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THE HOSPITAL DID AN admirable job of spiffing me up. They knocked me out, cleaned my wounds, and operated on my punctured lung, or "pneumothorax," so I could breathe almost normally again. In fact I felt pretty decent by the following day, even with a plastic tube sticking out of my chest. Of course, I was stiff and achy and still wrung out from playing hero, but I was definitely going to live.
My room was so white I wondered once or twice whether I had actually made it to heaven, but the chicken salad they served for lunch brought me down to earth fast. I had just finished forking it in, taking my time, when Calvique walked in.
He strolled around with his hands behind his back for a minute or two before speaking. Then he dragged a wooden chair across the floor–leaving black marks on the tile–spun it around backwards, and sat down.
"What happened?" he asked, his eyebrows flicking up once to indicate the right amount of friendly doubt.
"I fell down," I answered truthfully.
That would not do, which I knew, so I explained my little outing and how the cat had probably given me away. Then I told him about Bandy and how he or his thug must have waited for me on the wall around the corner from the tower landing.
He grilled me then, politely but thoroughly, and I sketched out my treasure-hunt theory and why I liked it. I also admitted I had no solid proof unless Robert's identification of the Englishman counted.
Calvique promised to do what he could for the boy, then informed me the chateau’s alarm went off the previous night while I was in the hospital. “We responded, but two men got away. There was no damage, and Henri is staying on in your absence."
I grunted and studied my fingernails.
Calvique stared at the tube into my lung. "You're a lucky man," he said, rising to leave.
"Oh, I don't know," I told him. "I might have stayed in England."
"You're lucky, all right," he said. "Wait until you see who's visiting you next."
He had no sooner stepped out when Samantha stepped in.
She wanted to come off as a wholesome young woman in a yellow cotton dress putting on a smile for the injured veteran, but the tube in my chest shocked her for real.
"Richard!" she gasped, as she lowered a large paper bag onto the only chair. "Are you all right? Pascaline said you were badly hurt, but I didn't believe her. You? The original tough guy? But she wasn't kidding..."
I wasn’t moved by her distress. "I guess jet-setters don't deal with blood and guts very often," I sniped.
Her face flamed. "No,” she returned, “Only Viet Nam veterans take it in their stride."
We both fell silent.
She said, "Sorry," first, so I picked up her hand and kissed it.
"Who are you?" I asked.
She yanked her hand away. Then the flash of anger died out, and she said, "I'm Samantha Carlisle."
"You know what I mean."
She looked at me hard then, as if she was deciding whether to lie.
"Oh, all right,” she admitted. “I'm Samantha Wrexham Carlisle, Hugh Marsford's granddaughter."
I sighed at the ceiling. "And what is Hugh Marsford's granddaughter doing here at just slightly the wrong time of year?"
She lowered her eyes, and I know I tensed up because my stitches hurt. "My mother sent me," she said.
"Your mother? What for?"
"The chateau belonged to her father. When she heard Tom Martin was going away, she sent me to look after her interests."
"Uh uh. Try again. With no allowance she has no interests."
The anger flared again, and she aimed it straight at me. "Since you asked," she said, "I’m supposed to find out if your friend, Tom, is an embezzler.”
I laughed, but that hurt, too, so I stopped. "Samantha Carlisle, I think I believe you. That actually makes sense."
"Of course it makes sense. Why wouldn't it?"
"Because I thought you were mixed up with the vandals, that’s why."
"The vandals! Why would I bother smashing up my grandfather’s old rock pile? What would be the point?"
The chateau, a rock pile? "Not smashing–searching."
"I don't get it," she said, and once again she sounded sincere. "Gramps had money, but it's all gone. The only thing left is his crazy art work, and who cares about that?"
"You really don't know anything about a ‘final legacy,’ do you?"
"What do you mean ‘final legacy'? I think you’d better tell me what's going on."
"Okay, Sam.” I needed a helper anyhow, and she was the only candidate in sight.
I told her everything I knew or suspected. For purely mercenary reasons, I’d say she liked the story pretty well. Especially since her only questions were What? How much? and Where?
After I assured her I had no answers, the conversation went pretty dead.
That was when she remembered the shopping bag, which contained necessities such as pajamas and clean socks. She had even brought along my sketch pad and another message Pascaline had transcribed from my agent. My paintings were selling great without me, it said. “Would I please never attend another of my shows ever again, ha ha. Check in mail for spending on the French honeys." If he only knew. At least I would have some cash to pay my hospital bill.
The sketch pad gave me an idea. While Samantha busied herself cramming things into drawers, I put a pencil to work. The drawing went quickly, and I liked the results.
When I showed it to Sam, she reeled back as if I’d conjured up a ghost.
"Who is it, Sam? Tell me."
"It's George Wrexham. My cousin. Don't you know him?"
"Yes. No. What kind of guy is he?" I dropped my sketch of the crooked-nosed Englishman onto my lap.
"He's sort of a creep. Why?"
"Because I think he's responsible for the attempts to steal Hugh Marsford’s ‘final legacy.’ And, indirectly responsible for this hole in my chest.”
"Good Lord!" Samantha dropped onto the chair.
I flipped onto a new page and hastily sketched the thug who’d mugged me.
This time Sam shook her head. “No, nobody I know."
"That's okay. Tell me more about George."
"He's my only cousin, but I don't know him either, really. Our family is sort of...we're not close. The last time I saw him was eight months ago at his father's funeral. He looked so grim, not sad, just very cold and...grim! I had no desire to talk to him, so I didn't.”
Samantha arranged her skirt neatly over her knees. "Oh! I did learn how he got his broken nose, though!"
"How?"
"He was in the British army. An officer. Went to Ireland for a while and suddenly came home with two black eyes and an enormous bandage. The story was that one of his own men smashed his nose all over his face."
Samantha could not know it, but she had just told me a great deal about George Wrexham. You’ll find a few officers like that in every army–little Napoleons who abuse their power. Insensitive, self-serving bullies you want to punch. The only difference? Where my country sent me, George Wrexham might have gotten a bullet in his back instead of a crooked nose.
"Samantha, do you think you can find me a clean bandage?"
"Is something wrong? Shall I call a nurse?"
"Nothing's wrong, and don’t call a nurse. Just go out in the hall and see if you can scare up a bandage without anybody noticing."
"Why?"
"Because you’re going to help me get out of here."
"Are you kidding? I don’t think...”
"Just go find a bandage, will you?"
"Are you skipping out on your bill?"
"Not exactly." I would take care of it later.
Samantha gave me a look. “You’re really quite naughty, aren’t you,” she said. Then she slipped out the door.
As soon as she left, I very delicately removed the tube from my lung. It was quite a peculiar sensation, and I admit to more than a little nervous sweat both during and after. But other than sweat there wasn’t much change to my physical condition.
Samantha returned with thin rubber gloves, a wad of gauze, and some paper tape. She also sported the guiltiest grin ever worn by a person with no conscience.
I patched up the hole myself while she loaded the shopping bag with my few possessions. The shirt I had fallen in was gone, but my jeans were in the closet. I put them on with the plaid pajama top Sam brought. She helped with socks and shoes.
Before we entered the hall, I asked her to stand on my left and support me with her shoulder. Then I reached my hand under her arm and all but grabbed her breast.
"Richard! You are healthy!"
I told her it wasn’t what she thought. "Carry that bag by the handles so people can see what I'm doing. Good. Now give us a nice slutty smile and swing your hips–just don't knock me over."
"But what...?"
"Nobody will dare stop us."
"No," she agreed, her green eyes widening. "Not in France they won't."
I must admit it worked. Anyone who bothered to look at us quickly turned back to what they were doing. We made our escape to Samantha's rented car unquestioned.
Sitting behind the wheel, she shot me a smoldering smile. Then she laced her fingers behind my neck and leaned in for a kiss.
When I didn’t respond, she said, “Richard! What's the matter? You look all...fishy. Maybe this wasn't a good idea. Maybe I should take you back."
"No. Let's get out of here. I'll be fine in a minute."
She hesitated so long, I worried she might actually go back for help. If she had, I couldn’t have stopped her.
Instead, I shot her a reassuring smile, and at long last she started the car.
Before I remembered the lung and the fact that I had stopped smoking, I dug inside the pocket of my muddy jeans from habit. What I found was the dusty, crumpled paper from the tower floor. Considering I was on pain-killers and tired from breaking out of the hospital, it took me an extra moment to realize what it was. Yet as soon as I read it, I knew what it meant.
Wrexham and his associate must have hidden in the Roman tower to go through the contents of tin box. If I was right, the dusty receipt I found was one of many they removed and destroyed. Cousin George and his hired thug would be very sorry to learn at least one had escaped their notice. Aside from confirming there was a hidden treasure, my discovery also told me exactly what it was.
Should I tell Samantha, or save it for a surprise?