Shark and Octopus Read online

  “But you guys aren’t highway guys. You’re off road guys. Let me be part of this. We’ll keep a firewall between you and me at Hopkins; what you say makes sense. But I want to be part of this. It’s fun to go off road occasionally.”

  “That it is,” Griffin replied.

  “Just don’t tell my Mom and Dad.”

  “Done,” Griffin agreed.

  Saif leaned back against the couch contentedly.

  Griffin said, “Here are Monday’s assignments.

  “Kit and Annie, go to Oakecrest. Pretend you’re looking into an apartment for an elderly relative. See if you can talk to the security guard who saw the car thief, our Aqua Velva and whiskey man. Could the guard know something about the thief that didn’t make it into that one inch Sun article?

  “Bobby? Monday morning you and I go to Hopkins. Maybe we can learn a bit of Italian history.”

  *

  June 8

  9:29 am

  “Do you have a scheduled appointment this morning?” the History Department secretary asked. She was a short, squareish woman wearing a sweater the red of a brick wall.

  “Nothing scheduled, no.”

  “If you don’t have an appointment scheduled, I’m afraid you won’t be able to see Dr. Silverman. I could certainly schedule an appointment,” the secretary said. She spoke in a tone that left Griffin certain that while she could schedule an appointment, she’d rather eat that red sweater.

  “Allow me to explain,” Bobby said, then dryly chuckled. “I’m Dr. Rob Robertson, of Cornell.”

  The night before, searching for a role Bobby could play, Griffin learned there actually was a Dr. Rob Robertson of Cornell. Dr. Robertson was presently on sabbatical in the Amazon Rain Forest and unlikely to complain about Bobby Lowell appropriating his name this morning.

  “Dr. Silverman and I met my junior year abroad. What was that, twenty years ago now?”

  Bobby chuckled again. Griffin thought the chuckle was the perfect, credible detail for a WASP-ish Ivy League professor. Bobby wore thick glasses with rectangular frames. His tie was askew and carelessly knotted, just enough of the absent minded professor to be believable.

  “The years certainly fly past, don’t they?” Bobby said, touching the hair at his temples, which he’d dyed grey.

  He went on, “Twenty years ago I was spending my junior year abroad in Florence, Italy. A long, lonely year. Dr. Silverman befriended me. He and Mrs. Silverman. They were spending his sabbatical year researching his book on trade between the Italian city states and the Muslim world. That book would win the Herbert Baxter Adams prize, as you may well know.”

  Griffin had studied Saul Silverman’s biography and provided Bobby with those details. Griffin glanced at the secretary to see if Bobby’s performance was winning her over. There was no thawing in her glacial look of distrust.

  “Dr. Silverman impressed me so much I decided to enter academia myself. Well, long story short, Dr. Silverman left me with an open invitation. If ever I was in Baltimore...” That chuckle again. “Well, here I am. Stopping in. Twenty years later.”

  The secretary remained unmoved.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. Not a bit was she sorry, Griffin knew. “You can’t just show up and barge in on Dr. Silverman.”

  “It’s hardly barging in, Marjory,” came a frail voice to their right, Griffin looked at the nameplate on the woman’s desk: Patricia Ann Knightsbridge. “I don’t often have visitors.”

  “Dr. Silverman, I’m not Marjory. Marjory hasn’t worked here in-” the secretary was saying as Bobby and Griffin hurried over to Professor Silverman. They directed Saul Silverman back toward his office before his secretary could object.

  Their progress was slow. Bobby and Griffin flanked the professor. Each kept a hand near the man’s elbow in case he needed assistance to keep moving, which he did several times.

  Once inside the office, Dr. Silverman motioned for his guests to sit. Griffin studied the man’s eyes. The best word to describe those brown eyes, Griffin decided, was faded. The backs of the man’s hands were dotted with constellations of dark aged spots.

  Dr. Silverman began, “I am sorry, Dr.- Who are you?“

  “I’m Rob Robertson, Dr. Silverman,” Bobby responded.

  Griffin looked around the office. Maps yellow with age lined one wall. Books with papers sticking out overfilled shelves. There was an unmistakable sense of neglect about the room, completely unlike the precision of Saif’s office.

  “Don’t apologize for not recognizing me, Dr. Silverman, after all these years. In my Florence days” – Griffin knew Bobby had never been east of Ocean City – “I had a beard, typical scruffy undergraduate thing.”

  Dr. Silverman said, “I enjoyed my year in Florence very much. My wife Susan joined me. It was 2004.”

  At the mention of his wife, Saul Silverman paused, struggling to continue. Griffin could tell Bobby noticed as well.

  “This,” Bobby said, pointing to Griffin, “is my co-author on a book we’re writing. The work covers some ground in the area of your expertise, which is why we’re here today.”

  “I’m William Haydon,” Griffin said, rising to shake hands. He noticed Dr. Silverman’s white shirt was fraying at the cuffs. Griffin said to him, “We’re most interested in whatever you can tell us about Arazzo Castle.”

  *

  “The castle in Arazzo?” The professor smiled. “Susan loved it there. We visited several times.”

  The smile faded. Saul Silverman stopped talking. Griffin heard the secretary on the phone, speaking pleasantly, nothing like the suspicious tone she’d hurled against Bobby and Griffin. Griffin understood her attitude now. She was protective of an elderly man in need of protection.

  “Professor,” Griffin prompted eventually. “What can you tell us about Arazzo Castle? How much of the original castle remains?”

  “That was the last trip Susan could take abroad. After that, her troubles began.” In a whisper, more of a gasp, Griffin thought, Dr. Silverman added, “It was pancreatic cancer.”

  After a few long moments, Dr. Silverman blinked, as if rousing himself.

  “You asked about Arazzo Castle. I have some pictures here.”

  He reached for a desk drawer, but was unable to open it.

  “I don’t often open my desk these days. Still, the house seems so empty when I’m there.”

  While Griffin was puzzling out the disconnected sentences, Bobby leaped from his chair and slid the drawer open. He removed a book of photographs encased in plastic and placed the book in front of Dr. Silverman.

  “Let’s see,” Dr. Silverman said, turning each page with what was to Griffin infuriating slowness. “You asked about St. Mark’s in Venice.”

  “No,” Griffin corrected him, “the Arazzo Castle.”

  “Of course. Susan loved Arazzo Castle. We visited several times,” he replied, unaware he’d said that already.

  He turned some more pages. Griffin feared the man had forgotten what he was searching for. More pages turned, even more slowly it seemed to Griffin. After an excruciating five minutes Dr. Silverman said, “Here we are.”

  This time Griffin scrambled to the other side of the desk much faster than Bobby.

  “The picture was taken in Arazzo Castle. That’s Susan,” Professor Silverman explained.

  “And that’s you beside her,” Bobby said.

  “That was Susan’s favorite dress,” Dr. Silverman went on. “Cornflower blue. I got it for her birthday.”

  “Where?” Griffin asked.

  “Here in Baltimore.”

  “No, professor,” Griffin said, aware his voice was rising, but unable to stop himself. “Where was the picture taken?”

  “The dungeon of Arazzo Castle. It was a sort of jail at one time.”

  “When?”

  “October.”

  “No, professor,” Griffin asked, as loudly as before. He really needed to dial back his impatience. “What year was the picture taken?”

/>   “2004,” Bobby answered, recognition dawning in his eyes. “My year in Florence.”

  “Meaning the dungeon survived Napoleon and the Second World War?” Griffin asked, but Saul Silverman did not hear, lost in the picture.

  Griffin was staring at the picture as well. The Silvermans were standing in front of a large, very thick and very old door at the back of the dungeon. Between the Silvermans, Griffin noticed a metal bolt, shoulder high, on the door. After a few seconds he saw, barely visible, a metal keyhole.

  To Bobby, Griffin said, “That’s what the key is for.”

  SEVEN

  June 8

  10:03 am

  From the middle of Charles Street, Griffin phoned Grace.

  In lieu of hello, Grace said, “I’ve heard from the Duke. Again. Not at all is he pleased. You know, he’s always been a steadfast supporter of our EU policies. For years now. We’d like him happier.” In words that were at least as much demand as question, she asked, “You’re still working on getting his key back?”

  “I am,” Griffin replied, now across Charles Street. He stepped onto the sidewalk alongside 33rd Street. Bobby was forced into a near-jog to keep pace. They approached empty tables outside a bookstore. At ten in the morning it was already too hot to sit outside. The sun was so bright it seemed to burn all the color from the morning.

  At St. Paul Street they turned right. Over his shoulder Griffin could spot the cherry trees in front of Union Memorial Hospital. The trees were a gift of Al Capone, who’d come to Union Memorial to have his syphilis treated. Unsuccessfully, as it turned out. The gangster died not long after. The trees were a bit of Baltimore trivia Griffin liked to point out to visitors. When he did and mentioned the syphilis, he was always quick to add, “Which Capone contracted before he came to Baltimore.”

  “Grace,” Griffin said, “we’re going to need your help on this one. We just met with a Hopkins history professor, an expert on Italian castles. He’s gotten us started. From you I need whatever you can find on Arazzo Castle in Italy. Specifically, the Arazzo Castle dungeon. And we need whatever you can get right away. You remember the man in white who Bobby, Kit and Annie told you about?”

  “Yes?”

  Griffin reached his car, parked in front of Cold Stone Creamery. He said, “Pretty sure that’s where he’s going with the key – the dungeon of Arazzo Castle. There’s a room in the back of the dungeon the man in white wants into. That’s what the key is for. To unlock that door. We need to know what he wants in the dungeon before he’s gets there and takes it.”

  *

  June 9

  7:00 pm

  Thirty three hours later, Grace called Griffin back. She had said she would call at seven with the information about Arazzo Castle he asked for. She did, calling precisely at seven. As was her wont, Grace did not bother with preliminaries.

  “We’re too late,” she started right in.

  “You’re on the speaker phone, Grace,” Griffin replied. “I’m here in our dining room with Annie, Kit, and Bobby. You remember them. And our high school friend named Saif Venkatesan is here as well. And we’re too late for what, exactly?”

  “Your man in white has come and gone, Mr. Gilmore.” Her tone was one Griffin had not heard in his phone calls with Grace. Was she gloating?

  “He went to Arazzo Castle?”

  “Yes.”

  “He went into the castle dungeon?”

  “Yes.”

  “He went into the room at the back of the dungeon?”

  “Yes.”

  “When was this?” he asked.

  “Saturday afternoon.”

  “The museum fundraiser was Thursday night,” Griffin pointed out. He was clueless where Grace was taking him with this. “He’s plotted carefully. What did he take?”

  “Nothing.” There it was again. Not gloating as much as an I-know-something-you-don’t- know tone. “He entered the room at the back of the dungeon. As you predicted he would. But he didn’t take anything at all.”

  “Then why go through all the trouble of-”

  “He wanted to take something, your man in white. I’m sure of it. Whatever it was, it wasn’t there. He left empty handed.”

  Griffin sat on one side of his dining room table, Annie across from him. With no other chairs, Saif, Kit, and Bobby stood. Nearly empty cartons of Chinese food covered a tablecloth sandy with spilled rice.

  “Grace?” Griffin started, then broke off, distracted when he glanced over at Kit. Who was shoveling in the remains of his shrimp fried rice with more speed than accuracy.

  Kit wore a Hawaiian shirt. This was the third straight day of Hawaiian shirts, a streak that began when he watched a “Magnum, PI” marathon. Today’s shirt showed a well-tanned castaway snoozing beneath a coconut tree.

  “Grace,” Griffin started again. “What makes you say that this guy – my man in white, as you call him –wanted to take something, but didn’t? How can you know such a thing?”

  “Because I’ve got the pictures to prove it.”

  *

  From someone else, Griffin might have assumed the reply was a joke. Coming from Grace, whom Griffin knew to be humor-free, it had to be a literal statement.

  “You have pictures?” asked Griffin. He motioned for Bobby to pass him the last egg roll.

  “We have film.” Griffin tore open a packet of soy sauce while Grace continued. “As you know, Arazzo Castle, once the home of the Ferlinghetti noble family, is now a tourist place.”

  Griffin poured the soy sauce onto the egg roll, spilling some on the tablecloth. He peered down at the soy sauce spill, a series of black dots in need of connecting.

  Grace went on, “There are cameras all over Arazzo Castle. Forty in all. The Europeans are much more aggressive about security than we are.”

  “You have some film of the man in white in the castle?”

  “Not some film, Mr. Gilmore.” That tone, Griffin thought, that tone returneth. “We have him from the time he walks to the front doors of the castle until thirty seven minutes later when he walks through those same doors and away. He was part of a tour, for those without the time or money to enjoy the castle’s Be A Duke For A Day fantasy camp. He is out of camera range no more than a few minutes.”

  “Those few minutes?” Griffin asked, biting off the end of the egg roll. Strips of cabbage joined the soy sauce stains on the tablecloth. Annie, looking up from her lo mein, rolled her eyes. “Those moments when the man in white was not on camera. Were they while he was in the dungeon?”

  “Yes. There are no cameras in the dungeon. For that matter there is no electricity in the dungeon. There is no need. The dungeon is not part of the tour and there is nothing in the dungeon but dust.”

  “Any idea where he went in the dungeon, while off camera?”

  “We know exactly where he went in the dungeon.”

  “Where?”

  Grace ignored the question. “To get into the dungeon your man in white had to slip away from the tour he was part of. He must have ducked into the dungeon. I mean literally ducked. He was far too tall for the dungeon doorway. You didn’t mention he’s six foot five.”

  “I didn’t notice.” Griffin took another bite of egg roll. “My thoughts were elsewhere. On the other hand, I have a most vivid recollection of the barrel of the gun he was pointing in my direction.”

  “He limps.”

  “That I noticed.” Griffin took a final bite of the egg roll. He chewed for a long moment. Grace waited, which Griffin understood meant she was waiting for him to figure something out. By the time he swallowed the last of the egg roll, he had it. “The dust. You knew where he went in the dungeon by studying his footprints in the dust.”

  “I knew you’d think of the dust,” Grace said. “The dust was so thick there is simply no question where he went.”

  “Where?” Griffin asked again. “The room in the back of the dungeon?” Griffin remembered the picture of Dr. Silverman and his wife in front of the door to that room
.

  “Exactly. Your man in white went in a straight line to the door in the back wall. That door had not been opened within the time of anyone associated with the castle operations. The assumption was that the door couldn’t be opened.”

  “Still, you’re certain he could open the door?”

  “Could and did open the door, but he could not shut it. The door is still open. The door had not been opened in so long it came off one of its hinges and could not quite be closed. The door is very old and very heavy. Solid oak. It was too heavy for the rusty hinges when he opened it.”

  “I’ve seen a picture of the door, Grace. The door is exactly as you describe. The door is probably from 1715, when the key was made.”

  “Quite possibly, Mr. Gilmore. Yes, your man in white opened the door. With the key he got from you at the museum.”

  “Which means the key was the right key, at least to open that locked door.” Griffin gave Annie a nod of appreciation. “That’s why he wanted the key. To open that particular door.”

  Griffin, who’d been staring at the rectangular speaker phone through the entire conversation, now looked up at the far wall of the dining room. The previous owners of the house had painted the walls pencil yellow, with emerald green baseboard trim. It was an eye-assaulting combination. Griffin hadn’t yet had the chance to do any painting around the house.

  “Describe the room behind the door, Grace. The room the man in white wants so much to enter. Was it a jail cell at one time?”

  “If so, it was a very small jail cell. There are bigger closets. But I cannot answer your question, Mr. Gilmore. The historical record, at least as we have it now, is blank. The room could have been a wine cellar. Perhaps storage. Could have been a buttery, one of our experts believes – a storage room for wine. Could have held a prisoner or two from Napoleon’s invasion. Whatever it was used for, it’s the most secure place in the entire castle.