The Medusa Stone

Chapter 7

Dave Purdue rushed to the British Museum after his jet touched down in a private Docklands airfield he owned. Early in the dark hours of the morning, while he was working on a prototype geo-explorer device, he got a frantic phone call from an unknown number. Professor Helen Barry was calling from her assistant’s cell phone to notify him of the catastrophe that took place during the evening. Purdue had switched on his television in the kitchen and found full coverage of the London earthquake on just about every channel.

Being one of the main benefactors of the prestigious museum, he was naturally very concerned about the scale of damage incurred during the natural disaster. As a shareholder, he had to see the condition of the place himself to ascertain the extent of the devastation suffered so that he could proceed with the facilitation of repairs, renovations, and insurance claims. From the airstrip, he summoned a driver from one of the shuttle services in London he owned.

First, Purdue joined the assessors and other shareholders of the British Museum to survey the damage and determine the costs involved. Most of the shattered pottery had to be written off, which was a substantial loss. Helen Barry was home to recuperate from the minor cuts and bruises caused by the ordeal, but she had informed Purdue of the grisly and bizarre discovery Gail had made in the aftermath of the disaster. Gail and Helen had draped a tarp over the broken sculpture that was named ‘Son of Zyklon-B’ so that Purdue would know which artifact to investigate when he arrived.

“Good afternoon, may I speak to Donovan Graham, please,” Purdue said on his phone as his colleagues rummaged through the debris. He moved away a distance so that the contractors, sponsors, and assessors would not be within earshot of his conversation.

Donovan Graham was an anthropologist based in Dundee, who had advised Purdue on numerous occasions before on some smaller excursions the billionaire had completed in Scotland and Scandinavia. In short, Don was the type of academic who would venture across the lines of propriety and law to pursue the truth, the fascinating and the unorthodox. He was the man who first introduced Purdue to Russian guide Alexandr Arichenkov on the Wolfenstein expedition a few years ago.

“Hello, Don. I believe you are in England at the moment,” Purdue said. “How soon can you meet me at the British Museum?”

“You do know there was an earthquake in London last night, right?” Don replied from the other side of the line.

“I do. That is precisely why I need your help. Just for a day or two, tops,” Purdue coaxed.

“Dave, I am in the middle of a book signing tour, and I have obligations to my publishers, you know. I can meet you in a few weeks. That is the best I can do,” Don explained. “So, give me a call by the 25th and we can work something out.”

Purdue did not even flinch at the excuses his old friend spat out.

“I have reason to believe we have found a statue with marble exterior that turns out to be a human who has been turned into stone.”

That was all Purdue had to say.

“Give me an hour,” Don replied instantly.

“I’ll wait for you at Shanghai Six Pub & Grill in Store Street. Apparently it is still standing,” Purdue smirked.

“Done.”

Professor Barry had contacted Dr. Heidmann, but he was already on his way to the museum, having felt the tremors the night before and subsequently seeing the footage on TV. He had always been on the more shaky side of anxious, but today he was positively hysterical. Beads of sweat rolled down his forehead as he travelled to the museum in the back of a taxi. He looked around at all the devastation as the car crept along through road blocks and four-way stops where the traffic lights were out.

EMT’s and police officers had their hands full with injured citizens and assisting rescue workers in locating people who had gone missing during the quake. Dr. Heidmann could not shake the foreboding feeling that rode him like a whiskey-induced nightmare and he could not get to the museum fast enough.

‘I have to get there before they find the statue,’ he thought nervously. ‘Good God, if the museum people only know what is on display there, they’d have me locked up before I can get the money.’

Prof. Barry did not share the horrid information with him, assuming that he knew already. But she thought it best to keep the revelation secret just in case Dr. Heidmann did not know about it. In turn, Heidmann assumed that nobody knew about the true nature of his art works. In her call, Helen Barry did not disclose any problems apart from the fact that the Greek Art artifacts may have been damaged.

The disturbing sight that met him when the taxi crossed the last intersection to the museum shocked him to the core. James Heidmann’s stomach churned at the thought of what awaited him inside the display room. He wiped his moist hands on his coat in the backseat of the taxi as it came to a halt.

He exited the vehicle, eager to get to the hall where his art was being exhibited to make sure nothing happened that would betray his secret.

“Thank you,” Heidmann told the cabbie before he started traversing the ocean of rubble strewn all over the front façade of the grand building. He looked around discreetly to make sure that nobody followed him, flashing his lanyard to the security people to gain access to the museum. Above them the relatively clear sky was polluted with black tufts of smoke in places where the disaster caused explosions and fuel lines were ruptured, catching fire. It dampened the already slight sunlight, giving London a distinct apocalyptic atmosphere.

As Dr. Heidmann entered the dark hallways of the British Museum, a tall figure moved to his right. It was Dave Purdue, a man Heidmann could not pretend not to know among all the people laboring to sort out the mess and record the damage.

“Dr. Heidmann!” the suave billionaire smiled amicably as he approached.

“Good day, Mr. Purdue,” Heidmann replied in his friendliest tone. “My God, can you believe this?”

“I know, right?” Purdue answered as he shook the man’s hand, surveying their surroundings with a shrug. “It is astonishing that something so magnificent could be reduced to such a mess so quickly, but I am sure we will be able to salvage the majority of the relics. As for the building,” he sighed contentedly, “the damage is minimal by our standards, thank God.”

“That is a relief,” Heidmann conceded.

“I suppose you were on your way to your exhibit?” Purdue asked. Dr. Heidmann nodded. “Oh good! I was on my way there now to make sure nothing was too badly wrecked there. After all, we all have a share in the welfare of this display and it is one of the most successful in recent years,” Purdue reported as he proceeded along the wide hallway with the doctor. “Gathered the board of shareholders some good financial incentives as well.”

“I’m sure,” Heidmann agreed, secretly dreading what he would find in the chamber after such a powerful ground shock under the foundations of the extensive structure the museum comprised of. “I also stand to lose just about everything if my statues are destroyed,” he lamented with a clear tinge of worry in his voice. “Jesus, if they are destroyed…” he sighed, “…they are everything I have, you know?”

“I understand,” Purdue replied sympathetically, but in truth, he had no idea what it was like to risk losing everything he owned. It was not a case of affluent arrogance. Purdue had simply never lacked anything, neither had he ever experienced the uncertainty of losing the one thing that was pivotal to his survival, to have no means of acquiring what he needed. What he did possess, on top of all his wealth, was an affinity for the plight of others, to make others feel at ease with his pleasant personality.

The two men entered the chamber, where most of the electricity had been restored. On Soula Fidikos’ side of the exhibition, very few items had been broken, if any. However, the shelves that supported her inscribed plaques had collapsed and let the artifacts in disarray on the floor. Purdue, hands in pockets, leaned over the tarp Helen had told him about, knowing what was underneath, but waiting to see Dr. Heidmann’s reaction. From the man’s reaction, he would be able to construe if he knew or not, and how to handle the matter from there.

On the pedestal next to the fallen piece, the two disinclined figures that were married physically by force of the artist, still stood locked in their permanent restraint. Purdue could not help but wonder what they hid on their part and found himself hatching a plan to get to them as soon as the proverbial dust had settled.

Reluctantly, the academic doctor lifted the tarp, glancing back quickly to see if Purdue was watching. He was met by Purdue’s comfortable stance, arms folded and waiting, flashing him an encouraging smile. Forcing a smile at the billionaire, Heidmann knew he had to pull the covering back sooner or later and any hesitation would seem suspicious.

‘Please God, don’t let it be broken!’ his frantic mind screamed as his hand pulled back the tarp. But his fears crept over his darkening demeanor as gradually the grisly evidence peeked from under the edge of the tarp. Dr. Heidmann held his breath as his heart sank at the vision of petrified organs spilling from the thin chipped exterior of the perfectly sculpted body. He waited for Purdue’s shocked response, but nothing came. Heidmann was unsure if the silence was fraught with alarm or impending arrest.

Gathering his courage, he just turned to look at Purdue’s looming frame. Hovering over him and his revelation, Purdue sighed. He cleared his throat calmly, even though at first sight he had to admit that he found the scene quite disturbing. Seeing the atrocious fate of the stone man without warning from Helen would have been, Purdue imagined, downright traumatizing.

‘Thank God Helen gave me a heads-up or I may well have collapsed at seeing this,’ Purdue thought to himself as he leered down on Dr. Heidmann’s trembling mouth and perspiring forehead.

“Mr. Purdue?” was all Heidmann could utter. It was a summoning to an opinion which he hoped would masquerade as unwitting astonishment. But he did not receive the reaction he aimed for.

Instead, the billionaire simply replied, “Yes, Dr. Heidmann?”

Dr. Heidmann’s breath raced. A million possibilities ran through his mind. Should he kill Purdue, the only witness to his secret? Should he play dumb? Should he claim ignorance or just confess? He stood up and tried to compose himself while having no idea what to do because Dave Purdue's strangely serene response rattled him.

“Dr. Heidmann,” Purdue spoke finally. “Shall we have a few drinks, old boy?”

Heidmann’s knees buckled in relief and doubt at Purdue’s request. But above all he had to admit that whatever the nonchalant Purdue was up to — at least he was not calling for Heidmann’s arrest, and that was worth any risk a few drinks could hold.