slippery murk and grass, Mother finished her drink and gave her lanterns one more glance of admiration before she stood up.

Again Purdue played witness to her oddly placed regality as she towered higher than he’d expected. Mother possessed a young woman's slender figure, the product of refusing most meals throughout her life. Her gait was as graceful as her tranquilly wicked demeanor as she strolled along the stretch of the banister to the wide door. “Come inside. We will have dinner and Joseph will pay you after,” she looked at Beck. “Just so you don't take your money and abandon all my hard work on your plate.”

She looked at Purdue and addressed him as if they were chatting at a cocktail party, “I do all my own cooking. Contrary to what people think of my obvious eating disorder, I spend my happiest hours in my kitchen.”

Purdue nodded politely past his scathing headache and burning wrists. Beck shoved him ahead into the lobby and closed the front door. “When will Herr Karsten join us, Mother?”

“I am here, Beck,” a familiar voice answered the investigator from another room. “I canceled my engagements for this special occasion.”

On their way to the drawing room to see Karsten, Purdue noticed the walls from the foyer to the interior of the hallway decked out with paintings of old heroes and gods. As he was maneuvered forward by Beck, he beheld the oils on canvas portraying the feats and features of historical figures like the Roman Emperor Caligula, Gaius Julius Caesar, Alexander the Great, Napoleon Bonaparte, Tsar Ivan the Terrible and, as expected of a collector of such idols, Hitler in full dress uniform.

But Purdue did not have to see these paintings to know what manner of people he was dealing with. Past the framed black and white images of the Gestapo and the SS High Commission, Purdue's tall body was urged. Along with news clippings ornately framed around the photographs of Stalin and von Bismarck he perceived the red, white, and black motif of a folded cloth he knew to be the infamous Swastika flag.

Upon golden goblets lined on the sideboard at the end of the wide corridor he saw the carved insignias of various Nazi societies — the Thule, the Vril, the Black Sun, and several smaller associations within the High Command he only just recognized. The latter were not familiar to Purdue's experience and he intended to keep it that way. Certainly the more well known ones were bad enough to have to deal with.

The plump, well-dressed Karsten was crouching at the fireplace, stoking the fire. His brandy was on the side table and next to it, a dessert plate no larger than a saucer with a half eaten Apfelstrüdel, a likely candidate for the development of Karsten's belt region. Purdue was ushered into the cozy drawing room to join Karsten for what came to be an awkward inspection ritual. Fortunately, Purdue was not the subject of tedious groping or stripped for examination, as would not be above these people, but still he felt violated being stared at from head to toe for approval.

“Good. Good work, Beck. We will not insult Mother with business now,” Karsten said. “First, we eat. After that we will take care of the payments and Purdue's fate.”

'My fate?’ If I were you, old boy, I would put the eating off a lot more than the business, Purdue jousted with Karsten inside his mind, if only to distract himself from the disturbing reference to his 'fate.’ Maybe it was Purdue's lack of money or resources that rendered him helpless, but he felt that having Nina Gould and Sam Cleave with him would have lifted his spirits considerably. Even the thought of his most trusted allies gave Purdue reason not to accept the hand he was being currently dealt.

Mother stood silently in the corner, watching with another glass of bourbon in her hand, waiting for Karsten to approve his order. Purdue could not help but find her body impossible to fathom. Tall and slender, she looked like a perfect example of early 20th century screen goddesses, bar of course, her face, which was the only indication of her age and some unfortunate genetics. Her long white dress fell to the floor in immaculate form over the symmetry of her shape. Her troll-like eyes pierced his when he looked higher than her neck.

“What is the matter, Mr. Purdue?” she asked confidently.

“A lot is the matter, actually, but I fear that holds very little currency at this meeting,” Purdue replied smoothly. Beck leered at him, withholding the urge to slap him in the presence of his employer and the grand matriarch of the Black Sun. It was not his place anymore, since he had transferred Purdue to Karsten's charge. Mother's face remained unchanged at Purdue's response. She simply did not care enough to bat an eye.

“Right, when Mother is ready, we can have dinner. I believe Mr. Beck has more on his plate for tonight and he would like to conclude business,” Karsten declared politely, very impressed with his prize.

“Very well,” Mother replied, sounding bored beyond words with Karsten's tedious ritual. “Joseph, you can take Mr. Purdue to the oubliette while Mr. Beck and I will dish up the dinner. We will wait for you before we eat.”

“Of course, Mother,” Joseph Karsten agreed respectfully. “Come, Purdue.”

Confused, Purdue frowned at the developments, but he was too unsure to just ask. This Karsten character was quite different from his previous captor, and not someone to play with. There was something about him that kept Purdue wary of confronting him in any form. Karsten came across as an old world military man, which was probably why he shared Mother's penchant for military commanders, terrible leaders, and tyrants of nations.

Down a short kite-winder staircase made of old oak Karsten led Purdue, with only one single light fixture above their heads to light the way. A myriad of thoughts went through Purdue's head, among others the repetition of references to his fast approaching death being the most prominent along with Beck's constant subliminal suggestion as to a bribe. In any event, a deal was out of the question with the man leading him down into the floor level now. A peculiar fear crept into Purdue's psyche, a distant acquaintance of his heart, but one not often engaged. It was a fear of death, a growing terror that was beginning to seem all too real to the flamboyant billionaire since he had stepped into the out of place place.

“You know,” Karsten finally broke the silence, “there are a great many things the French are lacking as a nation, I find, but one thing that I do admire about some of their historical monarchs and generals is their exquisite aptitude for cruelty.”

It was not the sort of conversational piece Purdue would have hoped for, but true to his charm he was polite and ever so witty about things that frightened him. “Let me guess, you are fondly referring to their women? Or is it their abhorrence for obesity?”

As they came to the end of the stairwell where the solitary light could not reach, Purdue perceived a dark spot on the floor.

“I shall answer your question,” Karsten chuckled cruelly. Before Purdue could adjust his sight to accommodate the pitch dark he felt a violent push from behind that flung him hard into the floor. At first he thought that the impact would leave him stained by whatever darkened the floor, but only when his long legs folded into the dark spot did he realize that it was a hole.

Purdue fell blindly into the confined tubular entrance to the oubliette. The floor came sooner than he thought and shattered his left tibia on impact. Purdue screamed in the darkness, not even aware yet that the angle of his fall had narrowly prevented him from being impaled on an iron spike. It was one of five, positioned like the spots on a die, cemented into the floor under the confined neck of the trap.

“Oh dear, that does sound painful,” Karsten cackled from above, unseen from where Purdue was writhing on the floor. “What a pity that we have had to treat a former Renatus like this, but then again, you and your friend Sam Cleave did almost wipe out the entire elite membership of the Black Sun a few years ago in Poveglia, so I suppose we are allowed a margin for revenge.”

With that short introduction the trap door slammed and left the stunned Purdue alone in the pitch dark with his leg on fire, unable to move. He soon noticed that the oubliette sported small peepholes through which he could clearly hear the conversation in the dining room of the house. Famished, Purdue could not determine which punishment was worse — to have his lower leg snapped in two and shoved into the flesh or to smell the delectable odor of cooked food enjoyed by his detractors while his stomach was aching for nourishment. They did not even leave him any water to sustain him.

Still in shock from his injuries, Purdue was forced to listen to the others enjoy a delicious banquet while the stormy night continued outside their secure shelter of hedonistic glee. The conversation left him no clues or explanation, identification or cause. All they talked about was the next Puccini opera at the Festival Theatre and which of the mezzo-soprano's would be featured in London the following month.

Out of the blue Jonathan Beck started choking. Instead of the expected panic ensuing to assist him, the usual stampede for water or a first aid maneuver, Purdue heard only the sound of cutlery on porcelain as Mother and Karsten continued eating.

“My God, he is going to die if they don't help him,” Purdue whispered to himself as Beck began to convulse.

“Mother, I must compliment you on the splendid main course, especially,” Karsten flattered with a groveling smile on his fat face.

“Oh, do you like it? It has always been a personal favorite of mine, but Herr Beck is being treated to my Duck and Spaetzle Dumpling a la Zyklon B, the lucky devil,” she replied coolly and took a sip of her bourbon. “Although the name does not state the main ingredient — cyanide.”

“Ah,” Karsten answered with an interested nod to the tune of their third guest's profuse vomiting as he succumbed to a vicious seizure. Beck groped his chest in the agony of cardiac arrest that eventually blessed him with death on the dusty carpet on the floor of the house that stood out of place in the middle of Scotland.

“Second helping?” Mother asked.

“Bitte,” Karsten smiled and held out his plate.

Purdue passed out.