Act One, Part Four

Less than half an hour earlier another figure had passed this way: Prof Achilles Bracewell, intensely curious and still a touch tipsy. In his rush to answer the siren's call of the mysterious scytale, the professor had noticed nothing of his environs, neither on the stairs nor in the lobby. An entire marching band blasting out "Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean" could have been dogging his heels and he would never have spotted them. No, his mind — the portion that wasn't still partly pickled, that is — was reeling with questions such as: Who could have sent him such a note, and indeed, how had it come into his possession? He had awakened only minutes earlier to find himself, disorientingly enough, sleeping upon the sofa instead of in his bed, and when he had lighted the lamp on the side table, there to his amazement had lain a long curl of paper along with a conveniently provided pencil around which to wrap it.

But indeed, from whom had the message originated? Who was his informant, this pseudonymous A — unless it was H? And the Apple! Was he truly to learn what had become of it? Or even — dare he hope — to regain it?

Onward scurried the professor, on through the lobby and down a succession of wrong hallways before he at last found his way to a set of French doors through which he passed into the pleasant moonlit garden behind the hotel, enclosed all about by a high brick wall. Even here he stumbled about for a bit before quite literally bumping into the modest gardener's shed. Ah, but here it was at last! And the time? He pulled out his pocket watch and read it with some difficulty by the light of the moon to find that he had arrived with only a minute or two to spare.

A slight sound behind him informed him that he was no longer alone. He spun, all but losing his balance, to see that in the deep shadows beneath a weeping willow tree stood a still more shadowy cloaked figure. "Ah, there you are. Good," came the figure's voice.

The professor frowned. The voice was husky, artificially so. Not a voice he recognized, and yet — yes, he was sure it was familiar! "Who are you?" he asked bluntly.

A chuckle answered him. "Why, who else would I be but the one who sent you the scytale?"

He gasped with glee. "Then the Apple! You know where it is? You can lead me to it?"

There was a sigh. "Oh, dear. I was afraid you might say that."

"What? I... I don't understand. What do you mean? Your note said…"

"I know what my note said!" the other interrupted. "Old fool, it was a ruse, a trick to lure you here! I had hoped that you would immediately demand of me to know how I could possibly have information on the whereabouts of the Apple when you yourself had taken it and hidden it away!"

"I? I! But... I don't know where the Apple is! How could I know?"

There came yet another sigh, louder than the first. "You had charge of it the entire trip! If you didn't take it, then who else…? Hmm. Yes, who else indeed! Very well then. I see I must look elsewhere. Good-bye."

"No, wait!" cried the professor as the cloaked figure turned away. He sprang after his mysterious visitor, catching at the cloak, yanking it away.

And found beneath was the dress of a woman. He gaped as she whirled to glare at him. "You?" he squeaked. "But... But... It can't be! I don't believe it!"

"Don't believe what? That I made off with the first two Apples but let the final one elude me?" Her eyes flicked to something behind his back. "Why did you have to tear away my cloak, you old fool? I can't allow you to tell anyone about me!" And she gave a nod.

Even in his stunned and less than sober state, Prof Bracewell recognized his imminent danger. He ducked and flung out the cloak he was still holding, managing fortuitously to slap the yardage of thick cloth into the face of the man who had been sneaking up behind him, ready to bash the professor's head in with a heavy black cosh.

The man bellowed as the cloak smacked into him. He flailed at it, trying to tear the cloth off his head.

"Hush!" hissed the woman urgently. "Do you want someone to hear us? Now hurry! He's getting away!"

Indeed, the professor was haring off for the hotel's back door. At last freeing himself from the cloak, the man with the cosh raced after his prey. Professor Bracewell glanced back and gave a shriek like a frightened rabbit.

And at that moment, just when he was paying insufficient attention to where he was going, the professor's foot hit something lying on the ground. He tripped and fell headlong, his cranium bouncing off the edge of a marble fountain. And where he landed, there he lay.

The man caught up with him; the woman, freshly cloaked again, was barely a step behind him. "Is he...?" she asked hopefully.

The man knelt and checked. "Knocked himself out cold," he reported.

"Hmph. Then we shall have the finish the job."

"Right." The man lifted his cosh.

"No, wait! I have a better idea. Something more... appropriate."

"Appropriate? What are you talking about?"

"You shall see. You have a knife?"

"Well, yeah. Why?"

"Take the knife then and cut him. There." She touched the spot she had in mind with the toe of her shoe.

"Ugh! Why there?"

"Never you mind why! Just do it. And hurry!"

Scowling, her minion obeyed.

…

Jim hit the lobby, gun in hand, and came to a halt, watching and listening for anything out of the ordinary. Slowly he worked his way forward, every nerve in his body on full alert. There was no one around that he could see.

He approached the front desk and looked behind it. Nobody here either. He moved on into the hallway beyond; to the right was the display hall in which lay the Lydian treasures, both real and fictitious, while in the opposite direction was the banquet hall with its associated kitchens. The gardens behind the hotel though: where were they?

"Jim!" Artie hurried up, his revolver in hand.

"How do we get to the garden, Artie?"

"This way." The two moved off, keeping watch in all directions, coming swiftly to a set of French doors that opened onto a moon-drenched expanse of lawn punctuated with bushes, fountains, and a weeping willow tree. At the far end stood a small, unobtrusive shed. "Must be the place," said Artie, nodding towards it.

"That may be the shed," Jim replied, "but it's not what we're looking for." He strode off across the garden, heading for a fountain, its waters splashing playfully in the moonlight. And by the foot of it…

"Professor!"

Both men dropped to their knees at either side of the prone figure and swiftly rolled him over onto his back. "Prof Bracewell!" Jim called as Artie checked the man's vitals. "Professor!" Jim slapped the man's glassy-eyed face.

Artie sighed heavily. "He's barely got any pulse at all, Jim. And look at this pool of blood!"

"I don't see a wound though. Where's he bleeding from?" He joined Artie in checking for the source of the blood.

"Here!" Artie yanked a handkerchief from the pocket of his dressing gown and knotted it around the man's ankle, applying strong pressure in the hope, however slight, of staunching the bleeding. "Someone cut him badly, right here in the heel."

"The heel? That's a strange place to be attacked."

"One of the strangest I've ever heard of, yes! Problem is, I don't know if we've gotten to him in time. He's really lost a lot of…"

"The Apple!" To the amazement of both Secret Service agents, Prof Bracewell suddenly sat bolt upright and clutched at Jim's lapel. "She… she said that I had stolen the final Apple! How could she believe that? Why would I steal… Oh, but it was she who took the other two! She told me! She…"

"Easy, Professor, don't tax yourself," said Artie, trying to get the injured man to lie back down, even as Jim was demanding sternly, "She? Professor, who is this she? Who did this to you and why?"

Achilles Bracewell's eyes snapped to look Mr West in the face. "Why? My word, man, I haven't the least clue as to why! I never could fathom the profundities of the feminine mind! As for who she was, she… she…"

His grip relaxed abruptly and Bracewell slumped over. "Professor!" Artie cried. He grabbed the man's wrist, then felt along his neck for the carotid artery.

Then, with a sigh, he shook his head, finding no pulse at either site. "We've lost him, Jim. He's gone."

From the French doors came a cry of "Gone! But, but, Papa! No!" And a feminine figure sprang into the gardens to fling herself down inconsolably at the dead man's side.

End of Act One