Investigating A Conspiracy Document
Liam McShane, Max Goldman, Professor Malcolm Crawford, and Mark Ryan investigate the Knights of St George Document
Liam sat quietly on the crowded Number Seven train between Woodside Station and Forty Second Street. Squeezing his bag tightly against his abdomen, he was mentally rehearsing his itinerary. He reached into his bag, removed his small black notebook, and struggled for a moment to remove a pen from his pockets. He looked at his watch and it read five fifty-six. He noticed things like specific times and five fifty-six stood out for some odd reason. After opening the notebook, he wrote out a note, “5:56”. “Must make time to call Professor Crawford.” Then he pulled out a folded piece of paper from his pocket and wrote down Dr. Crawford’s phone number in his notebook.
‘There’s something I’m forgetting,’ he reminded himself and then he wrote beneath the first note, ‘I must make arrangements to go to Hadleyburg.” He hesitated a moment and then wrote a question mark at the end. He had vacation time coming and he considered what excuse he could offer to his superiors for such short notice. He felt compelled as though on some Quixotic quest whose outcome was far from certain. Yet the prospect of discovery exhilarated him.
Meanwhile, Malcolm was arriving at his brownstone. He carried the bag into the foyer and placed it on a small antique table, which had belonged to his father.
“I’m home,” he shouted, and Paula emerged from the kitchen and into the foyer. She quickly approached and kissed him.
“How did it go?” she asked him.
“It went well,” he sighed a moment. “I showed him the document and he made a copy of it. He wants to meet with the young man who found it.”
“Does he think it’s real?” she asked.
“He doesn’t know. He wants to examine it.”
“You know my feelings on the subject. I don’t think anything good can come from it.”
“I know. But it was something I had to do.”
“So, what was he like, this Mark Ryan?” she asked.
“A little too intense for me and a little frightening, though he seems knowledgeable.”
“Yes, but knowledge is not necessarily good in and of itself.” She paused. “The food is ready.”
“I’m famished,” he acknowledged.
He walked into the dining room where she had set out an elegant table with wine glasses and candles. He pulled a chair out for her and then he sat down himself.
“I’ve got good news,” she said.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“I’ve been asked to design a Brochure for the Katsanos exhibit at the Met.”
“And how did that happen?” he questioned.
“Well, it seems he asked for me. He remembers me from the last time he was in New York. You’d think he talks to so many people that he’d forget them all. He remembered what we talked about it. I asked him about the number tattoo on his arm and he told me all about his time in Dachau.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“He also told me he had come to New York in the late fifties and designed a couple of department stores.”
“I vaguely remember,” he responded.
She poured each of them a glass of wine.
“So, is he coming this time from Greece?” he asked.
“I don’t know. But I’ll find out,” she answered.
Then the phone began to ring.
“Let it ring, Malcolm. Whoever it is, they’ll call back.”
“I hate ringing phones. It shouldn’t be but a minute and I’ll be back.”
He rose from the table and went into the foyer to answer the phone.
“Professor Crawford, it’s Liam McShane. I brought you the manuscript yesterday.”
“Yes, Liam, from where are you talking? It’s very noisy.”
“I’m at the subway station at Times Square. I’m sorry to be bothering you from here, but I’m on a tight schedule and it’s the best time for me to call.”
“So, what can I do for you?” Malcolm asked.
“Did you have a chance to look at the document?”
“Yea, I looked at it.”
“I wonder when we can sit down and talk about it,” Liam questioned.
“Well, to be honest with you. I’ve given the manuscript to Mark Ryan the conspiracy writer. He says he wants to meet with you. Do you know who he is?”
“Of course. I’d be glad to meet with him. When?”
“I’ll call him. Call me back around eight. I’ll see what I can work out.”
“I’ll call you.” Liam hung up the phone.
“Malcolm. Is it prudent to become more deeply involved in this. You know you have your reputation to consider,” Paula cautioned.
He returned to his seat.
“All I’m doing is connecting one person to another. I thought you’d be pleased that I’m taking myself out of the loop.”
“So, you’re not going to meet with them?” she asked.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do. Let’s just eat and forget about it.”
Liam got on the number two train to go uptown to his apartment. For the first time in months, he felt excited about something, and he relished an odd pleasure at momentarily breaking free of his self-constructed shackles of regularity. When he arrived at his apartment, Max was already waiting for him in the corridor. He checked his watch, and it was exactly seven PM.
“I don’t know how you do it. You’re as accurate as a Swiss watch.”
“It’s the endless repetition of mundane tasks,” he responded as he opened his door with a key.
“Well, did you turn my plates in?” Max asked.
“Mission accomplished. If you’re willing to wait a couple of minutes, I’ll retrieve the receipt.”
Once inside, Liam tossed the backpack onto his upholstered chair.
“It would help if you could explain to me what we’re supposed to be doing?” Max asked.
“How many times have you called me to witness your experiments? I never asked for an explanation. I told you we’re going to investigate something very important. Did you call your ex-girlfriend. You know I was going to ask Paul to call his ex-girlfriend, Lucy. But Lucy never liked me. Lisa liked me and she also works in the Empire State Building.”
“Yes. I called her. She’s going to meet us in the lobby of the building at eight o’clock,” Max answered..
“That gives us an hour to get something to eat and other assorted errands. You ran the plate for me?” Liam asked.
“Yeah, here.” He pulled a small piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Liam.
“Peter Atkinson,” Liam read aloud. “666 Algonquin Ave, Parsippany NJ. Now isn’t that symbolic.”
“I hope there is some purpose for this information, and I didn’t risk this on a pipe dream,” Max told him.
“There is a method to my madness. Aren’t you excited about a real investigation, instead of pursuing people on medical claims?”
“I’d be more excited if you clued me in as to what we’re really investigating,” Max responded.
“For now, I’m only prepared to say we’re chasing bogey men.”
“Well as long as we’re not chasing our tails,” Max said.
“Can you tell me what you know about Nigel Fox?” Liam asked him.
“The old psychic or should I say alleged psychic who thought his dreams could predict the future. I hope this is not about that story. I thought we’d be done with that old psychic tale now that he’s been dead all these months.”
“And where did he die?”
“He died in a small town in Virginia called Hadleyburg. What’s the reason for your sudden interest in dead psychics? You never said a word about him when he was alive. This comes as quite a shock now,” Max responded.
“I wish I could tell you more. But you must trust me on this for now.”
“For now. But I reserve the right to demand particulars from you, if I am not satisfied with where things are going?”
“I understand.” Liam paused. “Let’s get something to eat. I don’t want to be late.”
Liam retrieved the satchel from the chair and put the strap around his left shoulder. Max followed him out of the apartment, and he locked the door behind them.
“So, what do you want to eat?” Liam asked.
“A couple of slices of pizza would be quick,” Max proposed.
“Alright, it’s pizza then.”
They turned left after leaving the building and walked toward a pizza place at the end of the block.
“I haven’t been this excited since college,” Liam told him.
Some thirty odd blocks north of them, Malcolm and Paula were still slowly eating the eggplant parmigiana and sipping red wine.
“You haven’t told me what you think of it,” Paula asked him.
“As always, it’s wonderful.”
“I was a little concerned that I put too much garlic and we didn’t have as much cheese as I would have wanted.”
“I know you’re a perfectionist about these things, but it was delicious,” he acknowledged.
“I have a special dessert for you. It’s this special gourmet strawberry preserve I found in Zabar’s. MacGyver, I think it’s called. Made in some small town in Virginia. It’s wonderful.”
She went to the kitchen and returned with a stack of rye toast generously spread with preserves and he could see small chunks of strawberries scattered across the surface.
“You wouldn’t believe how expensive it is. Nearly ten dollars a jar. But it is absolutely the best strawberry preserve I have tried in my life.”
It was not like her to give endorsements to food, and he was concerned that the build-up would leave him disappointed when he tasted them, but he was pleasantly surprised when each bite grew even more delicious.
“Oh, that is good! The texture, the flavor, the blend of sweetness and bitterness. It is absolutely the most delicious thing to cross my palate in a long time,” he spoke enthusiastically.
“I told you I wish I could have a dozen jars of it.”
“You said they were only selling this at Zabar’s.”
“Yes, and they had a sample display of it giving tastes to customers. They must have sold at least a half dozen jars in the half hour I was there. I could show you the jar, if you like.”
“No, that won’t be necessary.”
He placed another piece of toast into his mouth and the taste produced a wave of pleasure, which spread across his physiognomy.
“Another three or four of these and I’m going to put on five pounds. It must be filled with sugar.”
“That’s the amazing thing. No, there’s no processed sugar at all. Just strawberries and seasonings.”
“This is my last one,” he said as he placed it into his mouth. “Then I should call Mr. Ryan.”
“You’re still going to go through with this?” she questioned.
“I have to.”
“I so wish you’d drop it all. I can’t tell you how worried I am about this.”
“There’s nothing to worry about. It’s just a phone call.”
Malcolm removed the paper with Ryan’s number from his pocket and slowly dialed the number. It began to ring.
“Hello,” Mark Ryan finally answered.
“It’s Professor Malcolm, Mr. Ryan.”
“Yes.”
“I’ve spoken to my former student, and he says he’d be glad to talk to you.”
“Then how about tonight?” Ryan proposed.
“I don’t know. He’s supposed to call me at eight,” Malcolm responded.
“My apartment is 143 West 23rd Street, number 16a. Tell him to come around ten o’clock. I have an errand to run. I’ll be back by then. That’s 143 West 23rd Street number 16a.”
“Got it,” Malcolm acknowledged.
“You’re more than welcome to join him, Professor Crawford. I think you may learn something.”
“Goodbye.” Malcolm hung up.
He wrote Ryan’s address beneath the phone number on the paper.
“I understand what you mean about being a little worried about this. It’s a little unsettling in the gut.” He put the paper back into his pocket.