MEET RANDY KNOWLES—
THE PSYCHIC DETECTIVE
His mind is a weapon against crime—his powers of
ESP and astral projection are the only ammunition
he needs to solve a case.
RANDY KNOWLES is a unique blend of physical and
mental perfection—a man whose abilities are sought
after by the rich and powerful, but who would never
turn away an interesting case.
RANDY KNOWLES had solved many tough puzzles in
his career, but the mystery of THE UNICORN was
so bizarre—and so dangerous—that it would push his
great powers to the furthest frontiers of the occult.

OTHER MANOR BOOKS
BY HANS HOLZER
THE TRUTH ABOUT ESP
PSYCHO-ECSTASY
PSYCHIC INVESTIGATOR
THE PROPHETS SPEAK
THE HANDBOOK OF PARAPSYCHOLOGY

HANS HOLZER
PSYCHIC DETECTIVE:
THE UNICORN

In memory of Gus, and
in friendship for
his family.
A MANOR BOOK	1976
Manor Books, Inc.
432 Park Avenue South
New York, New York 10016
Copyright, 1976 by Hans Holzer
All rights reserved
Printed in the U.S.A.

Chapter 1
"How much do you want for the entire lot," the
portly gentleman asked, his voice artificially, calm,
nevertheless betraying the suppressed emotion
underneath. Subdued sunlight shone through the
large, old fashioned windows of the little antique
shop on High Street. The light played with the
gentleman's carefully tailored jacket, added addi-
tional stripes to his Old School tie, and finally came
to rest on a very heavy signet ring adorning the
man's hand. There was a well groomed look about
him, as he stood there in the little antique shop,
obviously a man of impeccable background and
financially secure. On a little table before him were
half a dozen documents, spread out helter-skelter,
two or three of them still rolled up, the rest spread
out but still showing, by their continuing curvature,
that they had been rolled up for long periods. Even a
layman could see that they were old documents of
sorts.
"How much for the lot?" the gentleman asked
again, somewhat more impatiently. His question
was addressed to a short, squat man in his late
sixties or early seventies, dressed in a kind of
housecoat and quite obviously the owner of the
shop. Behind this man there were rows upon rows of
old books, interrupted from time to time by little
statuary and an occasional piece of china. To the
two sides of the little table various antiquities and
antiques were stored in the irregular and somewhat
irresponsible fashion of a truly interesting antique
5

shop. There was, first of all, the inevitable large
clock, ready to chime just as soon as the customer
showed an interest in it; the unavoidable pair of
Staffordshire porcelain dogs, looking the customer
dead eye into the face. Further on, the little shop
showed stacks of additional books, and walls
adorned with a mixture of eighteenth century
swords and nineteenth century rifles, one or two of
them evidently imported from Arabia and the rest
just plain European.
"Yes, Mr. Pitt," the shopkeeper replied, "you
want to know how much for the lot." "Indeed," Mr.
Pitt replied and waited, pointedly. Mr. Anguish, the
owner of the little antique shop was plainly in a
quandary. On the one hand he knew perfectly well
that the little group of old documents and maps
which his customer had selected did not cost him
more than perhaps a pound or thirty shillings at
best. He knew this because he also knew what he
was in the habit of paying for such material. Not
that he carried any of it in his books, as a matter of
fact, his books were largely in his head. It would
have been an easy thing to set a price for the six old
documents selected by his customer, if it were
someone other than Mr. Pitt. But Mr. Anguish was
a true antique dealer: he knew perfectly well that
prices depended upon the customer's financial
circumstances. It wasn't a question of what the item
was worth. What the customer was worth, that was
the question. Mr. Pitt was by no means a new
customer. He had done business with Mr. Anguish
for at least five years, ever since he came to Werrick.
There weren't many antique collectors in the little
town of Werrick on the East Anglian coast. As a
matter of fact, Mr. Anguish had only made about
six or seven sales all year. But Mr. Pitt was forever
6

rummaging through his documents, looking at his
old maps, now and again buying something,
usually at a lower price than what Mr. Anguish had
in mind. It had thus become a necessity for him to
figure out in advance how much he would be willing
to take and then ask for four times that sum in the
hope that he would eventually wind up with his
original price. Evidently, Mr. Pitt enjoyed bargain-
ing, despite the fact that he could well afford to pay
Mr. Anguish's price. But alas, Mr. Anguish sighed
mentally, the richer the collector, the less they are
willing to pay full prices. Mr. Pitt was of course a
prime example of this lamentable state of affairs
among collectors. Oh, Anguish knew very well who
his customer was. In so small a town as Werrick
nobody goes unnoticed for more than half an hour.
It was about five years ago that Mr. Pitt first
appeared in town, looking for a property, apparent-
ly regardless of price. After he had been in Werrick
for several days, and had been taken around by the
local real estate men, word had gotten around in the
pubs that Mr. Pitt was a rich widower bent on
settling down on the East Anglian countryside, to
get away from it all. About a week after his arrival
in town, Mr. Pitt bought the largest and most
important manor house within fifty miles: Corley
Hall, once the seat of the Newton family, lately
empty, ever since the last dowager countess of
Newton had died. The property included the manor
house, with some twenty or twenty-five rooms, a
gardener's cottage, and sundry out buildings as
well as sixty-five acres of ground, much of it along
the coast. Quite obviously, anyone buying such a
property would have to be well-heeled, and Adam
Pitt certainly was. Within a matter of hours after
word of the purchase had gotten around town, Mr.
7

Anguish, who in addition to running the little
antique shop was also an extremely curious man,
knew where Mr. Pitt's money came from. His good
friend, Charles Olman, reporter and only editor of
the local weekly paper, The Observer, looked it up in
his morgue: Mrs. Pitt had been the daughter of Sir
Hubert Groves, steel manufacturer and multimil-
lionnaire. Margaret Pitt, it appeared from contem-
porary news stories, had died suddenly as the result
of a skiing accident some six months before Mr. Pitt
first appeared in Werrick Although an excellent
skier, Mrs. Pitt had nevertheless ventured out too
far on a skiing holiday with her husband, and fallen
down a dangerous slope on one of the highest
mountains in Switzerland. By the time her body
was recovered, she had frozen to death. It appeared
at the time that the Pitts had no children, and the
considerable fortune left to Margaret Pitt by her
father, who had died some two years before the
accident, then went to Mr. Pitt. Mr. Pitt was only
identified as financier. The newspaper article also
mentioned that he was regarded as something of a
sportsman, having a strong interest in certain
stables at Ascot, and that his London residence' in
Belgrave Square was one of the great showplaces of
the city, filled, as it was, with many.fine antiquities
and,works of art. Under the circumstances Mr.
Anguish looked forward to making a useful contact,
and just as soon as he could, he sent his card up to
Corley Hall, indicating that he would welcome the
new owner's visit to his little shop. That visit took
place two or three days later, and it was then that
Mr. Anguish realized for the first time that dealing
with Mr. Adam Pitt would be by no means a quick
and easy way to making a fortune. During the
following years, he did manage to sell Mr. Pitt quite
8

a few things from his shop. There were several sets
of porcelain dogs, a large assortment of Chinese
and Tibetan Buddhas, which appealed to Mr. Pitt
particularly, it would seem, for he bought some
sixty or seventy of them, putting most of them into
one room of his large house. Then there was the
Queen Anne chest, a valuable piece indeed, which
Mr. Pitt bought for only slightly less than the
asking price and finally that strange piece of
tapestry, which Mr. Anguish had bought at auction
in Yarmouth a long time ago and which had been in
his shop ever since. For some unknown reason, this
tapestry, depicting the traditional English Lion
and the Unicorn, had cost him five pounds
originally, but Mr. Pitt paid him fifty for it, quite
contrary to his usual custom of trying to get the
price down. Mr. Anguish gave it no further thought
except that perhaps he had bought a bargain in the
first place.
"How about fifty pounds," Mr. Anguish said,
firmly, or as firmly as he could make himself sound.
Not a penny under twenty-five I'll take, he thought
simultaneously. Mr. Pitt did not say anything. He
lifted up two or three of the documents, looked at
them again as if he were re-examining them, then
shook his head. "Too much," he replied and turned
away from the documents, pretending to look at the
clock to the left. Mr. Anguish, of course, knew this
maneuver only too well. It was Mr. Pitt's way of
trying to divert his attention from the matter at
hand. He'll pay the twenty-five, possibly even
thirty-five, he mused. "Fifty pounds is very little,
sir," Anguish replied and stood firm. "Very well
then, how about just those three," Pitt said, and
separated the three documents from the other four
he had selected originally. Ah ha, Anguish thought,
9

somewhat amused, he is now trying method
number two. Divide and Conquer. Now he will ask,
how much for just the three, and then two, and
finally how much for the one he really wants.
"Forty pounds," Anguish said straight faced. He
knew it was too much, but he also wanted Pitt to
know that he saw through his little game. A distant
train whistle interrupted the negotiations. Sudden-
ly Adam Pitt realized that he was wasting precious
time. An important visitor was due on the 5:40 train
from London. Hastily, he said, "Very well, forty
pounds for the lot, that is my final offer." Anguish
knew when it was time to let his customer think he
had won the battle. He nodded. A moment later
Adam Pitt stepped out of the little shop on High
Street, the seven documents safely tucked under his
arm. As yet he had only a vague idea of what he had
found, but the excitement of discovery was again
upon him, more than it had ever been before in his
whole life. From time to time, the collector in Adam
Pitt had found rare and unusual items, enjoyed the
surprise of discovering such things in places where
they had not been properly appreciated. There was
that certain map in this lot which had gotten him
excited to begin with. It looked familiar all right but
closer inspection would have to wait until after he
had seen his visitor. Quickly he entered his waiting
Jaguar, driven by a thin, tall and inscrutable
chauffeur named Bangs. Bangs never spoke much,
but he had a way with people by just staring at them
and making them do what he wanted. There was
something about Bangs that frightened people, or
perhaps it was because of his taciturn character.
Pitt merely nodded without saying a single word. It
meant, home. Ten minutes later the comfortable
Jaguar rolled up the driveway that leads to Corley
10

Hall. Quickly leaving the car at the main gate, Pitt
told the chauffeur to go and fetch his expected
visitor from the railroad station, which lay in the
opposite direction.
There was just enough time to do this, he ki^.ew,
for he had wanted to be home ahead of his visitor.
Hurrying up the stairs from the entrance hall, past
a richly paneled library and a rather longish
reception room downstairs, Pitt turned right at the
top of the marble stairs and continued on to his
bedroom. The first floor of the Hall contained seven
bedrooms on each side of the stairs, some larger
some smaller. There was a second story above it,
containing the servants quarters, and a wing that
had been closed for years, nobody really knew what
was in it. The main floor of the Hall, in addition to
the reception room, and a large Victorian drawing
room, also contained a workroom in which Mr. Pitt
liked to go over his finds. Then there was the
basement, the cellar, but other than that it was very
large, very little was known about that part of the
Hall in town. The staff at the Hall consisted of Mrs.
Berries, the cook, a lady in her late fifties, Janet the
maid, about twenty, and Bullets, the gardener,
about sixty and completely dedicated to the idea of
restoring the grounds to their former splendor,
which they lost to a marked degree during the years
when the former owner of the Hall was unable to
care for them.
Quickly entering his bedroom, Pitt literally
threw off his business clothes and changed into a
dark red velvet housecoat. The bedroom was much
too large for one person, really, and it had, as a
matter of fact, been the principal bedroom where
Lord and Lady Newton slept when they had the
house. Mr. Pitt had left things pretty much as they
11

were in the Victorian period, except that he had
added his own touches. Statuary here and there, a
really first rate print and some small paintings had
been added during the five years of his ownership.
Still clutching the documents he had just
purchased, Pitt then left the room and walked down
to his workroom on the main floor. Carelessly
putting the documents on the table, he left just as
quickly. His sharp ears had heard the sound of the
arriving car outside the house. He knew that his
visitor would be inside within a moment and he
wanted to be there to greet her.
Bangs was a little out of breath on two accounts:
he had barely made it in time for the train, racing up
the steps of the railway station to intercept the
visitor before she became lost in the crowd. He was
also a little breathless, anyway, as breathless as his
nature permitted him to be, at the sight of the young
lady his chief had asked him to pick up at the
station. Of course, he had seen pictures of Rowan
Dorset in the newspapers from time to time, he had
watched some of her television programs, and he
knew that she was probably one of the most
glamorous young stars on the British theatre
horizon. But to see her close up, on a quasi personal
basis, was something else again. Bangs considered
himself, in all due modesty, a kind of extension of
his chief: anything that pleased Mr. Pitt, was bound
to please Bangs. And he knew that Miss Dorset
pleased Mr. Pitt a lot. As a matter of fact, this was
by no means the first time that he had been sent to
pick her up. But on all previous occasions, Mr. Pitt
had been in the car with him, and under the
circumstances it wasn't easy to get a good look at
the young actress. This was the first time he had
been sent to pick her up on his own, and Bangs was
12

justifiably proud of the trust his chief had put into
him.
I suppose there are still some people who don't
know what Rowan Dorset looks like. On this
particular day in the spring she looked like
something from a French impressionist painting:
her hair carefully disarranged, shoulder length,
and of a light brown color which couldn't seem to
make up its mind whether it wanted to be brunette
or blonde, her small upturned nose a sure sign of
individual personality, even defiance, sky blue
eyes, pale English skin, and the kind of figure that
seemed to tell the world, especially the male portion
of it, that everything was just right, the way it ought
to be. All this was cast into a tailored blouse and
pants, the former dark blue, the latter brilliant
white, in such a way that it covered everything and
hid nothing. Loosely sitting on her shoulders was
the white jacket matching the pants.
It was an unusually warm day for this time of
year, especially for England. "Afternoon, Bangs,"
Miss Dorset said cheerfully, "warm afternoon, isn't
it?" Bangs nodded. He knew that Miss Dorset
wasn't really commenting upon the weather, but
merely being polite. And now they had arrived at
Corley Hall, and there was Mr. Pitt, just in time to
greet his visitor. For Adam Pitt, the occasion was by
no means the first encounter between himself and
the gorgeous Miss -Dorset. Far from it, he had been
her more or less steady companion for the past six
months. He knew very well, of course, that a young
lady of her desirability and public acclaim was not
likely to be exclusive to anyone, not even so brilliant
a businessman as Adam Pitt. But he was broad-
minded enough to overlook her entanglements with
other well-known personalities, on the theory that
1*3

they were necessary for the young lady's career.
Jealousy was not one of Mr. Pitt's faults. Besides,
the attention others paid to his prize discovery
made her the more desirable in his eyes. For Miss
Dorset was indeed Mr. Pitt's discovery. Not that she
had been idling away the hours until her twenty-
first birthday when Mr. Pitt came into her life. Far
from it, she had been a busy young actress, working
mainly in the provinces, a young actress who was
very much in demand for minor roles, because she
had gone through the Rada School, the Royal
Academy of Dramatic Arts, and graduated with
exceptional honors. But after about a year of this,
Rowan had tired of the provinces and longed for
something more interesting, something, let us say,
closer to London. It was just around that time that
Adam Pitt happened to be in Brighton. On that
fateful night, Pitt was in the audience when she
appeared in a revival of Blithe Spirit. So enchanted
was he with her rendition of Amanda, that he sent
six dozen roses to her dressing room the following
day. Adam Pitt was never one to do things half way:
nobody sends six dozen roses to unknown actresses,
and the result was equally surprising. Rowan
Dorset took her acting career very seriously and
had little use for dining out, night after night, with
the eager young men about town. Nevertheless, so
intrigued was she with the man who had sent her
six dozen roses, that she met him for dinner that
very evening. Pitt was a direct and resourceful man.
He realized that he wasn't likely to meet the young
actress again unless he had something tangible
and unusual to offer her. This he did; it was a direct
invitation to come to London the following
Monday—not for a personal meeting with hiin, but
a business appointment with Randle Scott, the well-
14

known producer of Intimate Revue, a man who was
well known in the West End, and whose very name
inspired young actors and actresses to extraordi-
nary performances. Mr. Putt suggested that Scott
might just want to put her into his next Revue, due
to open two months hence in the West End. He
failed to mention that he was the chief and only
backer of said Reyue, because it might have put a
wrong slant on his generosity. As it was, the
evening turned out extremely well.
The following Monday, bright and early, Rowan
Dorset appeared at Scott's offices on Regent Street,
not sure whether she was truly welcome. There was
always that doubt with her, when a stage door John
offered to help. Adam Pitt had struck her as being
sincere, and since Pitt had made no unusual
advances, certainly not at their first meeting, it
seemed possible that the entire thing was legiti-
mate. Still, there was always that possibility that
Scott's secretary might say, sorry, we don't have an
appointment for you. Why don't you leave your
photograph on the way out. As she was considering
such a possibility and mentally checking the next
train to Brighton, Scott's secretary reappeared,
smiling, and motioned her to step into the great
producer's offices. Fifteen minutes later, and with
all her clothes on, Rowan had one of the two leading
parts in Scott's new Revue in her hand. The salary
was four times what she was being paid in
Brighton, conditions were excellent, and what was
more, she had a chance not only to act, but to sing
and dance as well, something she had always
wanted to do. Under the circumstances the world
seemed particularly bright on Regent Street that
morning, and Adam Pitt truly a generous man.
As soon as she reached her flat in Brighton, she
15

telephoned Pitt. To her surprise, he already knew
the good news, in fact, he invited her to celebrate it
with him that very evening at a party he was giving
for some friends. Delighted, Rowan accepted.
Within a matter of two hours she had given her
notice at the Brighton Theater, very much to the
surprise of her director. Of course, she had to finish
her two weeks but that would go quickly, consider-
ing what would follow her engagement in Brighton.
the party at Pitt's town house in Belgrave
Square was small and intimate indeed; as a matter
of fact, outside of herself there were only two other
couples present. From the conversation, Rowan
judged them to be people working in the stock
market, the men that is. The women did not impress
her particularly, or rather they were the kind of
women that one expects to come with people who
work in the stock market. Adam Pitt was the perfect
host; dinner was served by a butler named Ludlow,
a middle aged, gaunt man who spoke little except to
acknowledge his master's orders. If anything, he
looked the part of a butler to perfection. After the
other two couples had left, Pitt invited the young
actress to a nightcap in his study. The room was
exquisitely furnished in oriental decor, and looked
more like the private boudoir of a Near Eastern
sultan than the study of a London businessman.
Under the light of a red lamp, seated on a soft
divan, Adam Pitt then confessed that he was
extremely impressed with Miss Dorset's talents,
both professional and personal, and that he hoped
they would be close friends in the days to come. It
was at this meeting that he let it be known that he,
Adam Pitt, had a considerable interest in show
business. As a matter of fact, he had provided the
entire capital for the Intimate Revue in which Rowan
16

was to star. Rowan was somewhat taken aback by
this disclosure. Was he trying to buy her? But as if
he read her mind, he smiled, shook his head and
said, "No, I'm not trying to buy you. Far from it. But
I do wish to help your career. Since I have money,
and since it takes money to go places in the theater,
I'm offering you the facilities I have." That seemed
only natural, she thought. But Rowan'was, as an
Aries girl, a very practical person. "That is all very
well, Mr. Pitt," she replied, looking somewhat
quizzical at him, "but what is my part in the deal?"
"To be a success of course," he replied casually.
"But how do I return your favors?" "I'll let you
know." No matter how much she tried he would not
commit himself any further. Rather than risk
offending him, Rowan dropped the subject and
changed to something less explosive. As they were
talking about the latest openings on the London
stage, she looked at Adam Pitt with new eyes. If he
was to be her lover, she wondered whether she could
stand him. Then again, maybe that wasn't-whathe
had in mind. She decided, on balance, that he was
not her ideal by a long stretch of the imagination,
but that he was reasonably presentable, vigorous,
attractive, and above all, a most intriguing man. In
the long run, she thought, he might be more exciting
than some of the handsome fellow actors she met
constantly, and who had nothing to offer her but
their beds. The evening ended on a friendly note.
There was an embrace and a kiss, anditwasn't just
a friendly kiss. But then Rowan was used to that
sort of thing in her profession. People were
emotional and sometimes got carried away. She
disentangled herself from Adam Pitt's persuasive
arms, and stepped into the limousine, with Bangs
sitting at the wheel rigidly staring ahead of him, as
17

if he did not wish to see what was going on behind
him.
During the following weeks, Pitt took her out at
regular intervals, to the best places, to art gallery
openings, even to antique fairs. It was there that
she realized how much he was involved in the
pursuit of antiquities and rare art treasures.
Inevitably, her name was linked with his in the
social columns. Adam Pitt, while not exactly
aristocracy of either birth or business, was ne-
vertheless known about town, since he had bid on
some of the most outstanding art objects auctioned
off during the past decade. It was her impression
that he didn't particularly like these publicity
breaks, but at the same time he realized that they
were necessary for her career. For what it was
worth, Adam Pitt saw after her career in the
theater, throwing a press party when the Revue
opened, and doing everything he could to build her
up as a star. As a result of this, her stardom was
assured. The Revue had been a smash success;
countless appearances on television followed and
within a matter of a month her face was nationally
as well known as that of any famous star who had
been at it for years. Part of this sudden publicity
was undoubtedly due to Adam Pitt. A full time
paid press agent was at her disposal, feature stories
appeared in all the leading magazines, and com-
mercial endorsements for various products were
offered her at a rate that added appreciably to her
income from the show. All in all, her acquaintance-
ship with Adam Pitt was fruitful and successful
beyond expectations.
But as yet, he had done nothing to indicate what
he expected of her in return. She knew the obvious of
course, but even that had not yet happened. Either
18

Mr. Pitt wasn't really interested, or he preferred
biding his time: in this day and age, this seemed a
trifle old fashioned to Rowan, who had long
resigned herself to the role she would have to play in
the relationship. There was, however, one disquiet-
ing factor in this: somehow her psychic intuition
told her that sex was not the main object of Mr.
Pitt's attentions. Money certainly was not part of
his scheme: although it would have been perfectly
legitimate to ask for a portion of her earnings, he
wanted nothing from her in that way. There was no
doubt in her mind that he had spent thousands of
pounds to promote her, yet he would not even take
back a single penny. Unquestionably, Mr. Pitt had
other plans.
While Rowan was still trying to guess what Pitt
had in mind for her, he telephoned her to ask her to
his country estate for the weekend. Until that
moment, she didn't realize that he had a country
estate. He described it in such glowing terms that
his description alone would have enticed her to
come, had there not been other considerations. She
hadn't been to that part of East Anglia since her
childhood, and the name Corley Hall meant
nothing to her. Since she was asked for the
weekend, a small, smart bag dangled from her arm.
Pitt had explained that this would be extremely
informal and also that there would be no one else.
She liked him for his frankness, at least she knew
what to expect. He felt, so he had indicated to her on
the telephone, that he wanted an opportunity to talk
to her at length, away from pressures and away
from other people. It so happened that a business
venture he had been engaged in for the past few
weeks had been extremely successful, and he felt a
little like celebrating. Would she mind celebrating
19

with him? She would not, she had explained on the
telephone, and here she was, stepping out of his
limousine and being embraced rather firmly by
Adam Pitt, wearing a dark red velvet dressing gown
which made him appear a little like a modern day
version of Mephistopheles. But that was a fleeting
impression, and Rowan quickly dismissed it. A
moment later, she walked up the marble staircase,
arm in arm with her host, chatting about the good
notices her television appearance of last night had
elicited. She was now very much in demand not
only as a guest on talk shows but as a dramatic
actress and even as a singer. Her career had
literally boomed and, like it or not, she owed much
of it to Adam Pitt.
"This is your room," he explained, as he led her to
the left of the staircase, when they arrived on the
first floor level. When he opened the door, she
couldn't suppress a loud "ah". The room was
decorated in brilliant white, her favorite color, and
there were dozens upon dozens of roses all over it.
Pleased by her reception, Pitt withdrew, indicating
that dinner would be served in half an hour. After a
dinnier that would have made an Escoffier justly
proud, Pitt motioned to Janet, the maid, to with-
draw and led Rowan into the drawing room,
tarefully closing the door behind them.
"It must have occurred to you, my dear Rowan,"
Pitt began affably, stretching himself in the easiest
of easy chairs imaginable, "that I hold you in the
highest esteem. As a matter of fact, I'm about to
entrust you with something I do not discuss with
anyone but my closest associates. As you probably
know, I am a businessman with many interests and
many connections." Rowan nodded. She knew
about as much about Mr. Pitt as anyone in the
20

Finance District, or, for that matter, in Fleet Street.
When she could not find out too much about her
unusual benefactor from financial sources, Rowan
had turned to some friends in the newspaper
business who owed her a favor or two, from the days
when she didn't mind posing in a bathing suit for a
photograph to be published, or maybe not. But her
journalistic friends couldn't help her either. Even
the best morgues had very little to say about the
mysterious Adam Pitt. Son of George and Evelyn
Pitt, lower middle class shop keepers in Kent,
brought up in the usual primary schools, and a
graduate of Oxford in business administration. In
view of his background it must have been some-
what of a struggle to get into Oxford. The record
next lists Adam Pitt as stock broker for the firm of
Seewell, Truewell, and Sedgwick. Four years later
he is reported as marrying the late Mrs. Pitt. From
then on the entries climb rapidly along the social
ladder. Memberships in all the proper clubs,
committee memberships on various social func-
tions, and a seat on the stock exchange all
happened right after his marriage to the socially
and financially prominent Mrs. Pitt. The informa-
tion was skeletal, meager to the extreme, as if
someone had tried very hard to keep it from
becoming too detailed.
But Rowan did hear, in her conversations with
friends familiar with the Financial District, that
Pitt enjoyed a somewhat mysterious reputation.
Nobody could say for sure exactly what his
business was. Nobody could point a finger at him
for anything improper, either. Thus he had for
several years remained a mystery figure in the
market. Any attempt to have him checked out had
apparently ended at his bank, which had always
21

supplied the proper references. If anything, Mr. Pitt
did not lack in funds, nor in fact, in anything
material. Pitt Shipping Company was a registered
trade company, doing business with the Near and
Far East. The offices were located on Water Street,
actually more of a district for motion picture
companies than for Far Eastern traders. But Mr.
Pitt had eclectic tastes; he liked Water Street for
some reason, and that is where the offices of the Pitt
Shipping Company were.
So it was business he wanted to discuss with her,
Rowan thought not without disappointment. The
thrill of a vicarious adventure, even with the middle
aged Mr. Pitt, seemed to her immeasurably more
exciting than a business proposition. But she
listened. "I am in a very competitive business," Pitt
explained with a serious face. "In my business, it is
important to be there first. It is sometimes even
more important that no one knows what negotia-
tions I'm in, what merchandise may be arriving, or
what I may be doing. Consequently I have to watch
my step." Aha, Rowan thought, here it comes, he's
doing something illegal. "What do you mean, watch
your step?" she asked.
Pitt broke into laughter. "Oh, nothing illegal
mind you, when I say watch my step, I am not
afraid of the police, I'm afraid of my competitors. To
put it briefly, there are times when I don't want to
meet with certain people, because I don't want to be
observed by them. My competitors have very good
eyes, and they are very much interested in anything
and everything I do. You will admit that I am very
difficult to disguise. Very few people look like me."
Rowan had to agree. "What is it that you want me to
do then?" she asked, realizing that he was about to
ask. "Nothing much, and nothing very difficult," he
22

replied casually, "at times, I would want you to meet
someone, and deliver a letter from me or a message.
At other times, someone may want to give you a
letter for me or a message, or perhaps a package. All
I would want you to do is to be a go-between when I
don't want to show my face."
"I understand," Rowan said lightly, for it didn't
seem out of the ordinary to her. Still, she wanted to
make sure nothing improper was going on, for
getting involved with crooks was the last thing she
wanted. "There's only one thing, Adam," she said,
"what sort of merchandise do you handle? I mean I
should know a little about your business, don't you
think?" "Indeed you should. Pitt Shipping Com-
pany imports mainly two things: rare blends of tea
and perfumes from the orient. You know how the
English are, they like their teas to be just perfect.
Well, I happen to have an excellent buyer in Hong
Kong who supplies us with the finest blends of teas
you can imagine. As for the perfumes, we import the
essences from India and then have them blended by
one of our sub companies." "But why should this be
such a competitive business?" she asked. It seemed
absurd to her that the importer of tea and perfume
needed a secret go-between.
"Unfortunately, we cannot import many of these
goods directly. The manufacturers consign them to
duty free warehouses in London. We have to make
bids for certain parcels. Sometimes we have to go
south to various ports to make our bids there. Thti
fewer bids made, the more likely are we able to
obtain the goods at our prices." "But wouldn't these
exporters from the East notify other companies,
those in competition with you, Adam?" Rowan
asked, still unconvinced. He nodded emphatically.
'Yes, they would indeed if it weren't for one small
23

thing: we have a friend in Hong Kong and another
friend in Calcutta. They are very busy people and
they know the situation well indeed, and somehow
they find out when the shipments are about to be
sent. We get advance notice, you see. Warehouse
fees are high. Every day counts. By the time our
competitors find out that a certain lot has arrived,
perhaps two or three days later, we have already put
in our bids and usually bought it. So you see, Rowan
dear, it does matter that words from my friends in
the East to their agents in England and from these
agents to me are handled with the strictest of
confidence." Rowan still couldn't quite grasp the
needs for all this secrecy. "But what about the
mails?" she asked, immediately realizing how
naive her question was. He smiled, but didn't reply
directly. "Rowan dear," he said instead, "because of
your help I will be able to be seen in one place while
actually transacting business in another. Nautral-
ly, there will be certain financial benefits for you in
this, too."
Well, Rowan thought, it doesn't sound so ex-
traordinary after all. As long as it is merely taking a
letter to someone or getting a message back to
Adam, why should She care. One thing, though,
bothered her. "But why me, Adam?" she asked,
"Why couldn't you ask some businessman, or some
clerk, anyone to do this for you?" "My dear Rowan,"
he said, raising his eyebrows significantly with
every word, "a businessman or a clerk generally
looks like one. You do not." With that, Rowan had to
agree.
"But come," Pitt said, changing the subject, "let
us talk of something else. By taking an occasional
message to someone for me or receiving one for me
you will be doing me a favor, more than enough to
24

balance whatever small favors I was able to do for
you in the past. But far more important than that, I
am extremely fond of you, Rowan, and find your
company simply irresistible. Despite the differ-
ences in our ages, I would like to hope that the
relationship is not entirely one sided." With that he
looked her straight into the eyes, smiled a little, and
waited. Rowan realized what he was waiting for.
Pitt was not exactly her romantic hero, and there
was something about him that she couldn't quite
place. But he was attractive, charming and a little
bit dangerous. All of these qualities together
triggered her response: firmly planting a kiss on his
waiting lips, she didn't mind it when he lifted her
up, and, leaving the door to the drawing room open
behind him, slowly, deliberately, carried her up the
stairs.
That night Rowan Dorset discovered that middle-
aged men have certain advantages. For one thing,
they are grateful to young things like herself for
letting themselves go. For another, they have
acquired certain techniques in love making that a
beginner does not always possess, even though he
may possess the power to put such techniques into
operation. And finally, no matter how important a
man he was, it left her with a feeling that in the long
run it was she who was holding most of the trump
cards. Under the circumstances, not a bad relation-
ship.
25

Chapter 2
It was late morning, very late morning in fact,
before Adam Pitt got out of bed on that particular,
joyful day. The night had been most satisfactory,
and he felt in the mood to tackle almost anything.
Immediately, however, he wanted to tackle a big
breakfast, in the true English manner. After that,
perhaps a game of tennis with Miss Dorset, that is if
she was up to it. If I may say so myself, Pitt thought
to himself, I do wear them down.
Evidently he hadn't quite succeeded in tiring
Rowan down all that, for she appeared fifteen
minutes later, fresh as a daisy and equally as
hungry as he was. Now that they knew each other
even better than before, their conversation was
freer, and in a way more matter of fact-like. Despite
his seeming openness, Rowan couldn't help feeling
that he was holding back somewhere along the line
just the same. Mind you, it was only a woman's
intuition that told her this, nothing to go on really.
But no matter how human Mr. Pitt seemed to be,
and he was plenty human during the night, there
was always that certain something that made her
aware of his extreme caution. Truly, she thought,
did anyone ever know him fully?
After breakfast, Pitt went upstairs again to
change and minutes later they had their game of
tennis. He played a pretty good game for his age,
she thought. His balls were nothing to sneeze, at.
She wondered whether he had played tennis with
the late Mrs. Pitt, but doubted it immediately. They
26

had High Tea at five, and then Mr. Pitt indulged
himself in another one of his favorite hobbies,
listening to Wagnerian music from his hi-fi system
in his study, preferrably at very high volume. This
made the walls reverberate with the music, adding
another, eerie dimension to the already powerful
impact of the music. At first, Rowan was overcome
by the vibrations of the music coming at her from
all directions. After a few minutes of it, however,
she felt strangely excited by it. There was some-
thing in Richard Wagner's music that turned her
on. As she observed Pitt lightly conducting the
music, as if he were the conductor, she couldn't help
but feel an attraction towards him. The attraction
grew as the crescendo grew. She pulled up closer to
him. Dressed in lounging pajamas, with the top
partly open revealing a rather hairy chest, he
seemed strangely remote from the impeccable
businessman he was to the rest of the world. The
house was warm, apart from the fact that this was a
rather warm Sunday afternoon to begin with, so
Rowan had changed to something rather light. Her
tight fitting silk slacks as black as her previous
outfit had been white, was topped by a halter made
of sheer materials. Under the circumstances it took
Pitt only a few seconds to remove it, revealing the
fullness of her breasts, large yet firm, pointed and
deliriously appetizing. Casually his hands played
with them, as the music rose and fell. Then, with a
gentle but firm move of his left hand, he unbuttoned
her slacks, rolling them down her sides and in the
process revealing equally superbly formed legs. His
right hand reached for the dimmer, and in a
moment the study was thrown into semi-darkness.
Then, slowly but methodically, he rose from his
sitting position, stripped off his pajamas, and
27

placed Rowan on the couch next to him. All this
happened without the slightest protest on her part,
to the contrary, she anticipated eagerly his every
movement. The late afternoon soiree turned out to
be even more rewarding than the previous night
had been; Adam Pitt proved to be superior to most
men of his age and condition.
Dinner was again served by the butler, Ludlow.
Mrs. Berries, the cook, was on holiday and not
expected back until tomorrow morning. But Ludlow
did as well or better, judging from the appreciative
glances his master sent in his direction, when the
meal was finished. It was still early in the evening
when Bangs drove Miss Dorset back to the railroad
station. She had a early morning call for rehearsal,
and could not afford to be in bed too late.
It was about nine o'clock when Adam Pitt was
alone again. Only now would he have a chance to
take a closer look at the treasures he had recently
acquired at the antique shop. "Bangs," he called,
when the chauffeur had returned from the station,
"you may go out or go to bed, but I shan't be needing
you any more tonight." "Very good sir," the
chauffeur said and left. After Pitt had told Ludlow
and Janet, the maid, that he wouldn't be needing
them any more that evening, he took his "trea-
sures" with him and retired to his work room on the
ground floor. It was here that he had the necessary
equipment to study ancient manuscripts or any of
the unusual antiquities which came his way from
time to time. There was, first of all, a magnifying
•glass, superb lighting, and the kind of library a
collector needs when he is in a quandary as to the
origin or age of certain objects in his possession.
There were other apparatus in this work room,
seemingly of a chemical nature, which at least at
28

first glance, did not have any direct bearing on the
collecting of antiques. But Adam Pitt was also a
motion picture fan: large stacks of film filled the
corners, and a Bolex-H-16 casually placed on a shelf
between books. The room seemed full and yet not
too crowded; one had the impression that .it had
been worked in a great deal, and that its owner
knew exactly where everything was even though it
seemed to the outsider that everything was quite
chaotic.
As soon as he had entered the room, he locked the
door behind him. Turning on the strong lights, and
then focusing them onto the large table which
occupied the center of the room, he carefully spread
the rolled up documents before himself, one by one
then, taking a soft brush from one of the drawers,
tried to clean them as carefully as he could.
"Nothing special here," he mumbled as he exam-
ined map after map. Then, turning one badly torn
piece of map around, he noticed some ancient
writing on the back side of it. "Palimpsest," he
mumbled to himself, at the same time trying to
decipher the inscription. A Palimpsest is a piece of
manuscript or painting used in the binding of a
book at a later time. Many rare documents were
thus preserved because they had been used again,
although not in the way they were originally meant
to be. After ten or fifteen minutes of studying the
Latin inscription on the back of the map, Adam Pitt
sighed. "Nothing here either," he said in a soft
voice, speaking to himself. It was merely a prayer
by some long forgotten, unknown sailor that his
ship might reach shore and he be safe in the end.
Since sixteenth century Latin differed greatly from
the classical version, Pitt had-had some difficulty
deciphering the inscription. Although his own
29

background had been in business administration at
Oxford, he had always been interested in the
classical languages and taught himself a consider-
able amount of Latin.
Pitt then looked at the next document, carefully
examining it on both sides. These were rare and old
maps, to be sure, and he was glad he had bought
them. But the piece of map that had excited him
when he first saw it at the shop, was the one that
came next to the last one in the lot. Carefully
spreading it out before himself, he then took four
small pins from a drawer and pinned the map to the
table, thus preventing it from rolling itself up again.
Then Pitt pulled the large magnifying glass
suspended from a metal arm, closer to the map itself
and went over it, inch by inch.
It was as he had suspected! What he had before
him here was nothing less than a sixteenth century
map of the East Anglian coastline. In the lower
corner, fortunately well preserved, the map maker
had engraved, "La Coruna, A.D. MDXCI." No
name, no indication who the map maker was. This
unknown artist of the city of La Coruna, Spain, had
engraved this remarkable map in the year 1591,
exactly three years after the destruction of the
Spanish Armada north of that Spanish coastal city.
Feverishly, Adam Pitt followed the map from left
to right, from top to bottom. The lower left corner
was missing, but fortunately it did not matter very
much in this instance. What interested Mr. Pitt
most was the upper two thirds of the map, showing
the eastern English coastline. Way on top, in
lettering too small to be read except with a
magnifying glass, or if one were actually looking
for the inscription, were the words, "Tesauri Classis
Hispaniae in Brittania." Below that Latin inscrip-
30

tion were perhaps half a dozen tiny crosses,
marking various spots along the East Anglian and
southern English coastlines. "Treasures of the
Spanish fleet in Britain," the inscritpion meant;
and treasure hunting was one of Mr. Pitt's foremost
hobbies, if not almost a profession. He knew very
well that the Spanish Armada had floundered
somewhere north of the Spanish coast, east of the
Irish coast, and as far north as the eastern English
coast, in single instances. The ships of the Armada
had been dispersed by the strong winds, more than
by the enemy. Two or three of the ships had carried
gold treasure, destined to be used in payment of the
Navy. He knew very well, from having read a great
deal about that early battle of Britain, that at least
three ships were known to have floundered not too
far from the East Anglian coast. In particular, he
was aware of the fact that the wreck of the Royal
Spanish frigate Isabella Infanta had broken up
not too far from the coast.
Nobody had as yet discovered the exact location,
to be sure, and it might have been anywhere within
a hundred miles from where his house stood. For
years, villagers in the area had spoken of a rich
Spanish ship that lay buried underneath the North
Sea but no one knew exactly where it was. Pitt had
of course heard this rumor ever since he had come to
Werrick. But he had considered it legendary
rather than factual. Now his composure was rudely
shattered: here, before his very eyes, lay a piece of
authentic Spanish map, drawn only a scant three
years after the destruction of the Spanish fleet,
indicating some of the locations where Spanish
treasure lay buried. Apparently, some of the sailors
were able to save themselves and probably part or
all of the treasure. As it was the custom in those
31

days, they would have buried their valuables on
shore just as soon as they could, trying to make
their way back to Spain by whichever means they
were able to find. Undoubtedly, as was the custom
also in those cruel days, many of them were
murdered in cold blood by the English villagers,
who justly considered them the worst enemy
England could have had at that time. This was
during the religious controversy between Catholi-
cism and Protestantism, when Philip had also been
King of England, being married to Mary Tudor.
Now, of course, Queen Elizabeth the First had been
on the throne for many years, an implacable foe of
Spain and Catholicism.
Taking his largest magnifying glass, Pitt looked
very carefully at the little crosses indicating
locations along the coast. There was something
very familiar about one of the crosses and the
surrounding territory. Yes, there was no doubt
about it: the slight promontory looked suspiciously
like the promontory east of Werrick; the serpentine
rivulet below the cross, bearly touching it, seemed
also very familiar. Hastily, Pitt took out an Atlas:
comparing the area of the Spanish map with a very
detailed ordnance map made a few years ago, he
discovered that his suspicion had been correct.
Although the town of Werrick was not actually
marked on the Spanish map, there was no doubt
about it that the cross indicating treasure was
placed between the east shore of the river Gage, and
the coast. That was extremely interesting to Mr.
Pitt. It so happened that his land extended from the
east shore of the river Gage to the coast, and if there
was any treasure left as the map indicated, then
surely it would have to be on his soil. But Pitt was
also a careful researcher in his own way; so far
32

everything was just speculation and perhaps
wishful thinking. Carefully putting the map be-
tween two cardboards and then into a special
leather case made for maps, he went through
several books dealing with the Spanish Armada.
Unfortunately, they contained no reference to any
wreck along the East Anglian coast. The very best
he could find was a short reference to "several ships
made it up north and eventually sank in a storm off
England," but that was far too general to be of any
use. He decided to consult the much more extensive
library at the British Museum just as soon as he
could.
Adam Pitt had been to the British Museum
library several times before, not often enough to be
recognized as a regular, to be sure, since that was
something he did not wish to be. But there was no
difficulty in getting help from the librarian on duty.
Carefully Pitt explained his quest. Fifteen minutes
later, a stack of books lay before him, some of recent
origin and some obviously at least two hundred
years old, judging from their heavy bindings. With
the patience of an angel, Pitt leafed through them.
This was a Monday morning and probably one of
the busiest times in the market place. Ordinarily, he
would have been at his offices. But the quest for
Spanish treasure took preference at the moment.
Three hours later an exhausted Adam Pitt raised
his eyes, by now hurting, and sighed. Nothing!
Absolutely nothing. Then an idea struck him. "Tell
me, Sir," he queried the young librarian, "are there
any documents dealing with this period I might
have a look at?" The librarian thought for a
moment. "Yes, there are," he replied with some
hesitancy, "but they're all up in the research
library section. I would have to fetch them." Pitt
33

knew that it might be several days before he could
lay eyes upon them. "Might it not be easier for both
of us," he said, "if you took me to them rather than
the other way around?" The librarian saw nothing
unusual in this request, judging Mr. Pitt to be a man
of substance, probably a professor from some
university bent on one particular detail. He took
Pitt up to the top floor, walking up the back stairs,
excusing himself for that fact, because the front
stairs were in repair. When they arrived at the
document room, Pitt was overwhelmed. He himself
owned perhaps two hundred or two hundred-fifty
sixteenth and seventeenth century documents. But
that was puny compared to what presented itself to
his eyes. Carefully stacked in row upon row, shelf
upon shelf, lay hundreds and perhaps thousands of
ancient documents. The librarian excused himself
and five minutes later he returned with an arm full
of warped, yellowing documents, protruding from
the cardboard folders in which they had been
placed. "Here, sir," he said, "I hope you have some
luck." Without replying, Pitt went to work. He had
brought a magnifying glass with him as well as a
small flashlight and of course his tape recorder. It
was getting towards lunch, and Pitt asked permis-
sion to stay through. Everybody left except one
young student who had brought his lunch with him.
The first three papers or parchments proved to be
of no help at all. But the fourth document was much
more promising. His own intuition somehow told
him that he was on to something useful, perhaps
even very important. Straining his eyes to make out
the quaintly drawn letters, he learned that the
document was a report from a certain Godfrey
Willson, who signed himself Her Majesty's Loyal
Servant, but was in fact, a tax collector. This Mr.
34

Willson was writing to the First Lord of the
Exchequer in the year of Our Lord 1597, that he had
gone to the town of "Verricke" in East Anglia, in
response to repeated reports of Spanish treasure
having been discovered in the area. Mr. Willson
could not find any Spanish treasure, but he did
discover that a Spanish galleon had indeed floun-
dered near shore and that treasure from it had been
brought to the coast and buried ashore by the
Spaniards. "I have spoken to a man by name of
Ross, who liveth near said towne," Mr. Willson
explained in the document, "he deposeth and
sweareth that upon a certain night in the year of
Our Lord 1588 he had returneth from fishing, when
he hath come upon a group of strangers, busily
engaged in hiding something beneath the ground. I
feared for my life and so I did not wayte to be
discovered by said strangers, but forthwith re-
turned to my house." Mr. Willson added that the
man had confessed this to his parish priest, being of
the former religion, but that he, Willson, had forced
the intelligence out of said parish priest by various
and sundry means. What the means were, one can
only guess at.
Delighted, Pitt had the document photostated for
his own use. Thanking the librarian, who had
meanwhile returned from lunch, he then left the
British Museum library, whistling an old Spanish
tune as he went.
With his suspicions confirmed, Adam Pitt was
hellbent on finding the lost Spanish treasure. Even
though he realized that the British Museum would
have to be notified in case he actually found
something, he felt he could deal with that aspect
later. The very next morning he would start hiring
laborers, and start the dig. With a dozen men, he
35

figured, he should be able to cover the area pretty
thoroughly in a matter of two or three weeks. He
realized, of course, that the cross indicated the
location of the treasure only to within perhaps fifty
or one hundred yards at best. That is, if the map was
accurate, and he had no proof that it was. Still, it
was a hopeful beginning.
When he arrived back at the office, he found his
private secretary, Angus, awaiting him nervously.
The office itself was small and functional. A
somewhat antiseptically looking anti-room, with
the usual end table, telephone for visitors, and two'
chairs and a couch. In front of the couch, on aj
cocktail table were a stack of magazines. They were^
an odd mixture of business magazines and the
latest in show business and sex-oriented publica-
tions. Clearly, Mr. Pitt catered to all tastes. From
this small reception room, a door lead to a narrow
corridor which presented a waiting visitor with the
view of a blank, white wall, should he glance
through the opened door. However, once in the
corridor, one could see two office doors, one to the
left and one to the right. The office to the left, the
smaller one, belonged to Angus McPherson, the
secretary, a young man of about twenty-five,
wearing heavy horn rimmed glasses, and display-
ing an attitude of great agitation and nervousness
at all times. He had been with the company for only
six months and was most desirous of pleasing his
boss. So far his main occupation had been that of
keeping "the home fires burning," when Mr. Pitt
was absent, and of taking telephone messages and
relaying them. He had not yet really gotten
involved with the business itself and had some
doubts as to the nature of it, except that shipments
were due any moment and that he had better be on
36

hand when they arrived. The office to the right, the
larger one of the two, belonged to the boss.
Elaborately and almost lavishly furnished in a
kind of modern Elizabethan style, it contained an
oversize desk, a most comfortable chair behind it,
two chairs for visitors, and most conspicuously, a
large and apparently well-protected file. It was not
simply a file made of thin, gray steel or iron, as the
majority of such office files are. This file looked
more like a vault, except that it was out in the open.
In it, Adam Pitt kept, not his business secrets, but
his latest acquisitions from Portobello Road, or
some other antique center of London.
"Mr. Pitt, Mr. Pitt," the secretary said in an
anxious tone of voice, "there has been a telephone
call from Southhampton, sir. They've called back
twice already. It seems to be urgent, sir." Instantly,
Pitt understood. "Very well, Angus," he said, "I'll
take care of it at once. Thank you. Meanwhile, won't
you please get out the personnel file and pick me
three, no four men, to be ready on call when I need
them." Angus McPherson understood, he had been
called upon by his boss to do the same thing once
before, about a month after he had entered service
with the company. Immediately he went to a file in
his own office, this one, however, of the ordinary
kind. Under personnel, he found what he was told to
look for: a list of available workmen, who were
familiar with Mr. Pitt's requirements. Apparently
Mr. Pitt preferred to use his own workmen when
receiving a shipment from abroad. McPherson
couldn't quite figure this out, since he thought that
Workmen would be cheaper if hired on the spot,
wherever the shipment arrived, whether in the Port
of London or in Southhampton. But Mr. Pitt felt
that his way was the better one, and McPherson
37

gave it no further thought, figuring that the boss
knew why.
Within a minute after he had sat down at his
large desk, Pitt had dialed the number which had
contacted him while he was at the British Museum.
Before picking up the telephone, however, he made
sure that the connecting door to the corridor and
thus to McPherson's was firmly closed. Then he
pulled a small lever to the left of his telephone which
deactivated McPherson's line, so that he could not
accidentally, or by design, if it were, listen in to his
conversation. If there were any incoming calls
while he was speaking, Pitt would have to take
them himself. McPherson would not have been
aware of them. After a few seconds, the number Pitt
was dialing replied. "Flying Buzzards Club speak-
ing," the voice on the other end said. "Hello, Flying
Buzzards?" Pitt repeated, "may I speak to Mr.
Spencer." "Hold the line please." A moment later
another voice came to the telephone. "Spencer
speaking, what may I do for you?" "This is Adam
Pitt in London speaking," Pitt replied, "I'm
returning your call. I presume you are calling me
about the private plane I've asked for." "Correct,
sir. We've got your order and we've got the plane
standing by when you want it." "Splendid." "Will
you be flying it yourself, sir." "No, one of my
associates will. A Mr. Charles Carsgrove. He's got a
pilot's license, of course. This is sort of a hobby with
him, you understand, and the company is paying
for it as a bonus for services rendered. You will
kindly bill everything to me here in London." "Very
well, sir. The plane will be ready at seven p.m.
tomorrow, as requested. Will there be anything else,
sir?" "No, not for the moment. Thank you. Good-
bye."
38

With a smile, Pitt hung up. There was an air of
excitement on his face now, but it was different
from the excitement of the art collector or adventur-
er. This was the excitement caused by tension, the
tension of a hardheaded businessman. On Pitt's
forehead, the lines deepened and the atomosphere
was one of careful planning and much concern. For
a few moments, Pitt sat quietly in his chair, then he
rose, walked over to the door and reassured himself
that it was securely locked. Returning to his large
desk, he then opened the lowest drawer with a key
he had taken from his pocket. Pulling out the
drawer he picked up a small telephone hidden in it.
Even McPherson knew nothing of this telephone.
Placing the telephone before him on the desk, he
started to dial. After a few seconds, he placed the
receiver to his ear and spoke in a much lower tone of
voice then he had previously done.
"Hello?" "This is Southhampton. Who is there?"
"This is The Unicorn." "Hello. Is the plane ready?"
"It is. Seven p.m. tomorrow night at the Flying
Buzzards." "Very well. We will be there." "How
much is it this time?" "Eight pounds. Have you got
the money?" "I've got the money." "Until tomorrow
night then." Both men hung up almost simultane-
ously. Quickly, Pitt returned the little telephone to
its hiding place, locked it, rose, and unlocked the
connecting door. There was no point in keeping his
secretary isolated any longer than necessary. But
McPherson hadn't even noticed that he had been
locked out. He was still working on the personnel
file. "Have you got the right men yet?" Pitt asked
somewhat impatiently. Sweat pearls stood on
McPherson's forehead. He was eager to please the
boss, but going through all those names did take
some time. Finally, he found what he had been
39

looking for: name cards with a double x placed
beside them, which was the companies' code for
reliability. Half an hour later the men had been
notified, and all but one was available for the job at
hand. The three men selected were to meet with
them tomorrow afternoon at four, when a lorry
would take them to the area of their employment
outside Southhampton.
"How much tea are we getting in this time, Mr.
Pitt?" McPherson asked. "Eight hundred pounds of
the finest Ceylonese tea, and two hundred pounds of
that Tibetan mixture I have been trying to intro-
duce since last fall. However, it will be sent on to our
distributors right away. We simply don't have any
space here to store it." "I quite understand, sir."
Actually, McPherson had never seen any merchan-
dise going through the office. But then a great deal
of British business was constructed in this way: the
actual merchandise is never seen. "You may take
the afternoon off, McPherson," Pitt said pleasantly.
He didn't want the secretary around when the three
men would report to the office. McPherson knew
nothing about what Pitt euphemistically called
"the operations". His sole job was to take messages,
to keep the office running, and to be a routine
secretary. Adam Pitt's business on the stock
exchange, although it was not a very active trading
operation, nevertheless required a certain number
of letters to go out every day, certain errands, and
certain files to be kept. The fact was, that Pitt made
a good deal of money from his dealings on the stock
exchange. But he made it because of his own
acumen as a speculator and not because of the hard
work put in by his secretary. At best, Angus
McPherson was a convenience, at worst, part of a
cover up.
40

McPherson was delighted at the prospect of
having an afternoon to himself. Even though there
was practically no business to transact, Pitt had
insisted that McPherson be present in the office
from morning until five o'clock, and take time off
for his own affairs only when he, Pitt, was present
in the office. It appeared to McPherson that Pitt was
somewhat concerned lest a message be lost' "Thank
you, sir" McPherson said, and within a matter of a
minute he was gone. The day was warm and
pleasant, and he intended to spend it walking near
the Serpentine in the park, where some of the
loveliest young birds in London took their after-
noon strolls, not to mention the birds on the water,
if one was bent in the direction of a nature lover.
Promptly at four o'clock, three husky men
walked into the office. Pitt explained that they
would be unloading tea. "Tea is it, sir?" said one of
the men sarcastically and looked Pitt straight into
the face. "Tea it is indeed," Pitt replied sternly.
There was a catch, however. He did not intend to
pay duty on the tea he was importing, he explained.
Consequently, they would be paid double their
usual rates. The men nodded. They had been
through this before, several times during the last
two years. Each time Pitt pretended that they did
not know. But the men did not care. All they cared
for was that they were being paid well. Hang the
government and its excise taxes!
Promptly at seven o'clock, Charles Carsgrove, a
slight man who looked more like a jockey than a
flyer, walked into the manager's office at the Flying
Buzzards' airfield. "Spencer," the manager said,
and perfunctorily extended his hand. "I trust you
will be returning the plane by midnight?" he asked.
The operation wasn't exactly "new to him either.
41

During the past two or three years Adam had
requested a small plane for one or the other of his
associates who, he said, liked to fly a bit. In each
case, the plane was requested for the dinner hour
and returned shortly before midnight.
"Quite," Carsgrove replied. "You'll have to file a
routing of course," the manager explained, looking
at Carsgrove expectantly. "That might be a little
difficult," Carsgrove replied, deadpan, "I was
thinking of bumming around a bit, sort of looking
the country over, don't you know?" Spencer seemed
unmoved. "Government regulations require a flight
plan, sir, unless of course, you don't intend to land
at any of the approved airfields. For instance, if you
were to land at some private, unlicensed airfield,
that would be allright." "That's it, that's it,"
Carsgrove said and nodded, far too emphatically to
be believable, "that is exactly what I intend to do, a
friend of mine has a little strip not far from the
Splent, just this side of the coastline. I think I'll pay
him a visit. Sort of drop in on him, if you know what
I mean." He laughed an uncertain laughter, but the
manager did not care to join.
"You will still have to fill out the insurance
form," he said. "Oh yes, I know," Carsgrove replied,
then stopped. "Since I haven't flown for the past
three or four months, I have sort of gotten out of the
habit. Would you mind filling it in for me? I would
be much obliged if you took the trouble." With that
Carsgrove picked up the insurance form and
handed it back to the manager. As he did so, he
pressed Spencer's hand, as if to thank him. When he
withdrew it there were two ten-pound notes left
behind in the manager's hand. Not a bad fee to pay
for so small a favor. Or was it?
Carsgrove knew perfectly well that smuggling
42

expensive tea into Britain without benefit of
Customs was, in fact, illegal. But he had no
compunctions, first of all because he was well paid
for the job, and secondly, because he had little
regard for his government. Why should the govern-
ment make tea so much more expensive? Surely,
helping putting holes into the government's curtain
of Customs was in itself a good thing, taken from
the philosophical point of view.
The plane in question was a two-seater Beach-
craft, of the Bonanza type. It could seat two persons
quite comfortably, or one person and a considerable
amount of merchandise.
In late spring the days are still very short in
England, consequently it was quite" dark when
Carsgrove started the motor. A few minutes later
the little plane lifted itself gracefully off the small
runway, and, with a subdued sputtering of the
motor, turned away from the field towards the sea.
It took a good pilot to do this sort of thing at night;
once he was in the air, he was pretty much on his
own. There was neither radar nor any mechanical
ground approach system in operation.
The little flying fields, all of them in private
hands, did not fall into the category of facilities
which were required to have radar installations by
law. As a matter of fact, nobody ever inspected their
books. The government thought so little of their
importance, that it didn't feel it was worth wasting
the time of government officials inspecting them.
Since the directors of the club had to be known to the
filing clerk when the club was started, the govern-
ment thought that the identity of those behind such
clubs was sufficient knowledge, and didn't really
care what the directors did, or those employed by
them. Under the circumstances, the Flying Buz-
43

zards lead a peaceful existence, practically immune
from regulations and government interference.
Carsgrove looked out the left side window, to help
orient himself. There was a radio in the plane, to be
sure, but he wasn't particularly interested in
contacting the "tower", actually the office of the
flying club below. His instructions were to head out
towards the Isle of Wight. Below, there appeared
two rows of lights, ending abruptly at a black
object, and, a little further on, four strong lights,
placed into a square. Immediately Carsgrove
recognized these landmarks. The two rows of lights
represented a road running alongside the Splent,
the black object was the shore. The Splent is an arm
of the sea, cutting deeply into south eastern
England, and bordered in the north and west by the
New Forrest. More important, however, were the
four strong lights placed into a square further on.
Banking sharply now, Carsgrove made for the
lights. When he came down to within about three
hundred feet, he realized that he was on the right
target. Pulling controls up once again, he turned
and banked to the left, then came in once again, this
time, however, heading directly down towards the
four lights. Shortly afterwards, the little Beachcraft
plane rolled onto a tiny landing s'trip. Situated not
faf from the seashore, it was illuminated by the four
strong lights which Carsgrove had seen from the
air. As soon as the plane had come to a full stop, a
car came out of the dark, heading towards it. When
it was up close, it turned out to be a small lorry and
from it sprang three husky men in workers' clothes.
Not a word was exchanged, for the men knew
evidently what they were doing. Throwing his
hatch open, Carsgrove leaned back in his cockpit.
Swiftly the three men filled the little plane to the hilt
44

with medium sized cardboard boxes. Carsgrove
counted perhaps fifteen or twenty of these boxes,
enough to fill every available inch in the airplane.
Quickly as they had come, the three men closed the
hatch and went back to their lorry. Carsgrove
couldn't help noticing a faint odor of the sea
emanating from the packages. He wondered about
it.
Of course, had he known that the packages had
been trans-shipped from a small boat standing by
off the shore, and that this had taken place barely
half an hour before his landing, he would have
understood. What he would not have understood,
however, was the need for such elaborate precau-
tions in the shipment of tea, even expensive tea. Of
course, the packages could have been brought to
England by air from a small airfield in say, France,
or some other nearby shore. But by using boats and
then trans-shipping by air, the risk of anyone's
knowing both origination and destination of the
shipment was greatly reduced. As it was, some men
knew where it originated, and Carsgrove knew
where it went; but the whole truth was known only
to Adam Pitt. Just as soon as the lorry had left,
Carsgrove threw the motor back on. Moments later
the Beachcraft Bonanza was in the air again,
returning to the Flying Buzzards' strip. The entire
operation had taken less than an hour. Nervously,
Carsgrove looked at his wrist watch, it was two
minutes past eight o'clock. He knew that the field
office closed down at eight sharp, and that the
manager and the other two employees would leave
shortly after. Under his arrangement with Spencer,
Carsgrove would land the plane himself and check
himself out. To be on the safe side, he circled the
field two or three times more, finally landing on the
45

other end of the little air strip, just as he had been
instructed to do by his employer.
The time was eight-twenty p.m. He was Still ten
minutes early. Promptly at eight-thirty, a black
limousine drove up to the far end of the air strip.
There was a gate on that side also, and Carsgrove
quickly opened it, allowing the car to enter the strip
proper and to drive up close to the airplane. When
the car same to a halt, two men in dark raincoats
jumped out. They wore hats and gloves, and dark
glasses, even though one could hardly see anything
at this hour of the night. Again, without exchang-
ing a single word, the men went to work, swiftly
opening the hatch of the aircraft and unloading the
boxes. Two minutes later, the boxes had disap-
peared into the car. One of the two men was already
behind the wheel. The other, smaller one, checked a
document in his hand. "Fifteen in all," he mumbled,
then nodded, and quickly extended his hand to
Carsgrove. The pilot felt a roll of paper touching his
fingers. Quickly, he grabbed it. A hundred pounds
for an hours work wasn't bad.
As soon as the car had left the field, Carsgrove
got back into the airplane and started the motor
again. Taxiing slowly across the air strip, he
brought the plane to the hangar, and pushed it
inside with considerable effort. Quickly, he locked
the door again, and a minute later the air strip of the
Flying Buzzards was as dark and silent as the night
around it.
The black Jaguar raced along the road, now
devoid of all traffic. About five miles towards
London it came to a screeching halt. Here, at this
crossroad, miles from any human habitation, there
wasn't likely to be much interference for the little
business that would be transacted very shortly. Not
46

more than five minutes later, two cars came
towards the rendezvous from opposite directions.
Since the black limousine had its lights on, they had
no difficulty homing in on the meeting point.
Almost simultaneously, both cars came to a halt
within a few yards of each other. Several men
emerged from the two cars and went over towards
the black limousine. There was some subdued
conversation, then the two men who had just left
the air strip, went back to their car and opened the
trunk. Quickly, the boxes of tea disappeared into the
other two cars, one half into each. A moment later
the three cars left the rendezvous and drove off into
the directions whence they had come.
It had been an exceptionally good transaction,
Mr. Pitt thought, and everybody concerned was
most satisfied. As if to underscore his thoughts, the
telephone rang in Mr. Pitt's desk at that moment,
the private telephone that is. Quickly closing the
connecting door, so that McPherson, the secretary
would not hear the conversation, Pitt answered the
persistent ring.
"Yes?" "May I speak with The Unicorn?" "You
are speaking with The Unicorn." "This is Sparrow.
The stuff is fine, only you were three ounces short
this time." "Really? I shall have to look into that,"
Pitt replied calmly. "Perhaps it disappeared on the
other end?" the caller suggested. "You never know
who you can trust these days." "Quite. But
meanwhile put it on memo and I shall make it up to
you next time." "Splendid. When do you expect
another shipment?" "Probably within a fortnight. I
should like to use the good weather as much as
possible." "Seems reasonable. I can certainly use a
lot more tea than I have been getting from you.""**
"Please don't be impatient. After all, I have to think
47

of all of my customers." "So do I, so do I." "I shall do
what I can. You will be notified in the usual way
when another shipment is due." "Very good.
Goodbye." "Goodbye now."
Quickly Pitt replaced the little telephone in the
drawer. He wondered about the missing ounces.
Was someone shortchanging him, or had there been
a leak? Pitt hated imperfections, or missing links.
Even so small a detail as the absence of a few
ounces of—ah—tea, worried him. He had closed the
drawer not a second too soon. An over enthusiastic
McPherson was about to open the door not waiting
for the boss to say, 'come in, please.' Pitt was clearly
displeased. "Yes, McPherson, what is it that is so
urgent? You seem agitated." "No, no, sir," the
secretary blurted out, "I only wondered how the
operation went." "The operation?" Pitt replied
somewhat taken aback.
Did McPherson know something? But he imme-
diately rejected this notion. McPherson couldn't
know anything. As far as the secretary was
concerned, Pitt was in the tea import business. As a
matter of fact, each of the fifteen boxes trans-
shipped the night before did contain a considerable
amount of tea. The only thing was, that wasn't all
they contained. Safely buffered by packages of tea,
each box contained the most refined, superior
quality hard drugs money could buy. A shipment of
the size of last night's, for instance, was worth
several million pounds in retail value, once it got
into the market. Getting it into the market,
however, wasn't his problem; that is what he had
distributors for. Actually, Pitt never touched the
stuff, never saw it, and somehow pretended that it
didn't really exist. As far as he was concerned, the
boxes contained just good tea.
48

Regaining his composure, he smiled and said,
"Oh I see, you mean the shipment of tea from
Ceylon?" "Yes, sir," McPherson said, "you intimat-
ed that this was a particularly fortunate purchase."
"So it was, so it was," Pitt assured the young man,
"it has all been handled properly and we should be
making a good profit from it, I should think," he
said and started to shuffle some papers on his desk.
McPherson got the message and withdrew. Once
again alone, Pitt looked at himself in a small mirror
to the right of his desk. "Not bad, not bad," he said,
mumbling to himself, for the mirror had shown him
a relaxed, self-satisfied Adam Pitt, the kind of man
who might properly engage in a little archeological
sleuthing. He had earned his right to a little
relaxation. He knew very well that there wouldn't
be another shipment for at least two weeks. There
was no point in hanging around the office for the
rest of the week, and the stock market could be
watched just as well from his country home.
Besides, even so wealthy a man as Pitt was
somewhat short of funds at this moment, having
paid in cash for his "tea". It would be another
twenty-four hours before the payments came in
from the distributors. The way he had set up the
system, no direct payments into his account were
possible. Consequently the matter took an extra
day, but it was that much safer. No, Pitt decided,
there was no point in staying at the office an extra
hour.
Bangs, the chauffeur, was somewhat surprised to
be summoned in the middle of the afternoon, but
then nothing really surprised him for very long, for
he knew that his master, Mr. Pitt, had unusual
whims at times. As they drove along the coastal
highway Pitt scanned the land to both sides of the
49

highway with eager eyes. The closer the car came to
Werrick, the more nervous he seemed to get. Just as
Bangs was about to turn to the left, to enter the
township proper, Pitt, in a rare display of familiari-
ty, pointed towards a piece of land jutting out to the
sea a little and connecting the shore with the high
ground on which Corley Hall stood.
"Look, Bangs," Pitt said with a tone of excite-
ment in his voice, "look over there, can you imagine
a group of bedraggled Spanish seamen dragging
themselves ashore from their ruined ships? Seeking
the safety of our shores?" Frankly, Bangs could not.
But since his boss did, he nodded assent. Fortunate-
ly, the weather was holding up nicely, and tomor-
row would be a splendid day to start digging.
50

Chapter 3
Bright and early, Adam Pitt rose to attack the
problem at hand: Find the Spanish treasure,
presumably buried on land he owned. At the
moment, he felt like the perfect English country
gentleman. It was all good sport, and if there was
some profit in the venture, so much the better.
Adam Pitt didn't always feel that way, of course.
Whenever he picked up a newspaper and saw an
arrest of drug peddlers in the headlines, he winced.
Not because his sense of morality was involved, but
because he feared that, despite his elaborate
schemes, some day, somewhere, somehow, some-
thing might go wrong and he, himself, the impec-
cable Adam Pitt, might be arrested. The curious
thing about Pitt was that he didn't need the money.
The late Mrs. Pitt had left him comfortably, nay,
more than comfortably provided and his operations
on the stock market were generally successful.
There was no gainsaying, Adam Pitt was a very
clever man. Without the need to rely on illegal
operations, Pitt might have gone far in business, if
that were his bent. Unfortunately, however, there
was within his character a certain flaw. For awhile,
he had hoped that his commercial successes might
eventually lead to the peerage, but he soon realized
that he had powerful enemies in the offices that
determined such matters. Those were the people
who knew him before he had married the late Mrs.
Pitt. Among them, there were always rumors that
Mrs. Pitt's accident had not been wholly accidental.
51

Whenever anyone hinted at such dastardly think-
ing, Pitt smiled sweetly and shrugged, saying in
effect, anyone was entitled to dream.
But it bothered him nevertheless. Under the
circumstances there grew within him a desire to
show the world a thing or two, to be more daring
than his contemporaries would ever suspect him of
being able to. Then, too, his appetite in young
women was considerable. Even though he had now
latched onto the glorious Rowan Dorset, this did not
mean that he wasn't looking elsewhere at the same
time; far from it, for his appetite—and one might
add, undoubtedly—capacity were considerable.
With sufficient income never to have to worry
again, even with so sumptuous a place to maintain
as Corley Hall, and the Belgrave Square apartment,
and despite occasional fortuitous expeditions to the
antique fairs of Portobello Road or the Paris Flea
Market, Adam Pitt was bored with life: the
excitement of adventure, of defying authority,
especially the authority that was linked with the
kind of people who would deny him his ascent to the
coveted peerage, brought him in contact with some
very unusual types, people he would not ordinarily
have sought out.
About a year before, he had found himself
standing in the street outside a certain young lady's
apartment in Soho. It turned out that the young
lady had a lover in her flat and was about to break
the news to her prospective date, Adam Pitt. When
Pitt realized that he was being stood up, his anger
was boundless. Bursting out of the house with
considerable noise, he ran smack into a comely
young lady who happened to be passing by at that
moment. Under the circumstances, they became
acquainted. As fate would have it, Pitt invited the
52

young lady for a drink right then and there,
partially to cool off, and partially because she
looked like the sort of young lady he would have
invited for a drink any time, any place. Over
considerably more than a single drink, Pitt and the
young lady, whose name was Carol Bygraves,
became close friends, in a manner of speaking. She
confided in him that she was an actress, out of work
for the past several weeks, and he, in turn, allowed
as to being one of the most successful businessmen
in the City. Under the circumstances, he offered to
help her out, and after some hesitation, she
accepted. "What could I do for you in return,
Adam?" she asked, for they had been on a first-
name basis practically within the first hour of their
acquaintanceship. Pitt had smiled indulgently.
Surely, she would find a way of repaying his favor.
Luckily, her own flat was only four blocks away,
and so it was fairly easy to conduct what on the
surface seemed like a very businesslike transaction,
but what, at least to Adam Pitt, was nothing more
than an exchange of mutual talents. Since he
always carried considerable amounts of cash on his
person, it wasn't difficult to hand his new acquaint-
ance two hundred pounds in cash; and since they
were now at her flat, it wasn't any more difficult for
Carol, to take her clothes off and allow Adam Pitt to
recoup his investment right then and there. This he
did, with such a relish, that Carol wondered
whether she hadn't perhaps short-changed her new
friend. Surely, in any transaction where both sides
profit equally and to the same degree, there could be
no question of "repaying a favor". Under the
circumstances, Carol asked whether there was
anything else she could possibly do for her new
friend.
53

Before he could answer, she added, "Since you
are in business, perhaps you may want to meet a
friend of mine, he's in business too and doing very
well. Perhaps the two of you can do business
together?" For a twenty-one year old aspiring
actress such reasoning didn't seem totally out of
line, Pitt felt, even though he had no particular
interest in meeting any friend of Carol's. If there
was one thing Pitt disliked was hearing about girls'
male friends or even acquaintances. But Carol
insisted, explaining that she had an intuitive
feeling, call it psychic if you will, that her friend,
whose name was Martinson, could be of great
benefit to Adam and thus resolve her own feeling of
guilt towards him.
More to please her than because he believed
anything could come from such a meeting, Pitt
agreed to meet Carol and Martinson the following
evening at a small cafe on Deane Street, across from
the Gargoyle Club. It turned out that Carol was the
kind of actress that worked at the Gargoyle Club,
probably the best known and most respected of the
total striptease places in Soho. Pitt did not mind, to
him it was immaterial whether she worked at the
Drury Lane, or had been laid off for the past six
weeks at the Gargoyle for refusing the advances of
one of the assistant managers, which in fact she
had. At any rate, it was a cozy threesome:
Martinson turned out to be a swarthy, late twenty-
ish fellow with a heavy Cockney accent, the smell of
garlic about him. Probably of Italian or Spanish
descent, Pitt thought.
At first, Martinson only looked at Pitt, his eyes
betraying anything but liking for the man. Evident-
ly he felt about Carol's male friends the way Pitt felt
about them. Pitt, of course, realized that Carol was
54

not exactly a one-man girl, but he wasn't afraid of
competition and if Martinson was her steady, it
would present absolutely no problems for the future.
After some sparring, Martinson came to the point.
"Me girl tells me that you're in business and keen on
doing something special" he said and it was then
that Pitt realized Martinson wasn't Italian or
Spanish but one of the "Black Irish," the descend-
ants of the Spaniards who fled the Spanish Armada
in 1588 and intermingled with the native Irish to
produce a race of dark haired, dark eyed people.
What a coincidence, Pitt thought at the same
moment, here I am discussing business with a man
whose forebears came to these shores with one of
the ships that may have foundered off my property.
But he did not pursue the parallel further, for
Martinson was speaking again. "Me girl also tells
me that I can trust you." Now Pitt found his voice.
"Yes," he replied in a smooth tone of voice, "You
most certainly can. I daresay I've been involved in
some of the most unusual business deals and I am
not afraid to tackle anything that shows a chance of
profit." Martinson smiled. "Oh, there is plenty of
profit in this one all right," he said, "but it depends
if you are not afraid of doing something that is, let
us say, a little illegal." Pitt drew back. If there is one
thing he did not want to do, was say anything that
could be held against him in a Court of Law. Was
this man a police agent provocateur? Immediately,
he rejected this notion. "What is it that you think we
could do together?" he inquired cautiously. Martin-
son had looked around as if he were afraid they
could be overheard. Fortunately for them, they were
at a table in one of the corners, and there was no one
at all at the next two or three tables. Unless the
table itself had been bugged, they were quite safe
55

from any intruders. For the next fifteen minutes,
Martinson explained the nature of his business. He
was one of the many who were bringing drugs into
England from the east, trans-shipping them on
small fishing craft from boats standing offshore,
but outside the British territorial limits. It was a
daring and haphazard business at best, but the
rewards were high indeed.
"Do you take any of the stuff? Does Carol?" Pitt
asked, with perhaps more concern than he had
meant to show. Both shook their heads vigorously.
"Of course not," Martinson replied, "I'd be a fool
to." "But if you are doing as well as you say you are,
what would I be doing in this?" "I'm a small
operator now, because I lack capital, governor,"
Martinson explained, looking Pitt straight into the
face. "Carol here says you are loaded." Pitt couldn't
help smiling. Whenever anybody said that he was
rich, he sort of liked this as if a compliment had
been paid him. "Well, that depends" he replied, very
businesslike now, "but if the operation is as safe as
you say it is, perhaps I may think about it." "I
haven't been caught yet, mister," Martinson said
and waited. "Tell you what," Pitt suggested in a
cheery tone of voice, "let me sleep on it for twenty-
four hours and we'll meet again here tomorrow
night." Martinson shot him a look of distrust. Was
this man trying to trap him perhaps? Was Carol
wrong in describing him as an adventurous
businessman? He, too, had to think it over. Pitt rose.
Martinson left, looking back at Carol, who made no
move to follow him. As soon as Martinson was out
of sight, she took Pitt's hand and said, "let us talk
about this at my place. It is safer there."
A few minutes later, Pitt was drinking cheap
wine with Carol at her modest apartment. He
56

questioned her thoroughly about Martinson and
what she knew of his background. Satisfied, that
there were no ulterior motives involved except to
make money quickly and in large quantities, he
dropped the subject. At the same time, he also
dropped his pants, and she dropped whatever she
was wearing at the time. Their second night
together was no less stimulating than the first one
had been, although Pitt felt it somewhat more the
following morning, being no longer eighteen years
of age.
Whenever Pitt wanted to get some specific
information about anyone in the City, he had
access to the files of some of the largest national
detective agencies in the world. Immediately upon
reaching his office, he had Martinson investigated
thoroughly. This was the easier as there was
nothing known about him. Satisfied, that things
were exactly as they had been represented, he met
Martinson again the following night, and they
came to an agreement. Pitt was to act as go-between
between Martinson and a "friend," a man who had
a great deal of money, but preferred to remain
anonymous. Somewhat sheepishly, or at least as
sheepishly as he could make it sound, he explained
to Martinson that he himself did not wish to become
involved in so tawdry a business. But a friend of
his, whom he had met on the Stock Exchange, and
with whom he had discussed the matter earlier that
day, was more than enthused and would be willing
to finance all future ventures. That was all right
with Martinson, for Martinson did not care where
the money came from. Carol, however, seemed
genuinely disappointed. She had hoped that her
Adam would be the man to form an alliance with
Martinson. When Pitt saw her disappointment, he
57

quickly explained that she would be part of the deal,
and that she would receive a percentage of the
monies.
From that day on, Martinson kept in touch with
the anonymous, mysterious backer, without ever
realizing who the man was. Even Carol had no idea
that the anonymous financier, who went by the
code name of The Unicorn was in reality none other
than her own friend, Adam Pitt.
Things went well for several months. Thanks to
The Unicorn's generous financing, Martinson was
able to bring in larger and larger quantities of "the
stuff;" instead of a fishing craft, he now brought the
drugs ashore in a practically noiseless motor boat.
Instead of working alone, he brought into the
"business" several able-bodied associates, whose
task it was to see to transfer and distribution of the
drugs once they reached shore.
About that time Pitt, in his other identity as The
Unicorn, hit on the idea of transferring the drugs
via small airplanes. After carefully researching the
matter, he came upon a remotely situated flying
field belonging to The Flying Buzzards, a club, and
promptly made arrangements, always making it
appear that Adam Pitt, the well-known stock
broker, was treating a friend or deserving employee
of his company to a paid-up flight. Since many ex-
pilots were in the habit of flying small planes as a
sort of hobby, in order not to lose all touch with
aircraft, such a notion was not at all surprising to
the directors of the flying club. As it was, the
directors hardly ever looked into the affairs of the
club, leaving such matters to their manager. The
man in charge, Spencer, was not the sort that would
worry unduly about things, so long as he himself
was taken care of.
58

The set-up seemed perfect for Pitt's purpose; the
little planes could come and go as they pleased,
flying in and out of the air strip below the radar belt
set up by the British defense forces. Since neither
plane or air strip have any radar of their own, there
was little likelihood, if any, of the plane's route ever
being traced. When he first thought of the scheme,
or rather when The Unicorn first brought it up,
Martinson was most enthusiastic. He volunteered
that he had taken flying lessons some years before
and felt quite adequate to undertaking the task. The
Unicorn had some misgivings, since failure on such
a mission was not a problem to be taken lightly for
all concerned. He would have rather had a profes-
sional pilot with long years of experience at the
helm of the little plane. But the right man, a man he
could trust, was hard to find. As yet it had not
occurred to Pitt, alias The Unicorn, to disguise the
operation as the smuggling in of expensive tea.
Reluctantly, Martinson was given the go-ahead
and the following night, he rented a Beachcraft
Bonanza at the airfield designated to him by The
Unicorn. As it happened, the night was stormy and
the sea rough. The ship was late for the rendezvous
and the plane had to circle several times until it saw
the boat standing offshore, as per instructions. This
probably lowered the gasoline supply in the tank,
unbeknownst to the pilot. When he took off again,
this time with the previous cargo in i£s hold, he ran
out of fuel halfway between the shore and the flying
club. Since Martinson was anything but an
experienced pilot, having had but six lessons
altogether, he didn't know what to do. Frantically
pulling at every button and gadget on the dash-
board, he became more and more panicky. Minutes
later, the plane, carrying over a million pounds
59

worth of drugs, crashed in the swampy jungle-like
forests of the Isle of Wight. Its remnants, including
the remnants of Mr. Martinson, were never found
again.
Naturally, Pitt did not report it to the police.
Since there had been no radio contact with any
existing air field, and since the plane had been
flying very close to the ground, no one seemed to
miss it, except of course, the flying club, its owner.
Although Pitt knew very well that the plane was
fully insured, he sent the manager a check in the full
amount of the plane's worth, claiming to be a
wealthy uncle of the unfortunate young man who
had crashed "into the sea." For days, Pitt nervously
scanned the newspapers, fearing that the remnants
of the plane might have been found. He hoped it had
crashed into the sea, but he wasn't at all sure.
Eventually, he could not bear the doubt any longer:
it always troubled him when he could not control
things. Carefully tracing the return journey of the
plane from the time it had taken off from the little
air strip near the seashore, to the time it should
have taken it to arrive back at the flying club, he
came to the conclusion that the wreck, if any, would
have to be found on the western shore of the Isle of
Wight, if indeed it had not fallen into the sea, as he
hoped.
For several days, he searched the wilderness of
the Isle of Wight, disguised as a bird fancier.
Eventually, his diligent search bore fruit. In one of
the most inaccessible parts of the forest, he came
upon the wreck. It had buried itself partly into the
ground, but had not exploded. Fortunately, Pitt had
a strong cigarette lighter on him. Within a matter of
minutes, the wreck was reduced to ashes, including,
of course, Mr. Martinson. This Pitt regretted
60

exceedingly, but seeing that the man was already
dead, it didn't really matter very much. Fortunate-
ly, the cargo had not been damaged too much, and
Pitt was able to retrieve it, at least to the extent he
could safely carry it on his person. The rest went up
in flames, along with his fears that the wreckage
might still be found. What was left, he buried in the
swamp.
With Martinson dead, things had to be rear-
ranged somewhat. With the kind of genius Pitt had
for negotiations, he was able to contact the
suppliers in the east directly, thus not only cutting
out the middleman, but assuring himself continu-
ing anonymity. Martinson had been the only one
who knew that he had ever been in the picture,
except for Carol Bygraves. The day after he had
disposed of the wreckage, he went to her flat. She
was in tears. Apparently, Martinson meant more to
her than he had thought at first. In fact, it turned
out now that he had been her husband. A fine state
of affairs, Pitt thought, with sudden middle class
moral indignation. But under the circumstances he
offered his condolences, carefully avoiding to tell her
that Mr. Martinson and the wreckage had been
disposed of. As far as Carol knew, Martinson lay at
the bottom of the sea, somewhere betweeen the
Splent and the Isle of Wight. Being Martinson's
legal widow, however, made things a lot easier for
Pitt: explaining that he would turn Martinson's
share of the business over to her, even though there
was nothing in writing between them, Pitt then
suggested that Carol seek residence elsewhere.
There was always the possibility that one of
Martinson's associates might get into trouble with
the police at some later date and talk. He said
nothing about continuing the operation, of course.
61

That could wait until after Carol had been sent
abroad. Carol Bygraves was not the brightest of
girls. Finding herself suddenly close to about two
hundred fifty thousand pounds was more than a
temptation. She gladly agreed to take her money in
American dollars, even though there was a condi-
tion attached to it: she could not take it out of the
United States. Pitt saw to it.
As soon as Carol had safely landed in New York,
Pitt reactivated the business. His Eastern suppliers
were advised that shipments could be received twice
monthly now instead of the former once a month.
He did this, even though he had not as yet found a
replacement for Martinson as the pilot of the little
plane. But in an inspired moment he had thought of
the tea cover for the operation, and in thinking of it,
realized that he needed not be quite as careful in the
selection of a pilot. Almost anyone capable of flying
the little plane who was eager for some extra
pounds might do. Consequently, he ran an ad in the
London Times. As a result, he was able to select
three potential pilots, but ultimately settled on
Charles Carsgrove. On investigation, he had
learned that Carsgrove had been in jail on several
minor offenses, and was known to bear a grude
gainst the government for that reason. He was also
nearly destitute when he had answered the ad and
Pitt thought that he would be a dependable and
psychologically suitable employee for his opera-
tion. To be sure, Carsgrove never met Pitt. He
received his instructions from The Unicorn. He
thought, in all sincerity, that he was bringing
expensive tea from the East illegally into Britain,
and enjoyed the idea of defying the government.
The initial operation went smoothly. Since that
time, twice a month, and as regularly as the
62

monsoons that greatly favor the growing of certain
crops in the East would allow, shipments arrived
and were promptly handled in a somewhat compli-
cated scheme that assured Pitt success while at the
same time continuing the anonymity The Unicorn
needed in order to maintain his position.
All this went through Pitt's head this mild spring
morning. He was most pleased with himself. For the
next twelve days, there was nothing much to do.
Consequently, he could be the gentleman-
archaeologist he enjoyed being so much, especially
as this time there was some real treasure to be
found, or so it seemed. The area he wanted to dig in
covered roughly one acre of ground, stretching from
below the manor house to the seashore. To aid him
in his quest, he had hired three sturdy, local hands,
men of the village who knew how to handle a
shovel. With fine disdain, Pitt had rejected any
notion of using mechanized equipment, even
though it meant faster and more thorough work.
What if the blade of the caterpillar hit his treasure
chest and destroyed it? No, Pitt had decided, if the
Spaniards of 1588 could bury the gold with their
shovels, then he could find it again in the same
manner.
By afternoon, it was clear that they were digging
in the wrong places. Even though the digs were
shallow and more in the nature of test cuts in the
soil, just as professional archaeologists do it, it
became increasingly clear to Pitt that he was
wasting his time. That night, he poured over his
map, looking at it from all angles and with all sorts
of magnifying glasses. There was nothing new. The
following morning, he and his three helpers went at
it again. By nightfall, dirty and tired, they returned,
again empty-handed. Once more the determined
63

Pitt pulled out the map and studied it carefully.
Again, he came to no different conclusion than that
of the previous night. Disgusted and angry, he rose
from his chair. In the process, he overturned the
little table on which the map had lain. Picking up
his precious relic, he realized that he was looking at
the back of the map. Suddenly, a strange thought
went through his head. Quickly, he spread the map
on the table, but with the back facing him. Then he
pulled the overhead light down so that he would
have all possible illumination and with the strong-
est magnifying glass in his possession, went over
the back of the map, inch by inch. Still, nothing
new. Picking the map up with both hands, he held it
halfway between the light and the table. What
made him do this, Pitt didn't really know. At times
he had exhibited a strange sense of intuition,
almost extrasensory perception. This was one of
those moments. They were rare and could not be
commanded, and the intuitive process involved was
never very deep. But right now it was a moment of
great dramatic impact: for as he held the map
against the light, he clearly saw that there were
symbols and markings visible in the transparent
light which had been invisible when the map was
merely illuminated by light falling down upon it.
The markings included several tiny crosses and a
wavy line. But Pitt's excitement soon abated. He
couldn't figure out what the symbols meant.
Checking in various books on hidden treasures as
well as a book on cryptography yielded no better
results. Pitt simply wasn't equipped to decipher so
intricate a document as the map had now become.
The following day and night he still tried his hand
at deciphering the strange symbols. He photo-
graphed them, copied them by hand, looked at them
64

again and again with magnifying glasses, but the
result was the same. He knew one thing: they meant
something and, they were vital to his finding the
treasure, since he had been unable to do so by
simply digging all over his land. (His land was
large enough to keep on digging for years without
finding anything.)
Finally, it dawned upon him that he needed help.
But who would help him with so outlandish a
venture as this? Surely, he could not go to the local
police or the British Museum and ask for one of their
experts. Besides, that was not the sporting thing to
do anyway. Pitt wanted that treasure for himself.
He could, of course, ask around the town to see
whether any of the older people had any notions as
to where such treasure might be buried. Immediate-
ly he rejected the idea. If anyone had such
information, surely they would keep it to them-
selves. Pitt knew for some time that his presence in
Werrick was not particularly welcome to many of
the oldtimers in the town.
Then he had another one of his sudden inspira-
tions. Somewhere he recalled having read of an
agent, a specialist who deals in very difficult cases
others cannot solve. He recalled a newspaper
article, a column in the London Times, speaking of
this man, who lived in America, as probably being
the nearest to a true Sherlock Holmes that ever
lived. The article appeared at least a year ago, he
recalled, but that was perhaps enough to go on.
The following morning he went to the city offices
of the Times. Since he had a speaking acquaint-
anceship with one of the editors, it wasn't difficult
to do some research in the matter. Within half an
hour, a copy of the article was in his hands. The
man he was looking for lived in San Francisco and
65

was named Randy Knowles. But the article also
stated that he was a difficult man to contact, not
likely to take on cases he didn't personally approve
of and above all, probably 'booked up' for years
ahead. That did not faze Pitt, however. Telephoning
the San Francisco offices of a brokerage firm with
whom he had been doing business in the past, he
managed to obtain Knowles' address without too
much difficulty. That very afternoon, a letter on
Pitt's most impressive stationery was dispatched to
Randy Knowles* formally asking him to enter the
case. Pitt did not pull any punches: he presented his
case truthfully and with a rare display of candor.
The Spanish treasure was on his land and he
considered it his. He realized that a museum might
have to be notified, but that was a matter to be
decided upon after the treasure had been located.
All he wanted Mr. Knowles to do was find it for him,
beginning with the deciphering of the strange map.
Pitt offered to pay a thousand pounds for such
services, plus all expenses, of course.
He waited a week for a reply. Since the letter had
been sent by registered mail and with return receipt
attached, Pitt was sure that it had gotten into
Knowles' hands. But either Knowles was out of
town or chose to ignore it. Ignoring Adam Pitt was
not something he took kindly to. He tried to get
Knowles' telephone number, but found it unlisted
and the San Francisco telephone operator totally
uncooperative. There was only one thing left to do,
and Pitt decided to do it. Quickly, he dialed Rowan
at her apartment, to do what he had never done
before, break a date with her. He then made
arrangements to fly to San Francisco that very
night.
66

Chapter 4
Since this was early May, Randy Knowles was
"in residence" at his San Francisco house. House
was perhaps not the right term for the impressive,
three-story townhouse atop Nob Hill, with its
seventeen rooms, not counting the cellar and the
subterranean garage. The house itself looked like
any of the other old houses on the street; somewhat
set back from the street, there was a feeling of
privacy about it which Randy liked very much. The
house next to his looked exactly alike, and if a
visitor didn't know where to look for Randy
Knowles, he would have never guessed that the
world-famous detective and super agent actually
made his home in one of those nondescript
townhouses. The inside of the house, however, was
another matter: there was a cathedral-like atmos-
phere about the large hall which made the visitor
feel he had stepped from one world into a totally
different one. A heavy oak door closed the hall off
from the noises outside. The hall was adorned with
two large hunting scenes, and a heavy bronze
candelabra surmounted by a glass-enclosed cluster
of electric lights in true Victorian style stood by the
wooden staircase which wound its way to the upper
stories. Knowles was an art collector, archaeologist
and historian. Whatever funds he could spare for
his hobby, nay, avocation, archaeology, he put into
the best of Roman, Greek and Egyptian excava-
tions he could put his hands on. He also liked
Chinese antiquities, in fact anything of unusual
67

style and age. A large vitrine opposite the entrance
door contained some of his finest Chinese antiqui-
ties. Up one flight, were his study and sleeping
quarters as well as the very large library where he
did much of his research work. Beyond the second
story, the stairs continued to the third floor. Here
Randy Knowles maintained a very special guest
room, and a couple of smaller rooms. The other half
of the second floor was occupied by the apartment
belonging to Jeremy, Randy's trusted butler, aide
and, in a way, friend. Jeremy represented the entire
staff of the establishment. Beyond being the man
who saw after the worldly needs of his master, he
was at times also involved in some of the detail
work of Knowles' cases. While not exactly an
apprentice detective, Jeremy had a keen sense of
observation, was fearless, although not in matters
pertaining to his master. In that respect, he
frequently acted like an old maid, warning Knowles
of dire consequences if he did not take care of
himself, of possible dangers where none existed,
and in general showing an almost fatherly interest
in his master. There was nothing improper about
that, to be sure, but Jeremy took his life's work very
seriously: serving Randy Knowles was his life's
work.
Above the second floor there was still the attic
but that was used only for storage. Below, on the
ground floor behind the stairs were a substantial
kitchen and a cook's quarters. Since there was no
cook at the present, it stood empty. To the left of the
hall, there was a magnificent dining room, undoubt-
edly very much in use during the Victorian period
of the house. Randy only used it on rare occasions
when he had dinner guests. There was enough
tableware and silver to serve twenty-four guests at a
68
\

sit-down dinner, should he so choose, but Randy
wasn't likely to have that many at his house. The
most Jeremy could remember were five or six
guests, and then Only on special occasions. Knowles
liked to keep his private life as private as possible.
Jeremy, a man who was neither too heavy nor too
thin, nor too old nor too young, but just perfect for
his job as a kind of shadow of his master, had
frequently remarked that the house was so perfectly
set up that only a woman was missing in it. But
Randy was in no hurry to fill that position. Young
women came and went from time to time, but in a
way, that, too, was part of business. The same
reproach could, of course, be made to J eremy. Why
had he never settled down? Although slightly
balding, and in his middle or late fifties, he was still
a good catch, as husbands go. But Jeremy would
hear none of that either, preferring to stay on with
Randy Knowles. For well onto eight years he had
done a perfect job, and since Knowles had never
once complained about anything during those eight
years, Jeremy felt justly, that he was a much needed
cog in the important human machine who was
Randy Knowles.
It was nine o'clock in the morning and Randy
was at his desk, going over the previous day's mail.
Behind him, on the wall, were the framed pictures of
some very pretty girls. Such pictures made Randy
feel he wasn't exactly alone in his study, and since
the room itself was rather on the sober side, every
bit helped. There weren't likely to be any unexpect-
ed visitors, for Randy had long seen to it that people
in general were kept away from him. Only those
sent to him by sources he could trust, whether they
be police departments or political agencies of sorts,
but some sort of go-between, were admitted without
69

further delay. Despite the continuing secrecy of his
whereabouts, many people in San Francisco knew
where he lived.
Some publicity could not be avoided through the
years, and ever since Randy had saved the United
States capitol from being blown up, and apprehend-
ing the Red Chindvit in the process, his fame as a
hero had risen in his own country. Consequently,
there were always people with private problems
who thought they could employ his services for
their own benefit. Those who wrote to Randy,
received a courteous reply. Randy did not believe in
letting people wonder whether or not he would help
them. Of course, if a return envelope had not been
enclosed originally, there would be no reply. Randy
didn't believe in supporting the post office either.
Once in a while, a daring individual came to the
door without having an appointment. In such
cases, Jeremy ran interference. No one was admit-
ted without an appointment, unless two circum-
stances prevailed: the caller had a problem involv-
ing life and death, or was female and very pretty.
Under the latter circumstances, Knowles might ask
a few questions before deciding whether or not to
take the case on.
Randy was sifting the mail, when he came across
Pitt's urgent letter, a telegram which had somehow
escaped his attention the night before. Generally,
telegrams were read immediately, but this one
somehow slipped in with the regular mail. It read,
"Help me find buried Spanish treasure. Will cut you
in. Incredible adventure a fellow archaeologist
simply cannot miss. Am coming to see you
tomorrow morning." The telegram was signed,
Adam Pitt, London. Since Randy had never heard
of Mr. Pitt, he was ready to throw the telegram into
70

the waste paper basket, when something within
him made him hesitate. A treasure hunt, no less? If
there was anything that would get Randy's
attention it was something out of the ordinary,
something promising the unusual. Despite the fact
that he was constantly dealing in danger, constant-
ly confronted by unusual situations, Randy was still
like a little boy when it came to mysterious, secret
adventures. Treasure hunting was one of his
favorite occupations, except that he rarely worked
at it. If this was genuine, and not just another way
of getting him involved in some dreary case dealing
with lost securities or diamonds, it might be worth
listening to the man. While he was still thinking
this over, the doorbell rang. He heard Jeremy
exchange some words with a man, then Jeremy's
somewhat heavy footsteps came up the stairs, there
was a knock at his study, and Jeremy entered. "A
Mr. Adam Pitt, from London," Jeremy said, waiting
with a doubtful look in his eyes. "He has no
appointment and we don't know him," he added.
More and more Jeremy had taken to the editorial
'we.' He did this not out of any lack of modesty but
because he considered himself so much part and
parcel of the Knowles establishment that he felt he
could very well forego his own identity in such
matters. "Show him in," Randy commanded, very
much to the surprise of his trusted aide. A moment
later, Adam Pitt stood before him. "Sit down and
state your business," Randy said, not unpleasantly,
but not overcourteously either. Unexpected visitors
must not be treated too kindly, lest they think they
can do it all the time.
"I'm at my wit's end, Mr. Knowles," Pitt
explained, and then put the entire case before
Randy. He had brought the map with him,
71

including the mysterious details which could only
be seen when the map was held up against a light.
Randy was immediately fascinated. "Let me have
this for an hour or two," he said, almost command-
ing. Happily, Pitt agreed, not even worried that
Knowles might do something with the map that
might go against his interests. He had found out far
too much about Knowles' reputation to worry about
such matters.
"Jeremy," Randy called out, and when Jeremy
appeared at the foot of the stairs, "Give our visitor
some coffee and a newspaper. He will wait for me
downstairs." Gesturing towards the exit, Randy
rose. Pitt understood. He had been told that Randy
Knowles was a man of few words, unless he had
something to say. Evidently he was going to take
the case. Thirty minutes later Randy called him
back to his study.
"Well, Mr. Knowles," Pitt couldn't help asking,
"will you take my case?" "Perhaps, I haven't
decided yet," Randy replied. He held the map in his
hand. "I think with some additional work we can
get to the bottom of this, it isn't easy, to be sure, but I
happen to be an expert in cryptography and I think
I can manage it." "I'll g"ive you one fourth of all the
gold we find," Pitt said with rare enthusiasm in his
voice. Impatiently, Randy waved him aside. "I
don't work on speculation. My fee is $10,000. In
advance. Plus all expenses, of course."
Without a word, Pitt reached into his vest pocket,
took out his check book and wrote out a check for
$10,000. Handing Randy the check, he asked, "How
soon will you be able to come over?" Randy
consulted his desk calendar. "Tomorrow, the
Nepalese prime minister is coming, Thursday I'm
having lunch with the Senate Committee, Friday is
72

the monthly meeting of the UFO enthusiasts; let me
see, I could start Saturday, and be in England by
Sunday night. How would that strike you?"
Pitt's face was beaming. "Splendid. Sunday
night it is. I will have you picked up at the airport
and brought directly to East Anglia, if you don't
mind." "Not at all, that will be fine. The sooner I get
to the matter at hand, the better. I don't believe in
wasting time." The two men shook hands briefly,
then Adam Pitt left Randy's study, whistling
through his teeth. But even before he had disap-
peared from sight, Randy was again poring over the
map, mumbling to himself and making pencil notes
on a little pad next to his desk lamp. When
something aroused his interest, he had a go at it
almost immediately. That was part of his nature,
his agrarian nature.
The room assigned to Randy Knowles was the
best guest room Corley Hall could offer. Whether by
accident or by design, it was situated on the
opposite end of the house from Pitt's room. He knew
very well that Randy Knowles was a renowned
detective, whose calling would make him curious
about a lot of things and Pitt did not want Knowles
to step outside the treasure hunting assignment he
had given him. As a matter of fact, taking a
detective into his own lair, so to speak, presented
certain risks. But in the interests of his beloved
archaeological hobby, Pitt was willing to take that
risk. Besides, he prided himself on being extremely
observant, and if Knowles should make a wrong
move, Pitt was confident he could deal with it. But
he expected nothing untoward, in view of the
limited stay Knowles would have at Corley Hall.
73

The way Pitt saw it, Randy should be able to resolve
the little difficulty as to where the treasure was
buried in a matter of a week at the most.
Randy brought with him two medium size
suitcases. One contained his personal belongings,
while the other contained some apparatus he used
in cases of this kind. They were measuring
instruments that would indicate the presence of
metallic objects under ground. Randy wasn't
willing to rely on cryptography alone, and the
electrical apparatus he had with him was of his own
design, capable of picking up metallic objects even
at great depth and with an accuracy that would
have made the United States Army engineers proud
of the design, had they thought of it. For the rest of
the evening Randy locked himself into his room,
poring again over the map and his notes. During
the long flight over the pole he had again thought
about the case and come to certain conclusions.
Principally, there were the symbols which had
startled Pitt so much: a short wavy line, two crosses,
and a large dot, which made absolutely no sense to
Randy until he began to understand that they were
not ordinary map maker's symbols at all, but
private and secret markings. But what did they
mean, what did they represent?
The following morning, bright and early, Randy
was already walking over the territory. It wasn't
going to be easy to pinpoint a treasure or treasure
chest in so large an area, he realized immediately.
Pitt, too, was restless that Sunday night. He rose a
little after Randy, and seeing him from his
windows, immediately decided to join him. Randy
was standing not far from the seashore, when Pitt
came up upon him. Turning around sharply, Randy
said—"Yes, Mr. Pitt?" Pitt, somewhat taken aback
74

by this curt question, stammered, "I couldn't sleep
either, Mr. Knowles, and so I thought perhaps we
could have a go at this together." "I'm terribly
sorry, Mr. Pitt," Randy said in a quiet but firm tone
of voice. "I don't work that way. You will have to let
me look the place over by myself. When I have
something to tell you, I'll let you know." With that,
Randy turned on his heels and walked away,
leaving Pitt dumfounded and angry, angry enough
to pounce upon him. But just as quickly Pitt realized
that Randy Knowles was one man he could not
manipulate. Resignedly, he turned and went back
to the house. Rather than to go back to his room, he
headed straight for the large reception room which
he used as his official office, whenever there were
some business dealings taking place at Corley Hall.
At the rear of the reception room, with the windows
in back, stood an elaborate, beautifully turned
Empire desk. This was not an imitation, for if there
was one thing Adam Pitt couldn't stand, it was
imitations of antique furniture. This desk once
stood in Fontainbleau, but was somehow removed
when Napoleon fled from that castle. Behind it,
there was a matching chair, and two smaller
Empire chairs, also fully matching, stood to the left
of the desk, to be used by visitors. A crystal
chandelier hung from the ceiling, and on the desk
itself there was a small, antique lamp, sufficient to
give light to whoever might use the desk, without
disturbing the overall grandiose atmosphere of the
reception room. The room itself was decorated with
a number of fine paintings, all of them in frames of
the period. Most of them were eighteenth century
scenes, with a few early nineteenth century primi-
tives cleverly interspersed to create a diversified,
yet homogenous impression. Pitt himself had seen
75

to the decoration of this room, as he had with most
of the house. But even a casual visitor would be
drawn not to the paintings decorating the walls but
to a centerpiece suspended exactly above the desk:
this was a superbly preserved tapestry, perhaps two
yards by two yards in circumference, showing the
traditional British Lion and Unicorn armorial
designs. The tapestry was undoubtedly seven-
teenth century work; but despite its age, it was
perfectly preserved. Why had Adam Pitt chosen
this particular antique to grace the space over his
desk? The casual visitor might correctly assume
that it fitted in well with the layout of the room, and
was, in fact, merely part of the decorations. But
anyone coming close to the desk, and looking
directly at the tapestry, especially when Mr. Pitt
was occupying the chair behind the desk, would
immediately be impressed by a curious set of
circumstances: The face of the Unicorn in the
tapestry and Mr. Adam Pitt's face showed a
remarkable resemblance.
As Randy went further and further away from
Corley Hall, and closer to the seashore, he was filled
with a strange sense of excitement, not uncommon
with those who have strong psychic abilities. For
Randy Knowles was more than merely a clever
detective or agent, he had a strong talent in the field
of extrasensory perception, and could at times
obtain information without the help of the ordinary
five senses, or whatever passes as them nowadays.
At this very moment, Randy felt he was getting
closer to what he was looking for. Of course, there
was no way in which this could be confirmed
objectively. He was heading towards a gentle
elevation, which stood perhaps twenty to twenty-
five yards away from the seashore. The elevation
76

immediately attracted his attention: although there
were other such small hills in the immediate
vicinity, this one was different. While all the other
hills were covered with green bushes and a few
trees, this one was totally devoid of all vegetation
except grass. It seemed to Randy that something in
the sub-surface of the hill was preventing anything
larger from getting roots. Perhaps this was wishful
thinking on Randy's part, but it bore investigation.
Randy made a note to look into this elevation,
possibly with a spade, on some future occasion. For
the present, he wanted to get an impression of the
entire territory so that he would not overlook any
alternate possibilities. Above all, he was still
looking for the meaning of the little wavy line, the
two crosses and the large dot. As he was walking
past the elevation which had just attracted him, he
suddenly became aware of something shimmering
in the distance. Quickening his steps, he reached
the shimmering surface about three minutes later.
It turned out to be water. What he saw was a small,
deeply cut brook, emptying into the sea near this
point. His Sixth Sense told him that there was
something very familiar about this little brook. As
yet, he did not know what it was, but something
within him made him retrace his steps and return to
the brook. Still, no revelation came to him. Careful-
ly, he looked around. About fifteen or twenty yards
to the west, he noticed another small elevation. In
every respect it was similar to the elevation he had
just left. His eyes followed the little brook from
where he first saw it all the way down to the sea. He
began to get his bearings; 'A tree, there's got to be a
tree,' he thought feverishly. Quckly, he walked
towards the elevation in the distance, jumping
across the brook without difficulty. At the most, it
77

was a yard and a half wide. Evidently it was the
result of age-old corrosion, for its bed lay at least
another yard below the surface of the surrounding
land. As soon as he had reached the gentle elevation
to the west of the brook he halted, and turned
around. Gazing back towards the area whence he
had just come, he let go with a subdued but
nevertheless triumphant 'Eureka' which, as every
ancient Greek knows, means, 'I've got it, I've got it.'
What Randy had was in fact a different perspective
from the one he had been going on earlier. Somehow
he had gotten the wrong elevation to start with, and
now that he had found the right one, everything
seemed to fall into place. There, on the right, not
more than ten yards away, stood a lone tree. Randy
dared not gaze to the left, out of fear that there
might be some other landmark on that end of the
trail as well. Sure enough, there it was: again, a lone
tree which had somehow survived the ages and
storms of the area. The two crosses, Randy thought,
visualizing the map before his inner eye. The little
wavy line, quite obviously, was the brook; if the
two crosses signified the two lone trees, then what
did the black dot mean? In vain, Randy looked for
some other telling landmark in the area. There was
simply nothing at all, the land between the two
trees was flat and uninteresting. There was only
one solution, he thought, finally, the dot meant the
location of the treasure, and nothing else. Randy
took the copy he had made of the map and looked at
it very carefully: if the spot he was standing on was
the point of view of the map maker, and he had
every reason to assume that it was, then the coveted
spot lay directly ahead of him, on the other side of
the little elevation, just beyond the brook and
equidistant from the two trees. All that remained
78

now to make sure where the location was, was to
measure the distance between the two trees and
halve it. No sooner thought than done. Taking a
silken tape measure from his pocket, a tool he
always carried on him, Randy proceeded to mea-
sure the distance from tree to tree, then divided
it in half and solemnly walked to the spot indicated
by his measurements. Falling onto his knees on the
spot indicated by his calculations to examine it
more closely, he failed to notice a small movement
to his right. Eventually, however, the trained ear of
the professional investigator got his alarm system
working. He became aware that someone was
watching him intently. Quickly jumping to his feet,
and turning in the direction in which his intuition
told him the intruder was, he managed to just
glimpse the back of a man swiftly running in the
opposite direction. Evidently, he had been standing
behind the rather large tree to the left, watching
Randy for curiosity's sake or for reasons of his own.
Randy thought it not unusual for someone to
watch him, since he was a stranger in the area and
his behavior during that hour had been unusual
indeed. Perhaps this was someone sent by his
employer, and if so, he would have to have a word
with him. On the other hand, it might be someone
from town who was curious about the stranger in
their midst. One way or another, it didn't worry
Randy. His mind filled with calculations, wonder-
ing whether his spot was indeed the right one,
Randy decided to return to the manor house.
Carefully marking the spot which he believed was
the right location with some dye he had taken from
his pocket, he then began to walk back towards the
town. Rather than return straight to Corley Hall,
Randy thought it might be useful to get an
79

impression of the little town, or, as he liked to put it,
"to look around a bit." The road from the coast was
a minor dirt road, not particularly well kept.
Consequently, Randy's shoes were soon covered
with dust and dried mud. Soon he found himself
close to the first houses, a few scattered cottages,
nicely painted in white and pink, forming the outer
limits of Werrick.
Evidently prosperity had not overlooked little
Werrick. Several new buildings were in the process
of being constructed on the edge of town. A
particularly substantial house, almost completed,
attracted Randy's undivided attention. What was
the purpose of building so large a house in so little a
place? he asked himself. What he didn't know, of
course, was that this was not a private house at all
but a condominium, which was to be sold to several
owners. It was the latest craze in apartments, and
though of doubtful value to the owner in the long
run, apparently appealed to people with ready cash
on hand.
A few of the workers were still on hand, even
though it was close to the lunch hour. "Fascinat-
ing," Randy mumbled, looking up at the huge,
French-made crane, which was able to lift entire
sections into the air and then drop them into place
from above. Just then the crane went into opera-
tion, carefully lifting a bundle of steel rails, which it
would then drop onto the top floor of the nearly
completed building. Slowly the crane swung
around, passing over Randy's head. He watched
with utter fascination as the crane prepared to drop
its load into place. His enchantment with things
mechanical, however, did not prevent his Inner
Voice from reaching him at this critical moment: a
warning bell sounded deep within him, and without
80

knowing why, he quickly jumped aside. A fraction
of a second later, the heavy load of steel rails
crashed to the ground where he had just stood.
Evidently the crane operator had miscalculated the
distance and dropped his load in the wrong place by
mistake. What a horrible way to die, Randy
thought. Surely, the operator must be horrified at
his mistake. Looking straight at the man in the
cabin, Randy thought he noticed anything but an
expression of horror. To him, even at a distance he
observed from, the operator's face showed more
disappointment than horror. Randy began to
wonder whether it hadn't perhaps been an accident
at all. But who would want to kill him, here, in this
little town? Surely, not Mr. Pitt, who needed him
more than anything at this moment. To his
knowledge, Randy had no enemy in Werrick. But
one could never be too sure, if one was Randy
Knowles. Still, he couldn't be sure: perhaps it was
an accident, after all. He walked through the main
street of Werrick, noticing the little shops, and the
two churches, one Church of England, and the other
Roman Catholic, for there were still quite a few
adherents of the old faith in Werrick. By now the
shops had closed for the noon hour. He passed by
the quaint little shop where Mr. Anguish sold
antiquities.
Eventually, Randy returned to Corley Hall. Pitt
was nowheres to be seen, so Randy went straight to
his room. Some undefinable feeling convinced him
that someone else had just been to the room,
perhaps only minutes before his arrival. Randy
prided himself of his talent of psychometry, the
ability to get impressions from the atmosphere of a
place concerning individuals who might have been
in it, lived in it or even died in it. Right now, Randy
81

had the distinct feeling that somebody had invaded
the privacy of his room a short time before.
Carefully, he let his eyes wander about the room
before going any further. One could never tell,
perhaps some hidden trap was about to be sprung
on him, or perhaps the intruder was still present. He
immediately rejected this notion, for he would have
been able to tell the presence of a flesh and blood
human being by his psychic sense. Then his eyes
passed the window and he noticed something white
stuck under the left window frame. Quickly retriev-
ing it, he opened it up and found it to be a small piece
of paper on which someone had written with rough,
untutored writing. "Go home, Mr. Knowles. The
Spaniards don't want their peaceful sleep dis-
turbed." There was no signature, no telltale mark
concerning the author of this crude warning. From
the appearance of it, Randy immediately deduced
that it had been the work of one of the local people.
Handwriting, wording, all seemed to indicate a
rather unsophisticated individual as the author. He
wondered whether he should advise Pitt of the
incident, and for that matter, of the earlier incident
with the crane, for by now Randy was convinced
that it hadn't been an accident. Immediately he
rejected this notion. True, Pitt might be able to put
him close to some leads concerning the possible
perpetrator. On the other hand, Randy wasn't
altogether clear about Pitt's own role in all this, and
until he was, he preferred to work on his own, and
alone. Since Pitt was evidently not at home, Randy
decided to return to the town. Ten minutes later he
was walking down the silent main street again. He
decided to have lunch at a Werrick tavern. Walking
under a colorful metal sign showing a red lion,
Randy went into the main dining room of the Red
82

Lion Inn, apparently the best of three possible inns
in the area. The menu was simple, and the man who
came to serve him evidently the owner. Randy's
clothes must have been an immediate giveaway, for
the innkeeper asked how things were back in
America. After some light banter, Randy inquired
whether the legend about some Spanish treasure
found off the coast some time ago was indeed true.
"Oh no," the innkeeper replied, "it hasn't been
found yet, sir, the rest is true enough." "Has it not?"
Randy said, displaying all the naive, curiosity of
a typical American tourist. "Yes, sir," the innkeeper
volunteered. "Lots of people would like to find it
all right, but so far nobody rightly knows where
exactly it is at. Maybe some know, but they
wouldn't talk about it." "Do you know?" Randy
said, looking the innkeeper straight into the face.
The man seemed ill at ease at so innocent a
question, and turned his head sideways. "No, sir,"
he finally replied, "I wouldn't know. But they say
that a few people hereabouts do know and they are
keeping the secret well." Then he turned to face
Randy head on, his mien serious now, and added,
"Some strangers, too, like to find the treasure, but
likely as not, they are not going to. People
hereabouts don't like strangers to find their
treasures. You can understand that." "Seems
reasonable," Randy acknowledged.
With the meal finished, Randy decided on a plan
of action. He was convinced that the innkeeper
wasn't going to tell him anymore than he wanted to,
that perhaps he knew all about Randy and was
merely conveying another, more gentle warning.
When he had paid his bill, Randy remarked that he
intended to go up towards the seashore and have a
look around, and he thought he saw a sudden flash
83

cross the innkeeper's face, as if in anger. Randy
waited ten minutes more, to make sure that the
intelligence of his intentions was spread to the.right
people. Standing in the shade of a century-old
maple tree, but out of sight from the innkeeper's
door, he did not have to wait very long. Five minutes
later, the innkeeper hurriedly came from the inn,
walking rather briskly in the direction of the edge of
town, where Randy had pased earlier that day. So
he is one of them, Randy thought, with satisfaction,
now let us see who the others are. Waiting a few
minutes more, he then started back for the edge of
town, walking rather slowly and conspicuously. He
took to the middle of the road, not only because he
wanted to be observed, but because that was the
safest way of walking when one might encounter
bricks falling off a roof, or other objects suddenly
appearing out of nowheres, bent on hitting one on
the head with fatal intentions.
When he passed the building where the crane had
almost killed him, he did not stop. Surely, they
wouldn't try the same trick twice. But that was one
of Randy's rare and truly unusual mistakes. He
really didn't understand the mind- of the Werrick
people. They were simple, stubborn, country people,
frequently one-track minded and not easily swayed
from a path once they had embarked upon it. As he
found himself about twenty yards from where the
crane stood, he heard a rumbling sound from
behind him, seemingly coming closer. Quickly he
turned, just in time to jump aside, but not quickly
enough to avoid altogether being grazed by a heavy
roll of barbed wire, rolling downhill towards him.
Had he not jumped in time, the heavy weight of the
roll would undoubtedly have crushed him, apart
from the damage the barbed wire itself could have
84

inflicted. As it was, he found that his leg had
received a deep and bloody gash, deep enough to
demand immediate attention. Quickly making a
tourniquet from his handkerchief, he retraced his
steps to the inn, despite the pain in his leg. The
innkeeper had since returned, and indicated where
the nearest doctor was.
It so happened that the doctor's house was across
the street from the inn. Ringing Dr. Richard
Grave's doorbell somewhat impatiently, Randy
realized that whoever wanted him out of the way,
surely meant business.
A moment later, he was in the doctor's surgery.
Administering first aid with deft hands, Dr. Graves
startled Randy by not even inquiring how he had
incurred the injury. After the wound had been
cleaned and bandaged, and Randy was ready to
pay the doctor for his troubles, he couldn't help
asking, whether the doctor was curious as to how
the wound had been inflicted upon him. "Not
really," Dr. Graves, a thirtyish, prematurely
balding and lanky man in tweed clothes replied,
"We people in Werrick like to mind our own
business." Randy thought he detected a note of
bitterness in this remark. Perhaps his nerves were a
bit edgy, but the doctor's strange behavior in not
inquiring how the injury had been caused made
Randy wonder whether the doctor wasn't also in
sympathy with those who wanted to stop him from
finding the treasure. It was time to do something
about these threats to his life.
Asking the doctor for directions to the nearest
police station, he then went on his way to make a
report. Constable Derek Slaughter was an affable,
ruddy-cheeked man in his middle fifties. He was
seated behind a comfortable desk, studying some
85

reports before him. His collar was a bit loosened, no
doubt due to the warm weather, but it appeared to
Randy that such loosening of the collar would be
unthinkable for a metropolitan policeman. The
Constable evidently thought so too, for as soon as
he became aware of the fact that he had a visitor, he
straightened his tie and sat back rather stiffly.
Without waiting for a formal invitation, Randy sat
down in the chair placed in front of the desk. "I'd
like to report two cases of attempted murder and one
threatening note," he remarked in a casual tone of
voice. "Really?" the Constable said and arched his
eyebrows. "Who are you anyway?" "My name is
Randy Knowles, I'm a guest of Mr. Adam Pitt, and
I'm an Honorary Commander of the British Police
Association, if that interests you," Randy said,
calmly. "I daresay," the Constable said, somewhat
shaken by this.
Randy then went on to describe in every detail
what had occurred, without, however, mentioning
his suspicions of the innkeeper or the doctor. He did,
however, describe the crane operator's face at the
time of the attempted murder, since that was
necessary to establish a motive. The Constable
went through the usual routine of taking it all down.
"We'll let you know what transpires," he finally
said, looking up from his papers, "I suggest you go
back to Corley Hall and stay there. As a matter of
fact, sir, if I were you, I would not venture outdoors
for the time being." He gave Randy a stern look,
which was supposed to be meaningful and threaten-
ing. A suspicion rose in Randy. Was the Constable
in on it, too? In so small a place as Werrick, it
seemed unlikely that a major secret like the hidden
Spanish treasure would not be known to all those
who were in charge of running the town affairs; the
86

innkeeper, the doctor, and the Constable would be
the logical choices to know about such local secrets.
Of course, Randy had no proof whatsoever that the
Constable knew anything about it. He had act ad
correctly, taken a certain interest in Randy's
wound, as if he personally regretted it, and been as
helpful as his position permitted. No, Randy
decided, the Constable couldn't possibly be in on
anything illegal.
Although the wound caused him some pain,
Randy did not want the Constable to see him limp.
He rose rather abruptly and said, "I'm terribly
sorry, but I can't take your advice just yet. You see, I
am under obligation to pursue the matter of the
hidden treasure."
Quite obviously, the Constable seemed interest-
ed. That again, Randy argued, might be due to his
official position. After all, anyone digging for
Spanish treasure in the territory covered by this
police officer, would be a subject for his interest.
"Might I ask for whom you are undertaking this
search?" the Constable asked. "Not at all," Randy
replied. "I am here at the request of Mr. Adam Pitt.
There is nothing illegal or secret about my activi-
ties. Mr. Pitt has a right to search on his own
grounds. If he finds anything, he will undoubtedly
advise the proper authorities, such as the>British
Museum. My job is to assist him in whatever way I
can." Randy thought that Pitt might not have felt
too happy about his making these disclosures, but
under the circumstances he had to know whether he
was working against a combine in the town, or
whether there was some outside interest involved.
Disclosing these details here, to the Constable,
would also test his involvement or lack of same,
with the others who seemed to be bent on Randy's
87

destruction. "Certainly, certainly," the Constable
replied, "I was just wondering." "If it's all right
with you, Constable," Randy said, turning to leave,
"I'll be going along now. I think I need some rest."
"I think that's a jolly good idea," the Constable said
cheerfully, and helped Randy out the door.
As a matter of fact, Randy did need some rest.
The wound started to act up rather badly and
elevatoring the leg would unquestionably help it.
There was enough time later on to go back to the
area where he had discovered the concordance with
the map.
For Adam Pitt not to be present while the man he
had hired to search for his treasure was doing his
job was indeed a sacrifice. But a situation had come
along which had required his immediate presence
in London. Early that morning, a shipment had
unexpectedly arrived off Southampton. Although
he had not been prepared for it, Pitt thought it was
too good an opportunity to let slip by. Consequently,
he had rushed to his London office to get the
necessary people to help him. The trouble with such
unexpected shipments was that the same reliable
workers, whom he had used on previous occasions,
weren't always available on short notice. Natural-
ly, there were other jobs, other employers around
and to men of that type moving around frequently
presented certain advantages. As it was, he
managed to get three substitutes from his consider-
able file of potential workers. Luckily, Carsgrove
was available. Having but one pilot to fly his
missions also worried Pitt considerably. He had for
some time thought of taking flying lessons himself,
but dismissed the idea on several grounds. His
identity as The Unicorn might be endangered,
88

apart from the fact that he didn't think of himself as
the flying type. Under the circumstances, he kept
his eyes open for a likely prospect to train as a
second pilot, when and if the occasion arose. Since
he had to stay in London that evening, he made a
late date with his beloved Rowan, who was used to
late dates, not only with him but with others. By
eleven o'clock Pitt was confident the shipment
would be well on its way and he in her arms.
At seven o'clock Randy woke up. The rest had
done him lots of good, and the pain in his leg had
largely subsided. Carefully, he tested it, and it
seemed he would be able to walk about a bit, so long
as he did not overdo things. Mrs. Berries, the cook,
made him a superb dinner which was a far cry from
the luncheon he had indulged in at the inn.
Engaging her in conversation was of no great
value, for Mrs. Berries had not lived in Werrick very
long, and anyway, rarely went out or mixed with
the local people.
Promptly at nine, Randy slipped a water pistol
into his pocket, and put on a pair of firm shoes. Then
he bound some thick bandages around his leg to
give the wound some support, put his notes into his
breast pocket, and took a large flashlight from his
suitcase. He was now ready to return to the place
where he had suspected treasure. The water pistol,
incidentally, looked exactly like the real article; but
it was one of Randy Knowles' cardinal principles
never to use a real gun on anyone, not to kill, not to
maim, not to use a lethal weapon of any kind on
another human being. Such a philosophy had at
times nearly cost him his own life, but it was part
and parcel of his approach to solving crimes and
problems, and he was quite sure that he could do so
with the help of his superior intelligence, his
89

extrasensory powers, and all those other special
talents nature had so generously endowed him
with, and not with the help of brutal force.
He waited until he heard Mrs. Berries go up to her
room, for he did not want her to know that he was
going out again, having just complained how bad
his wound was. As far as Mrs. Berries was
concerned, he had stumbled over some sharp stones
at the garden entrance, and cut himself. Fifteen
minutes later he was back on the road towards the
seashore, and the little elevation which had
originally misled him, loomed up ahead of him in
the dark. Fortunately, the moon was waxing, and
would be full within a matter of two or three days.
Thus the landscape was far from dark and he could
readily distinguish the various landmarks. Again,
he reached the two trees and the little brook. At this
point Randy did something that seemed very unlike
the work of a secret agent. He took the flashlight
from his pocket, turned it on and described a full
circle with it, as if he were signaling someone at a
distance. Then he walked up to a spot halfway
between the two trees, sat down on the ground with
the flashlight in his hand; from time to time he got
up again, walked a few steps in either direction, as if
he were looking for something, only to return to his
sitting position with the flashlight in one hand. "It
shouldn't be long now," he mumbled to himself.
With that he turned the light off abruptly.
Sitting in darkness, with only the moonlight to
help him distinguish distance and anything mov-
ing in the landscape, Randy was able to use his
extrasensory perception to good advantage. Within
a matter of a minute, he picked up the vibrations of
one or several human beings, not too far away.
Closing his eyes in order to get his bearings even
90

better, he visualized three men slowly moving
towards him. So sure was he of his psychic
impression, that he took the water pistol from its
hiding place in his pocket, and even cocked the
trigger. Nearer and nearer came the three invisible
ones. By now Randy could hear them walk, even
with his ordinary senses. No matter how quiet they
tried to be, occasionally a small pebble was being
overturned and in the silence of the night, such
small noises count.
It was time to act. Swiftly taking off his jacket,
and draping it over the ground, Randy placed his
flashlight next to it. Then he crouched down as
close to the ground as he could and crept about three
yards away from the jacket. There was a small
depression in the ground at that point Randy had
noticed during the day, and he made himself
comfortable in that depression now. From his hip
pocket he took another flashlight, this one very
small, but having an intense, laser-like beam,
which could blind a person if shone directly at his
eyes. On the other hand, if a filtering device
between bulb and lens was activiated, it could
illuminate a small scene almost like daylight. Now
the movement of some large animal or some human
beings was quite distinctly audible. A moment
later, three figures appeared silhouetted against the
large tree, one of the two trees forming the
landmarks Randy had discovered on the old map.
Hesitating in their approach, the three moved
nevertheless steadily towards the spot where
Randy's coat and the large flashlight were. To a
person standing several yards away, it looked as if
Randy were down on his knees looking for some-
thing or possibly digging. Then one of the men, the
heavy-set innkeeper, Randy thought, jumped for-
91

ward and pounced upon the coat and flashlight.
Since there was no Randy underneath, the man fell
flat to the ground, crying out in the process, perhaps
from surprise if not from pain, since the flashlight
might have hurt his stomach. The other two ran to
his rescue. At this moment Randy turned his high
intensity light upon them, stood up with the gun in
his hand commanded, "If you will please raise your
arms," and as they tried to shield their eyes from the
beam of his flashlight, he added, "and keep them
up." He then walked closely to the little group which
stood with their arms in the air. Shining his
flashlight into each man's face in turn, he saw that
his suspicions had been correct. It was the innkeep-
er, the doctor and the Constable. "Very well,"
Randy said, in a calm, civilized tone of voice. "I
know who you are and you know who I am. This is
no place to talk. Let us meet in half an hour at the
inn, in the back room. Agreed?" The men seemed
surprised at this turn of events. Then the Constable
spoke. "Agreed. We shall be there." "Fine," Randy
replied, "A note of warning, though, if anything
should happen to me, the authorities in London will
turn to the three of you. I took care of this an hour
ago." The three men said nothing, but trudged back
to the town without looking back. A moment later,
Randy picked up his jacket, extinguished the little
light and returned to Corley Hall. It had been a
rewarding evening after all.
But the evening was far from over. Half an hour
later, Randy entered the back room of the inn. At
this hour there were few people in the front room
since the people of Werrick rise early and go to bed
early. In the corner, seated around a long, wooden
table, the glum trio was already waiting. "Very
well," Randy began, and took a seat opposite them,
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"Why were you trying to kill me?" "You have no
business going after our treasure," the doctor
began. "What do you mean, your treasure?" Randy
demanded to know. The doctor looked at the
Constable, not sure as to who should explain
things, but then continued. "I spent better than
twelve years studying the area," the doctor said,
"I've been digging on my own here and there, and
finding various artifacts. But not the real treasure.
Two years ago I joined forces with my two friends
here and we decided to pool our resources. We've
been researching in old documents and maps ever
since. It has cost us a pretty penny at that. But we
don't mind, because we believe the treasure is still
there. We have put in more work than anyone we
know, and it belongs to us, that is whatever the
museum won't take. Between the three of us, we've
invested more than five thousand pounds in this
venture since we started, and we are not about to
lose it to a stranger."
"Even at the cost of murdering me?" The
Constable swallowed hard. "Even at that cost," the
doctor replied, "Yes, because it isn't right for you to
come in and take it away from us." "But the land
belongs to Mr. Pitt," Randy interjected. "When we
started to look for it, the land did not belong to Mr.
Pitt," the doctor replied, "We have a legal license
from the previous owner to dig as much and as long
as we want to." "But why didn't you tell this to Mr.
Pitt when the property was sold?" "We told the
broker, but he rejected our claims." "Then why
don't you go to court, why don't you do it the legal
way?" "First we have to find it, then we fight."
"And if I find it first, you have nothing to fight
about, is that it?" Randy said. The doctor nodded.
"Now look here," Randy said, with as sharp a tone
93

of voice as he was able to muster, "You have almost
killed a man, namely me, you are trying to defy
Adam Pitt's legal rights to whatever is on his
property. I can have you all arrested for attempted
murder, I can have you, Constable, removed from
office, and you Doctor disbarred from practicing
medicine. Your license, Innkeeper, isn't worth a
damn when I get through with you. What's more,
there isn't a thing you can do about it now. I have
deposited all the pertinent information with the
proper authorities in London. You will be arrested
in a matter of hours." "Then what are we here for?
There's nothing to talk about," the doctor said with
belligerence in his voice and rose. "Sit down,
Doctor," Randy replied, somewhat calmer in tone.
Arresting these men now wouldn't serve his
purpose, nor Adam Pitt's, what with the resultant
publicity. In a matter of hours, the area would
swarm with amateur diggers and journalists. This
had to be handled differently.
"I am prepared to make a bargain with you, even
though you don't deserve it," he said. "I will
withhold my accusations against the three of you
provided you stay out of my business. If and when
the Spanish treasure is found, and if it is on the
grounds belonging to Adam Pitt, you may put
forward your legal claims to it in the proper way,
through the courts. I would be the first one to
support your rights in that respect. But until the
treasure is found, you will do nothing, I repeat
nothing, to interfere with me or my work. Is that
clear?" For a moment, none of the three spoke. Then
the Constable said, somewhat quivering, "Seems
we don't have much of a choice, do we?" "I will have
to have your absolute words to this. If there is the
slightest further interference, I will automatically
94

have you arrested." Randy looked at them as if he
meant it, which in fact he did. Only that way could
he be persuasive. The three men still hesitated. "I'll
leave you alone for a moment so you can talk it
over," Randy said and walked away from the table.
Half a minute later the doctor came to fetch him
back. "We accept your proposition, Mr. Knowles,"
he said in a tired tone of voice. "There will be no
further interference, and we will take court action
when and if the treasure is discovered." Randy
Knowles looked at them, from face to face. They
seemed sincere enough. Strange fellows, he
thought, these townspeople, so bent on protecting
their local rights. "Goodnight, gentlemen," he said,
and walked out the door.
95

Chapter 5
That night Randy slept soundly, not even
perturbed by the kind of nightmares people have
after unusual happenings during the day. Randy's
nightmares, of course, never bothered him anyway,
otherwise he would never close an eye. Evidently
the events of the previous night had exhausted him
more than he had assumed, for he slept well into the
next day. He was awakened by the sound of voices
outside the house. Amongst them he recognized the
well modulated but somewhat forceful voice of
Adam Pitt. Under the circumstances, Randy got
dressed quickly, and descended the stairs to meet
his employer. "Well, now," Pitt said, looking at
Randy expectantly. "I haven't had breakfast yet,"
Randy replied, and smiled politely, "and until I do, I
cannot really think straight. All genial people are
that way, you know." "Quite," Pitt replied, serious-
ly, either ignoring Randy's quip or not understand-
ing it. Pitt was in a jovial mood himself this
morning. The operation would net him close to half
a million pounds, and that wasn't bad for a day's
work. If it weren't for the continual need to find
reliable personnel to work with, Pitt would be quite
content to have his periodical "operation" and to live
the life of an amateur archaeologist and art
collector in between. The police and the authorities
never worried him, somehow. He knew that he could
take care of them when the time came, but he didn't
envision such a time. Not only had his financial
affairs gone well, he expected his lady friend,
96

Rowan, to join him towards evening, just as soon as
she could get away from rehearsal. Under the
circumstances, it promised to be a pleasant evening
in the country. But he was eager to hear what
Randy had discovered.
His constitution fortified by a hearty breakfast,
Randy Knowles proceeded to tell Pitt what he had
discovered concerning the symbols on the map.
"Why, of course," Pitt exclaimed, when it was all
explained to him. This was no empty boast of a
johnny-come-lately discoverer, for Pitt took his
treasure hunting very seriously. He did understand
what Randy discovered, and was delighted with it.
Insisting that they inspect the area immediately, he
grabbed Randy's arm and started to walk out the
door fast.
Only then did he notice a slight limp Randy could
not well disguise. "What happened to you?" Pitt
said with the genuine concern of a father worrying
about one of his children. Under the circumstances,
Randy could not very well invent some innocent
cause for his injury. Besides, he had no reason to
suspect that Pitt would take umbrage at the little
plot he had discovered in town. After all, Randy had
disposed of the matter and Pitt should be grateful
that there hadn't been any bloodshed. There was
nothing in Randy's knowledge of Pitt to indicate
that Pitt was anything more than a sharp business-
man and under the circumstances he felt quite safe
in telling him what had occurred the night he came
back from his first inspection of the area.
As soon as Randy had intimated that others
knew of the treasure, Pitt's face grew tense and his
expression was suddenly that of an angry hawk,
rather than an amiable amateur archaeologist.
Randy couldn't help notice the sudden change in
97

his employer's mien. Quietly Pitt asked some
questions about the people Randy had dealt with.
Evidently Pitt knew the ringleaders of the little plot,
and the doctor especially seemed not to be amongst
Pitt's favorites. "The doctor is a snooper of the
worst kind," Pitt commented. "I've found him
wandering around my property time and again
without real excuse. If I weren't such a peaceful
man, I'd take a shotgun and go after him one of
these days." "There is no need to worry," Randy
assured Pitt, "I have the three men in a bind: If they
make a single move, I will have them arrested for
attempted murder." "Quite," Pitt replied, with, it
seemed to Randy, a distracted expression in his
face.
They had now reached the little brook and Randy
explained about the two trees serving as land-
marks. "Then the dig should be undertaken
somewhere around here," Pitt said and pointed to
an area west of the brook, roughly halfway between
the two trees. Randy consulted his copy of the map.
"Yes. The exact location is of course another matter,
and we may have to test dig in an area of roughly
one hundred square yards, but we are pretty close
here."
"Well done," Pitt said and patted Randy on the
shoulder. Randy hated physical expressions of
approval, especially in business matters, but Pitt
seemed genuinely pleased at the prospects. To him,
actual finding of the teasure was merely a routine
matter. As they walked back to Corley Hall, Pitt
detailed his plans. If the weather would hold, the
dig could start tomorrow. If not, not later than the
day after. Pitt saw no need for outside personnel;
Bangs, the chauffeur, Bullets, the gardener and
even Ludlow, the butler, along with Pitt himself and
98

Randy would form the team. Randy realized that
the decision not to use professional help was not
dictated by financial considerations, but by Pitt's
distrust of local people. That was alright with him,
the soil v/as soft and they should not have too much
difficulty digging into it. He looked up at the sky. It
was no longer sunny but covered by gray clouds,
indicating that rain was imminent. While the rain
might be useful in softening the earth up even
further, digging in the rain was out of the question.
Back at the house, Pitt excused himself and went to
his office. Carefully closing the door behind him,
Randy heard the clicking of a key. Evidently Mr.
Pitt didn't really trust anyone but himself. Randy
shrugged: It really wasn't his business whether Mr.
Pitt was secretive or not. His job, Randy reminded
himself again, was to help find the treasure. Even
the strange behavior by the local people didn't
perturb him, he considered the crude attempts to do
away with him merely expressions of extreme
competition. Had he been able to listen to the
telephone conversation now being engaged in by
Mr. Pitt, perhaps Randy would have had some
doubts about his employer. As things stood, he
decided to return to his room and minister to his
injured foot.
As soon as Pitt had locked the door behind him,
he picked up the telephone and rang his office.
Dutifully, McPherson answered. "McPherson," Pitt
said, "go to the file and get me the telephone number
for Noonan Jack. You will find it under Miscellane-
ous. Right." A moment later, McPherson had found
the desired number. Everything was quiet at the
office, he informed his chief, although the latter had
not inquired after it. Curtly, Pitt dismissed his
secretary, then dialed the other number.
99

He was in luck. Noonan Jack answered the
phone. "This is a friend of Martinson's,"Pitt began.
"We have worked together in the past. Shortly
before my friend's death, he suggested I get in touch
with you if ever I needed some help." There was a
pause at the other end of the line. "What sort of help
do you need?" The voice sounded pure Whitechapel.
"I'm having some trouble with three fellows who
are constantly encroaching on my property," Pitt
explained in a businesslike voice, not too loud, as if
he had to be careful of anyone listening in. Actually,
the walls at Corley Hall were thick enough to
exclude any such possibility. "Why don't you call
the police?" Jack answered. "Oh, it isn't as simple
as that. One of them is the police, they have just
tried to kill one of my best friends and associates."
"That's different," Jack said, somewhat more
interested now. "Can you give me the details?"
In all the years of his illicit trade, Pitt had been
very careful not to get involved in murder or a major
crime. He had always emphasized the need not to
have any violence, not to cause any bloodshed,
because it would only lead to investigations he did
not want. Thus far, the men had been very careful,
and The Unicorn had managed to stay off the police
blotter altogether. The nearest he had ever come to
an official investigation was at the time when
Martinson crashed.
But he didn't feel that way about his archaeologi-
cal interests: that wasn't The Unicorn speaking,
that was Adam Pitt, and the encroachment upon
his rights and property weighed very heavily on his
mind. Trying to kill Randy Knowle did not upset
him per se, but being deprived of the services of the
one man who could lead him to the treasure was
something else again. Under the circumstances,
100

something had to be done about the men who were
apparently trying to prevent him from getting what
he wanted. The instructions were explicit enough:
Remove the three from the scene. He did not say, kill
them. He sj?*d, remove them, and left the details to
Noonan Jack, a professional who would find his
own ways of dealing with the task at hand. When he
hung up the telephone, Pitt was satisfied that his
orders would be obeyed as quickly as possible. The
sum Jack asked in return was no larger than any
first class detective agency would have asked for
merely surveilling the three men. There would be
nothing in writing, and the payoff would be in cash,
in small bills deposited according to Jack's instruc-
tions. Although Pitt did not think for a moment that
Randy could become cognizant of his orders, he felt
it best not to let him know what was about to
happen to the three men who had assaulted him. He
did not know how Randy would react. It was best to
set the scene beforehand, before Randy could
become suspicious over the absence of the three
men.
Later that afternoon, Pitt, his jovial self, knocked
at Randy's door to inquire how his wound was.
"Satisfactory, sir," Randy replied. After some
discussion of the weather, and the likelihood that it
would rain in the morning, Pitt started to take his
leave, asking Randy to be down for dinner in an
hour. At the door, he hesitated, turned, and said in
as casual a tone of voice as he could muster, "Oh,
by the way, I wouldn't be surprised if those three
fellows who have been after you won't be around for
awhile. Cook tells me the doctor's cook saw him
pack as if he were going on a long trip." "Perhaps,"
Randy agreed, "but I doubt that the Constable
could just leave his post." "Oh yes, he could," Pitt
101

replied, somewhat more emphatically than neces-
sary. "As a matter of fact I think he will." When
Randy looked at him with genuine astonishment,
he added, "You see, Mr. Knowles, I happen to have
excellent connections with Scotland Yard. I didn't
want to make a big fuss over this since you clearly
indicated you did not like me to do so, but I did do
one thing, for my own protection as well as yours,
and that was to request that the good Constable be
sent somewhere else for awhile. I hope you don't
mind." That takes care of two of them, Pitt thought
and Knowles wasn't likely to go down to the inn
anyway now that Pitt was back at Corley Hall.
That evening, at dinner, Pitt was in an unusually
gay mood. Mrs. Berries had prepared an exception-
ally fine dinner in the grand manner, Pitt himself
had brought some of his best French wines up from
the cellar, and to make things even more enjoyable,
he had asked his friend Rowan to bring another girl
along to keep Randy company that evening. The
girl turned out to be a fellow actress by the name of
Agatha Moals. Whether by accident or by design,
Agatha was everything Rowan was not and vice-
versa. Rowan, resplendent in a silver lame outfit,
reaching down to her ankles but displaying her
ample upper proportions to very good advantage at
the same time, with her red hair cascading over her
shoulders in a most romantic fashion, was the exact
opposite of Agatha, dressed in a turtleneck sweater
and tight skirt. Agatha was an attractive girl,
perhaps twenty-five years old, with a slim, but
extremely well-proportioned figure. The tightness
of the sweater and skirt brought it out to best
advantage, and Randy couldn't help wondering
what she might be like without them.
The conversation was light and brittle, mainly
102

about the state of the London theatre, and what had
recently opened and what the critics had said about
it. Agatha wasn't as much of a chatterer as her
friend, Rowan, but she contributed a bit here and
there, all the time focusing her attention on Randy.
Evidently she had been told beforehand that she
was his date and she tried to get as much of a
bearing concerning him as she could. With all her
theatrical savvy, Agatha was apparently overawed
by the famous detective from America, and Randy
caught her blushing on several occasions, when he
happened to be looking in her direction.
By eleven o'clock, everyone was pretty much in
high spirits, some of these spirits had undoubtedly
been nourished by the spirits in the bottles and Pitt,
usually the cautious host, was now acting more like
an impetuous lover on his first conquest. Pulling
Rowan by the wrist, he insisted that she accompany
him to his room at once, because there were some
drawings he wanted to show her. Whether by
design, in order to show Randy that Rowan was
indeed his girl and completely under his domina-
tion, or purely because of the influence of alcohol,
Pitt became somewhat rough with her, pulling at
her wrist in such a way that she withdrew it, with
an outcry of pain. At this moment, Randy's eyes
met Rowan's, and a mental message of comfort
went from his mind to hers. At this moment also, it
appeared to Randy, a secret link was forged
between them, a link that might be followed up at a
later time. For the moment, however, Pitt was
completely pre-occupied with her. "You'll have to
excuse us, Randy old boy," he said, rising from the
table and in the process spilling a glass of
champagne. Trying to steady himself on already
unsteady legs, Pitt then offered his arm to Rowan in
103

a gesture of apology, as it were, and, throwing
another look back at Randy, she accepted. "I think
I'll have another brandy and then I'll turn in too,"
Randy remarked, more to clear the air than because
he really meant it. "Quite," Agatha said, "I feel a bit
tired myself." Both of them knew, of course, that
they were lying, and only making conversation, but
it seemed the best thing to do at the moment.
As soon as Pitt and Rowan had left the dining
room, Agatha came over to Randy and, somewhat
to his surprise, unceremoniously sat on his lap.
"Am I shocking you?" she asked, displaying a
totally different personality now. "Frankly, yes,"
he said, responding, however, as any normal man
would, by putting his arm around her.
Clearly, Agatha's job was to entertain him.
Whether this had been arranged for by Pitt or
whether she was volunteering, was hard to deter-
mine. Randy, despite his inquiring mind, was much
too much the gentleman to ask such an embarrass-
ing question. It was clear that she was after him,
and this put Randy into a quandary. On the one
hand, no man in his right mind could look askance
at such a lovely opportunity. On the other hand,
this would be as good a time as any to look a bit
around Corley Hall. Pitt's casual attitude in
informing him about the possible disappearance of
the three men from the town had made Randy
suspicious. Something didn't quite jell in his mind.
As yet, Randy had no idea what the hidden
connection could be; there might be some link
between the attempted murder and Pitt's informing
him about the likely disappearance of the three
culprits. Was Pitt perhaps an agent for some of
Randy's enemies? Was there no treasure at all, and
was he merely being lured to Corley Hall so that
104

Pitt, acting on behalf of someone else, could dispose
of him, perhaps in revenge for having been defeated
or jailed on some earlier occasion? A man like
Randy Knowles has numerous enemies, sometimes
without being aware of them. Randy began to
wonder whether he wasn't in greater danger at
Corley Hall than he had been in the field the day
before.
Under the circumstances he had decided to take
the earliest opportunity to investigate Pitt's office,
and also, if possible, to see what was below stairs.
Now that Pitt was obviously intoxicated, the golden
opportunity had come. That Pitt might be faking
his state, was unlikely, for Randy had counted the
number of drinks, of various kinds, Pitt had
consumed during the course of the evening.
But there was Agatha on his lap, just begging to
be taken. With a sigh, Randy realized that refusing
her now might make his host wonder in the
morning. Besides, he didn't want to make an enemy
of the girl, and furthermore, there was no reason
why he could not attend to both pleasure and
business in the course of one night.
"Come," he said, gently lifting her off his lap,
and taking her by the hand. There was a look of
expectancy in her eyes, as she followed him up the
stairs, docile like a lamb. When they arrived at her
room, Randy made another lame attempt to get
away. "Well, now," he began, "it's been a nice
evening, hopefully we'll have better weather
tomorrow," and looked at her with a bland smile.
But Agatha wouldn't have any conversation. Her
left arm went around Randy's neck with a firmness
he had not expected from so slender a girl, while her
right arm started to open the door. Randy knew that
there was no way to go but forward. Once insiae,
105

Agatha didn't bother to put the light on. Firmly
taking Randy by the hand, she led the way to her
bed. "Sit down," she commanded, doing likewise.
Randy was amazed at the directness of her
approach. Nothing in her appearance at the start of
dinner had indicated such a potential in Agatha. If
anything, he thought her shy and delicate. "That
funny jacket of yours," she began and stopped.
"What about my jacket?" he wanted to know. "Take
it off," she commanded. Obligingly, Randy took off
his jacket. At this moment she planted her lips
firmly on his, and started to display a technique
that came as pleasant, if unexpected surprise. The
way Agatha was proceeding, Randy thought, he
would have sufficient time still to investigate the
house.
At that moment, they were interrupted by an
outcry of horror coming from the other end of the
corridor. Within the fraction of a second Randy had
put his jacket back on and was racing down the
corridor, with Agatha not far behind. The noise had
come from the direction of Pitt's room. As Randy
reached the door of the room, he saw that it was half
opened, and Rowan Dorset standing in it, with an
expression of horror on her face. "What is it?"
Randy demanded, and stood next to her. Wordless-
ly, she pointed in the direction of the room. Quickly,
Randy pushed open the door and went inside.
There, sprawled out on the bed, was Adam Pitt,
seemingly lifeless. Immediately, Randy put his
rudimentary but very useful medical knowledge to
work. Taking the man's pulse, listening for his
heartbeat, and with the help of a pocket mirror,
checking his breathing rate, Randy was able to
ascertain that Pitt was still very much alive,
although totally oblivious to the world. He turned
106

back to Rowan. "What happened?" "I don't know,"
she replied, still very frightened. "We came up and
talked for awhile, and then Adam tried to make love
to me. All of a sudden he collapsed, made a terrible
sound as if he were dying, and the next thing I knew
he was out cold." "Did he take anything while you
were up here? Any drinks, any pills?" Randy
demanded. "Come to think of it, yes. He said he
needed his vitamins and took two or three capsules
from his night table." Randy looked at the little box.
"Why, it's a combination tranquilizer and stimu-
lant," he commented. "By itself this isn't harmful,
but taken together with large doses of alcohol, it can
indeed knock you out."
Rowan had found her composure now. "You
mean, Mr. Knowles, he is merely unconscious'?"
"Oh quite," Randy said, looking at her with a
cherry smile. "He's definitely not dead. Dead to the
world perhaps, for, oh let us say, four or five hours,
perhaps even six. After that he will be as good as
new." While the news seemed to calm Rowan, it
upset Agatha, who had listened in from the door.
Somehow, her appetite for Randy had rapidly
diminished. "I think I'll go to my room now," she
announced. Since no one stopped her or replied, she
proceeded to do so. Once again, Randy stepped up to
the bed to reassure himself that Pitt was truly out
cold. The pulse was weak, but adequate, and there
was no doubt in his mind that his diagnosis had
been correct. Returning to the door, he took Rowan
by the hand, closed the door behind them and said,
I think we had better leave Mr. Pitt alone for
awhile. Why don't you and I have a quiet walk.
After all the excitement, I don't think either one of
us ought to go to sleep right away." "Oh, I couldn't
sleep now anyway," Rowan replied, and looked
107

Randy straight in the eyes. A strange feeling came
over him. Somehow the vibrations which he knew
from the past to be of psychic origin told him of
things to come. He had the uncanny feeling that
this girl might be of great importance to his life,
perhaps even save it at one point. It seemed absurd,
taken on a logical basis, that a young actress whom
he had just met for the first time, could play such a
role in his life, but his premonition was particularly
strong at this point and he made a mental note not
to forget it. With Pitt out for several hours at least,
he thought it would be safe to suggest a short walk.
The walk led by the office on the ground floor which
Randy had wanted to investigate earlier that
evening. It seemed locked, but Randy did not want
to test it in the presence of Rowan Dorset. As far as
he knew, she was Pitt's devoted girl friend and
associate, and he had better watch his steps.
But as if she had read his mind, Rowan stopped
in front of the office, turned back to Randy, and said
in a hushed tone of voice, "I want to talk to you, Mr.
Knowles, in fact, I had wanted to talk to you ever
since I came to this house tonight." "Go right
ahead," Randy replied, taking her arm and leading
her away from the office. With a man like Adam
Pitt, the entire house might be bugged, and it was
best not to have any confidential conversations
where they could be overheard or recorded, even if
the principal was dead to the world in his bedroom
upstairs. They walked outside Corley Hall into the
formal gardens surrounding it. Here they were
reasonably sure not to be overheard by anyone.
Rowan frankly confessed her worry about Adam
Pitt. Somehow she felt uneasy in his presence now,
not quite knowing what he was up to. Whether she,
too, had ESP, or whether it was just woman's
108

intuition, Rowan felt there was something sinister
about the things Pitt was involved in, even though
she had no reason to say so. "When I realized who
you were, I decided to talk to you about it. Perhaps
you can reassure me that Adam is really all right. If
I hear this from a man of your reputation, it won't
bother me anymore."
Randy decided, more on a hunch than by logical
deduction, that he could trust Rowan, at least to a
degree. "Strange you should say this," he replied,
"but I have some doubts about it myself. Please
don't misunderstand me. My job is to help Mr. Pitt
find his Spanish treasure and nothing more. I have
nothing to do with his business affairs. As far as I
know, he is a reputable business man, an importer
and a broker on the stock exchange. Beyond that, I
haven't the faintest clue what he does." "But aren't
you curious?" Rowan said, looking at him in
surprise. "Your reputation as an investigator .would
make me think that you would have to know
everything about a prospective client." "Quite so,
quite so," Randy acknowledged. "For that reason I
was just thinking of having a look around, whileour
host is—ah—out of commission. That is, if you don't
mind. Possibly it might help you find out a few
things about Mr. Pitt for yourself." She nodded with
great enthusiasm. Together they went back to the
house, letting themselves in by the front door.
Randy was amazed that some of Pitt's men weren't
on guard, or that the front door hadn't been locked.
He didn 't know that Pitt was in the habit of walking
about the gardens, sometimes very late at night.
The outer wall, shielding the garden from the
outside, was very well guarded by an electronic
device which would ring if anyone tried to enter
through the outer gate. But the main gate of Corley
109

Hall itself had been left unguarded and unlocked
simply because of Mr. Pitt's nocturnal walks. It was
two o'clock. A heavy grandfather clock in the
dining room struck the hour, and Randy wondered
whether the servants were all asleep by now. Again,
as if Rowan had read his mind, she said, "Mrs.
Berries, the cook, sleeps across from the kitchen and
Bangs has a room in the gardener's lodge. As you
know, Ludlow has a cold and is back home in
London, and Janet, the maid, is supposed to be in
her room, but as a matter of fact isn't." "How
come?" Randy asked, amazed at Rowan's percep-
tive appraisal of the situation. "It so happens I saw
her sneak out the door shortly after Adam and I
went upstairs," she explained. "She has a lover in
the town and I doubt that she will be back much
before morning." "Splendid," Randy said, "that
leaves only the two of us, Mr. Pitt and Mrs. Berries
in the main house." "Correct," Rowan replied. "And
Mrs. Berries and Adam are sleeping soundly,
separately, of course." "Of course," Randy said and
smiled, swiftly opening the door to Pitt's office with
a little gadget he had perfected and which he
carried on his person at all times. One never knew in
his profession when a locked door had to be opened.
Carefully closing the door behind themselves,
the two then stepped into the office. Fortunately,
there was sufficient illumination from outside
coming through the tall windows to allow them to
get their bearings. The light of the moon hit the
tapestry with the Lion and the Unicorn, and again
Randy thought it remarkable how the face of the
Unicorn resembled Adam Pitt's face. Swiftly he put
on some extremely thin white gloves, which he
always used when he was handling objects on
which fingerprints could be left behind. Taking a
110

tiny flashlight from another pocket and mounting
it on an empty frame which he then put upon his
nose very much in the manner of a pair of glasses,
Randy was able to get a small cone of illumination
precisely where he needed it, without allowing the
light to be seen from the outside. Drawer by drawer
was opened, again with the help of Randy's little
gadget. During all this, Rowan stood by him,
watching over his shoulder, nervously breathing,
sometimes delightfully close to him. But Randy's
mind was on his business now and not on Rowan.
To their amazement, the drawers contained no-
thing of great interest. Correspondence concerning
rare antiques, household bills, a doctor's prescrip-
tion for virility and a fair amount of cash. Then
Randy's ESP went to work again. Something made
him step back about a yard from the desk and to
look at it carefully on both sides. He then realized
that the left drawers were slightly lower than the
ones on the right. Returning to the desk once more,
he opened the lower left drawer and put his hand
inside it. When he reached the back of the drawer,
he found what he had hoped for. There was a small
metal lever which Randy pressed immediately. He
then extricated his hand from the drawer, closed it
again, and then reopened it. This time the drawer
was deeper than before. With his fingers he lifted
the false bottom, disguised by miscellaneous
papers, and thrust his hand underneath.
What he had in his hands now was a stack of
papers covered with figures and dates. As yet,
Randy could not make head or tails of this, and it
would take considerable study to determine what he
had found. Why was Pitt hiding these figures in
such an unusual place? But there was more. Below
the papers filled with figures and dates, was a list of
111

names. Next to the names were sums of money, as it
these people had been paid certain amounts for
certain tasks. That in itself was in no way
suspicious, Randy thought. For all he knew, Pitt
might have kept some of his records at home rather
than in his London office, and since Pitt was known
as an importer of various goods, the sums might
represent purchases. Then again they might refer to
rare antiquities which Pitt was in the habit of
buying also. There was nothing else in the drawer,
and Randy began to wonder if it hadn't all been a
terrible mistake. Quickly putting the material back
into place, he happened to be turning the last sheet
around. To his amazement, there were three names
on the back of the list, written in longhand in a
handwriting which he immediately recognized as
that of Adam Pitt. They were the names of three
individual addresses in Hong Kong and Calcutta.
To anyone but Randy Knowles, they would repre-
sent simply business contacts of a man having far-
flung connections. But Randy recognized the
names immediately. In an earlier case, in which he
had been called in by the Indian authorities as well
as Interpol, he happened to have been instrumental
in disrupting the dealings of what he considered
two of the most notorious dope producers on the
entire continent of Asia. He had thought that the
two men were out of business, even though they had
not been apprehended. Evidently, they were very
much in evidence, judging from the paper before
him. The payoff dates on the other side of the same
paper indicated that the data had been written
within the last year. And then Randy knew what
Adam Pitt's secret business was: The names
represented distributors, and the sums the amounts
they were to pay him. Quickly, he explained his
112

findings to Rowan. At this stage, he needed her as
an ally, and in view of her entanglement with Pitt,
she certainly needed protection. She was bright
enough to realize this, and assured Randy of her
willingness to cooperate, in fact to do whatever he
wanted her to. Being a trained actress, she
explained, would help her perform her role without
Pitt becoming suspicious in the least. Quickly they
put everything back as they had found it and left
the office, carefully locking the door again and
wiping the knob clean.
The room assigned to Rowan was not far from
where Pitt was still sleeping. They walked quietly,
just in case Randy had miscalculated the time
during which their host would be unconscious.
When Randy and Rowan arrived at the door of her
room, there was an awkward moment in which
neither knew what to do. Quite obviously, it would
be unwise for Randy to be found speaking to her in
confidence. If Pitt would awaken now, there would
be hell to pay. Again, as if she had read his mind,
Rowan whispered, "Check him, please," pointing in
the direction of Pitt's room. Tiptoeing across the
hall, and gently opening the door, Randy entered.
Again he took Adam Pitt's pulse and checked his
heart. The man was sleeping soundly, so soundly in
fact that there wasn't much of a chance of his
awakening before morning. Still, Randy was a man
who didn't like to take chances. Closing Pitt's door
behind him, he motioned to Rowan to follow him.
Retracing his steps towards his own room now, he
took her hand and kept silent until they had
reached the door of his room. "I doubt he will
awaken much before breakfast, if even then, but
there is nothing to worry about. He will be alright.
Just the same, I think you will be much better off
113

here." With that he pushed open his own door,
motioned Rowan to precede him, and followed
quickly. Locking the door behind him, he turned on
the small light next to his bed. It cast an eerie light
upon the opposite wall, giving the room the
appearance of a medieval camenate. "Our work is
done for now," Randy said. "Until cock's crow, the
mice may play."
This time he didn't wait until the girl sat on his
lap. But she stopped him. "Wait," she said. "How
am I to walk back to my room in this?", pointing at
her silver lame gown. "I'll be back in a moment."
Somewhat hesitatingly, Randy let her go again.
Would she return? His doubts were dispelled once
and for all a minute later, when she returned,
dressed in a simple housecoat and slacks, the sort of
outfit she might have worn in the morning. Not
only was it a simple outfit fashion-wise, but it was
easy to take off, as Randy was able to find out
shortly after. If Rowan had put only a fraction of
her enthusiasm, which she now displayed for
Randy, into her relationship with Adam Pitt, he
must have been a happy man indeed, Randy
thought. Unquestionably, Rowan Dorset was not
only an excellent actress, a valuable ally, but the
kind of unexpected bonus detectives in other stories
dream about. Randy gets them.
114

Chapter 6
Fortunately for Randy, the next morning was
rainy and gray. This was not the day when the dig
could begin. The way it looked, most of the day
would probably be spent indoors, waiting for the
weather to improve. It was almost ten o'clock when
Randy finally woke up. The night had been
memorable in many ways. For once, Randy did not
discuss the problems at hand. Instead, he had given
himself over to the full enjoyment of the opportuni-
ty that had so unexpectedly come his way. Around
three-thirty in the morning, Rowan had returned to
her room, carefully avoiding even the slightest
noise. Randy himself had brought her there. Had
Pitt awakened and challenged them, Randy was
prepared to explain that he had heard a suspicious
noise outside and was merely investigating, and
had found Rowan equally aroused by the distur-
bances. But a quick check-up convinced him that
Pitt was still out cold.
After Randy had convinced himself that he
would have some time on his hands today, he
thought how he could best use it. Above all, there
was the question of what to do about Adam Pitt and
his recent discovery. One thing Randy Knowles had
never done in his long career: serve the ends of
illegallity, cause a human life to be taken for selfish
interests, or break the law, no matter how unjust
such a law might be. Under the circumstances, he
had but two choices. Either he was to face Pitt and
confront him with his findings, and resign his
115

commission on the spot, in which case he would not
only have Pitt cover up his traces for future
investigations by the law enforcement authorities
of his own country, but also, possibly, endanger his
own life. If Randy did not let on what he had
discovered, and continued to serve Pitt, was he then
not guilty of disguising a known crime from the
authorities? Apart from that, was he not morally
responsible to sever his relations with such a man?
Walking up and down in his room, Randy found the
problem vexing. He also began to worry about
Rowan. What if her companionship and collabora-
tion last night were merely a cover-up? Was she
perhaps spying for Pitt all the time? Why was she
here to begin with?
Rowan had explained her presence satisfactori-
ly, and brought Randy up to date on her involve-
ment with Pitt. But, how was he to know that she
was speaking the truth? In all this excitement,
Randy had completely forgotten about Agatha.
What if she had accidentally observed Rowan's
movements? Suppose Agatha knew that Rowan
had spent the better part of the night with him? A
woman spurned can be a revengeful agent indeed.
The more Randy kept walking up and down, the
more furiously he tried to solve his problems, the
less he accomplished it. Finally, mentally exhaust-
ed, he lay down on the bed, after he had locked the
door and closed the shutters, plunging his room into
semi-darkness again. Somewhere a clock struck
eleven.
There was but one thing to do. As he had done
many times before, Randy put himself into a semi-
trance. He instructed himself at the same time that
he would return to full consciousness exactly thirty
minutes later. He further commanded himself not to
116

be disturbed by any extraneous noises, by anyone
knocking at his door or in any way trying to get his
attention. That was important because otherwise
he might endanger himself physically, by being
awakened from his state too abruptly and without
the proper preparations. Consciously, Randy knew
that Pitt would by now be in his office, probably
doing some work connected with his business.
Hopefully, he would not have noticed that someone
had been to his desk during the night. As far as
Randy could recall, they had put everything back
the way it was. But one can never tell, even a Randy
Knowles makes an occasional mistake. On the
other hand, had Pitt noticed something being amiss
in his office, he would by now have come to Randy's
door, demanding an explanation. After all, Randy
was the only outsider in the house at present and
the most logical candidate for a break-in. Randy
had no idea where the women were, but he assumed
that Rowan was still in her room, probably quite
tired also, and that Agatha might be in the lounge
or somewhere else downstairs, reading or learning
a script, or whatever an actress does when she
isn't acting. Under the circumstances Randy felt
quite safe, at least until lunch which he knew to be
at one o'clock. Closing his eyes now and controlling
his breathing in the peculiar yoga fashion he had
been taught by his Tibetan mentor, Morea, Randy
felt himself glide out of his body and experienced a
giddy sensation. Of course, he had done this many
times before: out of the body experiences, also called
astral projections, were nothing new to him. For
years he had trained himself to "go places without a
body," so to speak, to observe what might be going
on and remember it upon awakening. It was far
more effective, and a lot less dangerous, than
117

actually breaking in. Of course, there was always
one risk. Someone on the other end of the line might
be equally as psychic as he was and actually see his
etheric double. In that case, the other person might
address him and demand to know what he was
doing there. Since-etheric doubles cannot respond,
Randy would then be drawn back to his physical
abode, and at worst, be questioned about it
afterwards. In that case, Randy was always
prepared to say that he had had a vivid dream of the
other person, and had probably projected himself in
some unknown fashion. This would satisfy the
other person, since no one suspected Randy of such
extraordinary talents.
Slowly Randy's etheric form rose from the bed
and glided towards the door, then went through it
and out into the corridor. His physical body
remained behind, breathing regularly as if in deep
sleep. Having directed himself consciously prior to
undertaking the experiment, Randy's etheric self
went on its way, swiftly crossing the hall over to the
staircase, down the stairs, and into the locked office
of Adam Pitt. During all this time, Randy was
aware of a bluish-white light which illuminateH the
scene. There was a chilly feeling through it all, and
a sense of unreality which in a way was more real
than the ordinary sense of presence he was
accustomed to when in the physical body.
Pushing himself forward through thought pro-
jection, Randy stood behind Adam Pitt, looking
over his shoulder as he went through a stack of
papers spread out before him. This was a moment of
great truth: If Pitt was psychic himself, he might
notice Randy. As a matter of fact Pitt did pay some
attention to Randy's presence. Evidently he had a
feeling of sorts, for he looked around as if someone
118

were in fact standing behind him. But his eyes went
through Randy, without recognizing him! Shrug-
ging his shoulders, Pitt returned to the task at hand.
For the moment, Randy was safe. Beyond the vague
feeling of a presence, Pitt had not noticed anything.
Looking closer, Randy realized that Pitt was
planning another operation. Two telephone num-
bers, evidently of a London exchange, had been
jotted down on a piece of paper. On the same slip,
Pitt had scribbled, "Cable Calcutta to double."
Evidently, Pitt was getting greedier. But a sudden
thought went through Randy's etheric self: Sure, he
knew that Pitt was engaged in the illicit drug trade,
but where was the physical evidence? If Pitt never
brought any of the drugs to either his London
offices or to this house, how was he to prove the
whole thing? True, the names of the two drug
suppliers in the East were circumstantial evidence,
and probably some of the other names found on the
piece of paper he had inspected the previous night
might also lead the police to further clues. But
would it hold up in court? Would it not be far more
convincing if some actual drugs, even if they were
only a small portion of the drugs brought into the
country, could be discovered and seized? Randy's
etheric double was functioning beautifully, even to
the point of reasoning. He promised himself to look
further in the house, especially in areas where he
had not looked before. Abruptly, Pitt rose. The
reason seemed to be footsteps approaching the
office from the outside. Quickly putting the papers
into the left drawer, and locking it, Pitt rushed by
Randy on his way to the door. It gave Randy a
curious sensation, as if he had been scratched by
some uneven surface, but it did not hurt in any way.
When Pitt reached the door, there was a knock.
119

Quickly he opened it and let Rowan into the room.
Aha, Randy thought, now we shall find out where
she stands. Rowan wore the same clothes they had
picked out for her in case she was discovered on her
way back to her room in the morning. But she
looked no less beguiling in them than in her
shimmering decollete evening gown.
"Sit down," Pitt said jovially but with an
undertone of nervousness, and pointed to a chair
next to his desk. Rowan took the chair and pulled it
up close to his desk. "I was terribly worried about
you, Adam," she began, making it sound as if she
really were. "You felt quite ill last night, and we
were all terribly worried about you." Pitt waved it
aside. "It was nothing. I just had a little too much to
drink, I guess." Either he was not aware of the
strong results of combining his prescription cap-
sules with large doses of alcohol, or he did not wish
to discuss it. "Then you will be all right for the dig?"
she continued, still pursuing a tone of worried
friendship. His face fell. "Alas, that will not be
possible today. Even if the rain should stop, we will
have to wait until tomorrow at least, or else we
may do more damage than good. This may be a very
delicate operation, you know, and we must have the
best of conditions. But I do hope that tomorrow
morning we can really begin."
Randy hovered about waiting for Rowan to say
something else. But she had nothing further to say.
Evidently Randy's fears that she might be a double
agent working for Pitt, after all, were unfounded.
Rowan kissed Pitt lightly on the lips, and then
excused herself. As soon as she had left the office,
Pitt returned to his desk and started to read the
financial pages of the London Times. It was clear to
Randy that the time had come to return to his own
120

body, for nothing useful could be gleaned here at
this moment. With a swishing sound, which of
course only he could hear, Randy returned to his
own body, practically racing along the corridor
several inches above the floor, since etheric bodies
need not actually walk. As he snapped back into his
physical self, he had, as have all astral travelers, a
sensation of falling from great heights. However,
this lasted but a fraction of a moment and then
Randy was back to his own self. Breathing rather
heavily for a few moments, he then came out of his
trance state, opening his eyes and immediately
testing his muscles. Everything was back in place.
Yawning and stretching, Randy rose and got
dressed.
After lunch, which was uneventful, although
rather subdued in mood, due of course to the
weather, Randy asked whether he could speak to
Adam Pitt for a few moments alone. "Of course,"
Pitt replied and led the way to his office. Again
Randy entered the office, this time in his physical
body.
"My problem is," Randy said, pulling his chair to
face Pitt from behind the desk. "My problem is that
I forgot to ask you a rather important question.
Since we are going to start digging tomorrow,
presumably, I feel I might as well discuss it with you
now." What on earth could it be, Pitt wondered. He
was sure Randy could not have discovered any-
thing that he shouldn't have. "Suppose we do find
the treasure, what do you plan to do with it?" "What
do I plan to do with it? Why, clean it, catalogue it,
and enjoy it." "I realize that. My concern was that
all the necessary legal requirements be observed.
Such as notifying the British Museum." Quite
obviously, Pitt didn't like the question. "Are you
121

insinuating that I might do something illegal?" he
said. "No, not at all," Randy assured him, "but my
reputation is involved, too. I do know that British
law requires registration of any treasure found on
British soil within twenty-four hours. Are you
prepared to do this?" "If any treasure is discovered
on my own ground, it belongs to me, and to me
alone. There is nothing illegal about this. Of course,
I shall notify the Museum when I have properly
examined the find. But that is entirely in my
discretion." Pitt rose and gave Randy his hand.
Obviously, the conversation was finished. As he left
the office, Randy couldn't help noticing that the
atmosphere had considerably chilled.
Although Randy's assignment had been to help
Pitt find his treasure, and not to assist the British
government in enforcing its laws, he found his
employment harder and harder to bear by the hour.
What was to prevent Pitt from selling the treasure
within hours after it had been uncovered? How did
Randy know that Pitt was actually bent on
studying and cataloging it rather than disposing of
it? Randy hated himself for not investigating Pitt ,
more thoroughly than he had, seeing that such
unusual complications had arisen. But now it was
too late.
During the afternoon the rain stopped. It was
clear that tomorrow would indeed be the day of the
great dig. Dinner was somewhat of a surprise.
Agatha had left for London unexpectedly, and Pitt
let it be known that he wasn't feeling well. Thus
dinner was had by Randy and Rowan alone, a
somewhat awkward occasion, since they could not
be sure that the room wasn't bugged. Under the
circumstances, they refrained from discussing
anything but the weather and the dig that lay
ahead of them. Even Rowan didn't seem her usual
122

self. There was tension in the air, tension far
beyond the excitement accompanying the expected
search for the treasure. After dinner, Randy
excused himself and took a walk into the town.
Making sure that he was not being shadowed by
one of Pitt's men, he went directly to the inn. There
wasn't much risk that the innkeeper would attack
him now, seeing that Randy had found out his true
position. But the innkeeper wasn't there. Curious,
Randy thought, and then he remembered Pitt's
chance remark that he shouldn't be surprised to
find his would-be murderers gone for awhile. The
man who served him his brandy was the innkeep-
er's eldest son. In reply to a casual question, he
informed Randy that he hadn't seen his father in
two days. He had no idea where he had gone. But
the purpose of Randy's visit was not to look after the
health of the innkeeper. As soon as he had locked
himself into the telephone booth, he put through a
call to San Francisco. It was good to hear Jeremy
say, "Hello, this is Mr. Randy Knowles' residence."
Although it sounded somewhat as if the voice were
originating underwater, which in fact it was in a
manner of speaking, Randy could hear clearly and
was in turn fully understood. Randy explained to
his faithful man Monday through Saturday that
there was a degree of danger involved in the present
operation. He had Jeremy write down the pertinent
data about Adam Pitt, in case something happened
to him, and instructed Jeremy to call his London
contact man, in case Jeremy hadn't heard from
Randy again two days later.
When Randy returned to Corley Hall, the house
was dark. Evidently Rowan had gone to sleep. So
she had. In his bed. Dig or no dig, Randy decided,
the case was worthwhile.
123

Chapter 7
Finally, the weather had cleared up. Undoubted-
ly, they could start digging in the morning. Randy
was walking up and down in front of his window,
peering out into the garden, which lay before him
bathed in the eerie moonlight. He was restless on
two counts: one, because he missed the excitement
and, frankly, the nearness of Rowan, in a sort of
anti-climatic sense of emptiness, and two, he was
worried about Adam Pitt. Of course, the easiest
thing would be to walk out on Pitt and turn the
whole thing over to the local police department. On
the other hand, he hadn't come here all the way
from San Francisco to let the local constabulary do
his battle. Randy had no qualms about taking
money from a man against whom he might
eventually have to turn. His fee had been amply
earned already. Had he not pin-pointed the actual
location of the treasure, deciphered the map, and set
up the entire digging operation? Truly, if he left that
very night, he would have done the job. It came to
him also that Pitt might have sent him away, had
he known of Randy's thoughts. But Randy was
quite sure that his employer had no inkling of
Randy's having stumbled onto something far
bigger than a treasure hunt. Herein lay two other,
weighty reasons why Randy had to stick around.
Treasure hunting had always been one of his
favorite excitements, and the drug traffic one of his
greatest concerns as an individual and as a citizen.
Far from being a moralist, Randy had been quite
124

outspoken in his rejection of all forms of drugs.
Having more than a smattering knowledge of
medicine and biochemistry, Randy knew how
dangerous the intake of drugs was and how it acted
in a cumulative fashion, even so innocent a
stimulant as "grass," or marijuana. While he
condemned those using such substances as either
misled or weak, Randy reserved his anger and
determination of resistance for those who trafficked
in the "stuff." To find himself on the payroll of a
man whose money was earned, to a large extent at
any rate, by the traffic in various forms of drugs,
was not at all amusing to him.
Well, Randy thought with a final resolution,
Jeremy knew what was up. If anything happened to
him, Jeremy would certainly act as per instructions,
so there was really no reason why Randy should not
get into the case as if he had never been hired as the
consultant on a treasure hunt. More than anything,
Randy felt himself like a public trustee, and his
object was not so much the dig in the morning, as
the uncovering and total destruction of Mr. Pitt's
little drug business.
Everything was quiet about the house now, for
Pitt and the others had gone to bed early in
anticipation of the dig. Somewhere a clock struck
five. My God, Randy thought, five o'clock already.
It seemed to him that the moon had been shining
down upon the garden just a moment ago, until he
realized that he had been standing by the window
for well over two hours. Strangely enough, he didn't
feel tired. The treasure hunt was called for nine
o'clock. Randy went back to bed, trying to sleep. It
wasn't much of a rest, for he was tossing and
allowing his impatience for action to prevent him
from letting go. Somehow, he drifted off to a light
125

sleep. But the rising sun woke him around six.
Unable to go back to sleep, and unwilling to toss
some more, Randy got dressed, and decided to take
a walk before breakfast. The sun was barely up and
the house still surrounded by the peculiar mist
frequently found in this part of England. There
were patches of it all along the garden paths, and at
times one would disappear into them and reappear
on the other end, as if one had been to a strange
country.
As he walked through the extensive garden,
Randy's sixth sense suddenly put him on the alert
again. He was sure that he was quite alone and yet,
within himself, a warning light had gone on. About
a hundred yards from the manor house, there was a
picturesque imitation Greek temple, built in the
style of another century when such adornments
were common in the gardens of large English
estates. Strange looking building, Randy thought,
as he sauntered by it. He had just passed the corner
of the Greek temple, when the full alert sounded
within his extra-sensory system. He turned around
in a flash and just managed to side-step a heavy
stone in the hand of a man who had just stepped out
of the mist. With a crash muffled by the soft earth,
the stone fell to the ground without having harmed
him. That was a close one, Randy thought, for the
stone was heavy enough to kill him with one blow.
But there was no time for such considerations now.
The perpetrator was fleeing the scene in great
haste. Fortunately, Randy knew the grounds well.
The man was running in the direction of the town. If
Randy would run after him, the man would surely
escape him. But Randy instead cut across the lawn,
which would save him approximately fifteen
seconds of running time. His calculations proved
126

correct. Just as he reached the wall around Corley
Hall, he saw the man coming up, ready to hoist
himself up on it and down on the other side. Quickly
Randy grabbed the man's leg and pulled him to the
ground. In the fraction of a second, he had him
pinned to the ground, while feverishly looking for
some other form of weapon. Evidently, the man did
not carry a gun or knife. "Get up." Randy de-
manded, pointing his water pistol at the intruder.
The man in front of him was perhaps twenty-two or
twenty-three years old, and seemed rather neat,
despite his current state of dishevelment; there was
nothing very sinister about his appearance. From
his clothes Randy deduced that he was one of the
local people and as soon as the man opened his
mouth, Randy knew that his deduction had been
correct.
Randy's first impression was that Pitt was
trying to do away with him. Immediately he caught
himself: how ridiculous, since Pitt had no know-
ledge of Randy's discovery. Then, too, was Pitt
really a man who would order somebody killed? As
yet, Randy had no proof that Pitt had ever done
anything more than engage in illicit drug traffic.
No, he decided, Pitt couldn't be blamed for the early
morning attack.
"Who are you?" Randy demanded. "I am Mark
Slaughter," the fellow said sullenly. "Why did you
try to kill me just now?" "You people killed my
brother. I'm only doing what's fair." "Your brother?
Who is your brother?" "Constable Slaughter." So
that was it!
Randy addressed himself to the young man,
explaining, with some pain, the difference between
himself and Adam Pitt and Pitt's henchmen. For
some reason, unknown to himself, Randy felt he
127

could trust this man, despite the fact that he had I
tried to murder him a scant fifteen minutes before. I
The young man seemed to sense that and returned
Randy's confidence with confidences of his own.
"How do you know your brother was murdered?"
Randy demanded. The young man shrugged his
shoulders. "They found his body in the river,
downstream, late last night," he said, quietly. "But
how do you know it wasn't an accident? Couldn't he
have fallen in?" Slaughter shook his head. "The
other chaps aren't around either," he commented.
"The doctor has been gone for days and nobody
knows where the innkeeper is. I'm sure he's had
them murdered too."
This altered things considerably. Quite obvious-
ly, his complaint to Pitt about the attacks upon him
had moved Pitt to take measures of his own. It was
clear to Randy that only Pitt could have undertaken
these murders, if indeed they were murders. Except
for what Randy had told Pitt, there was no way in
which his "employer" could have connected the
three men just named with the proposed treasure
hunt. "If what you say is true, young man," Randy
remarked rather tersely, "then I know a better way
of avenging your brother's death." Quickly, he
pulled the young man to his side and together they
went back to the far end of the garden where they
could not be overheard by anyone. Randy explained
his stratagem to Mark Slaughter, enlisting him on
his side. This the young man was readily willing to
do. "I want you to shadow me as much as you can
during the dig," Randy explained. "Under the
circumstances it is entirely possible that an attempt
may be made on my life—not by you or your friends
this time—once the treasure has been brought to the
surface. You understand this?" "Quite," the young
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man nodded. "It is now almost seven o'clock. In two
hours, the dig will begin. There is very little time to
make arrangements. Yet, I will have to take certain
steps. What time does the post office open herea-
bouts?" "Eight o'clock sharp." "That will have to do
then. You had better run along for now." Randy
would slowly walk down to the town and wait for
the post office to be opened. That would still leave
him enough time to return to Corley Hall, hopefully
unseen, or if observed, he could explain it as a
restless night and the need for a brisk morning
walk.
He turned to leave Mark Slaughter, but the young
man hesitated. "Wait," he said, and beckoned for
Randy to return to him. "What is it?" Randy asked.
There was something in the young man's voice that
demanded attention. "There is one more thing I had
better tell you," Slaughter said and lowered his
voice, even though there was no one in the vicinity
who could have possibly overheard their conversa-
tion. "I know where the treasure is. You are about
three yards off the mark. You see, my brother had a
map too. Want me to show you?" From his pocket,
Slaughter drew a wrinkled yellowish piece of
parchment. A quick look convinced Randy that he
had an authentic sixteenth century document
before him. Could there have been two maps? Why
not, he answered himself, especially as the two
maps were obviously far from identical. But this
was not the time to reason out the strange
appearance of the second map. "Show me the way
to the spot," he demanded. Ten minutes later the
two men stood at the spot. In truth, it was no more
than three or four yards fron the spot designated for
the dig. But when it comes to treasure hunting, four
yards may make a lot of difference. Fortunately,
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shovels and other digging tools had already been
left in the vicinity several days before, in anticipa-
tion of the dig. Quickly, Randy and Mark grabbed a
shovel and pick-ax and began to attack the soil. It
was seven-thirty when their tools struck something
hard, metallic. A few moments more, and their
combined efforts uncovered a rusted metal chest,
perhaps a yard by half a yard in circumference and
seemingly very heavy. Straining their muscles to
the utmost, they lifted it from its hiding place and
gently placed it on the soil.
"What now?" Slaughter said, and looked at
Randy. By now the young man had accepted the
famed detective's word as the Gospel truth, and
looked to him for further guidance. Quickly, Randy
looked around in a circle. He knew that he had very
little time to take action, that they might be
discovered at any time if Adam Pitt or one of his
men decided to take an early morning walk
themselves. His eye fell on a barn perhaps fifty foot
distant. Quickly, the two men walked towards it.
Rummaging through it, they discovered an old
suitcase, roughly the size of the chest they had just
unearthed. Retracing their steps with it, they placed
it into the hole. Randy was about to toss soil on top
of it, when Slaughter halted him. "Wait," he said,
"there's something I've got to put inside first."
From his pocket he took a small slip of paper and
placed it inside the suitcase, quickly closing it and
covering it with earth. "What was in that note?"
Randy wanted to know. "Just a little reminder,"
Slaughter replied, with a grim undertone in his
voice. Randy didn't feel like pressing his point
further would serve their cause. He could question
Slaughter later on, when they had less pressing
business on their hands. As well as they could, they
130

covered the spot where they had dug, brought the
tools back to where they had found them, and
finally deposited the heavy metal chest in a corner
of the barn beneath some abandoned farm equip-
ment, a hiding place nearly as good as the one it had
been in for several centuries.
When Randy Knowles arrived in front of the post
office, it was exactly eight o'clock. As the sleepy
postmaster unlocked the door of his office, a church
clock struck the eighth hour. At least they are
punctual around here, Randy thought. By eight-
fifteen Randy was speaking to his faithful butler
and manservant, Jeremy. The order was simple,
Jeremy, in turn, had to make a certain phone call.
That call was to go to a man in London Randy knew
well. Of course, he could have placed the call
himself, directly. But he wasn't sure whether the
local postmaster wasn't involved with Pitt in some
way, and this was one situation where an error
could indeed prove fatal. Randy had long worked
out a semi-code with Jeremy, which allowed Jeremy
to understand exactly what Randy wanted without
giving away any secrets to outsiders who might be
listening in. Stepping out of the post office, Randy
decided to have a quick cup of tea at the local inn. He
had been running without breakfast for several
hours now, and his energies began to lag, energies
he might still need in the hours to come. Thus it was
only a few minutes before nine o'clock when he
returned to Corley Hall. As he walked into the
drawing room downstairs, he found Pitt already
waiting for him, dressed in what to Pitt must be
fatigues: brown pants, gray shirt and brown
sweater, together with heavy shoes apparently
were Pitt's digging outfit. But Randy had little time
to observe his host's get-up. There was something in
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Pitt's countenance that made Randy apprehensive.
"Tell me, Mr. Knowles," Pitt said succinctly, "what
were you doing in my grounds early this morning?"
"I couldn't sleep," Randy explained in as casual a
voice as he could muster, "because the expectation
of finding the treasure kept me up half the night. So
I decided to take a walk. Any objections?" "One of
my men saw you walking about," Pitt explained, a
little less agressive now, "and at times like this, one
wonders." "I'm sorry if I upset him," Randy said,
smoothly, "but I had no idea that the grounds were
off limits to anyone." Pitt gave him a strange look.
"Very well," he said, slowly, "I'm terribly sorry if I
sounded cross. I too haven't slept too well. But I'm
ready for the dig now. Have you had your breakfast
yet?" "Yes, thank you, I decided to walk into town
and have tea at the inn," Randy said, feeling that he
might as well announce it himself, for Pitt was sure
to find out within the hour. Pitt's eyebrows went up.
"The inn, really? That wasn't necessary. I'm sure
cook would have gladly served you breakfast, even
at an early hour." Evidently Pitt didn't like it when
people associated with him went their own ways.
But there was nothing he could do about it now. "It
is nearly nine o'clock," Randy commented, "are we
ready?"
So they were. Without further discussing Ran-
dy's nightly meanderings, Pitt headed for the
supposed location so carefully worked out in the
previous days. Hardly a word was spoken between
them now. Evidently, the tension of finding the
treasure had finally overcome Pitt and his usual
smoothness had given way to it. That was just as
well, Randy thought, for he was in no mood to be
interrogated further. There was a fine point at
which his patience might break, and at the present
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time Randy preferred that the relations between his
"employer" and himself remained intact. As soon
as they had reached the spot designated for the dig,
every man busied himself with appropriate tools.
Fortunately, no one looked in the direction of the
real dig, where Randy and Slaughter had been a few
hours before. The weather was good, but a look at
the sky convinced Randy that there might be rain
later in the day. Should they not succeed in finding
the treasure today, they would probably come back
the following day. One good rainfall would be
sufficient to wipe out all traces of the dig undertak-
en by Randy and Slaughter earlier that morning.
But for the present, he had better concentrate on
what the others did. They had gone down a yard
and a half already, and still no treasure. Pausing
now and then, they looked at Pitt who seemed so
positive that they were on the right track. Randy
realized that sooner or later Pitt would decide there
was no treasure to be found on the spot designated
by Randy. He would then turn on him and there was
no telling what would happen next. Randy there-
fore delayed the action by discussing various
possibilities with Pitt and the others. But Pitt soon
saw through it, and reprimanded Randy for using
precious time in conversation when they should
really be digging for the treasure. Quietly, Randy
consulted his wristwatch. It was exactly ten o'clock.
Any moment now, he thought, would come relief.
Sure enough, there it was in the person of the butler
who had remained behind in the house. Although
he spoke in a quiet voice to Pitt only, Randy
overheard what he said. There was a telephone call
from London and would Mr. Pitt please return.
"Take a break, everybody," Pitt commanded, and
went back to the house with the butler. All is well,
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Randy thought. Through Jeremy, he had arranged
a call for Pitt, advising him that a huge shipment of
narcotics was on the way from Pakistan and had to
be received immediately. Randy knew that Pitt
would not be able to resist such a tempting
opportunity. He was right. Fifty minutes later, Pitt
returned to the dig. "Something has come up that
requires my presence in the city immediately," he
announced, "we will continue digging tomorrow."
Pitt then stepped up to Randy, who sat on the
ground, quietly sketching the tree in the distance in
his notebook. "I'm sorry, Knowles," Pitt said, with
the old pleasantness returned to his voice, "but this
thing has come up rather suddenly and I've got to
go after it. Business before pleasure, you know." He
even managed a smile and when he did so, Randy
again noticed the incredible similarity between
Pitt's expression and the face of the unicorn on the
tapestry in Pitt's office.
"Quite so," Randy replied, fixing a steady gaze
on Pitt's face. At the same time, he sent a telepathic
message to Pitt's unconscious to make sure Pitt
would not change his mind again. 'Must go at once
and not return till morning' was the suggestion
Randy tried to implant in Pitt's unconscious mind.
Pitt responded immediately. Scratching his ear
rather sheepishly, he said, "Must go at once—
probably won't return till morning." With that he
almost ran back to the manor house.
Not exactly unhappy at having the rest of the
day off, the others put the tools back against the tree
and slowly returned to the Hall. Fortunately,
Rowan decided to stay on. Whether this was due to
her continuing interest in the treasure, or her
unwillingness to go with Adam Pitt or his desire not
to have her along, or possibly even due to her
134

interest in Randy, it didn't really matter to the
latter—the point was, Rowan and he would be the
only ones in the house that evening except for the
staff. By now Randy knew the habits of the staff
pretty well. It should be an interesting evening, he
thought, and with that in mind he hastened his
steps to catch up with Rowan, who was walking
back to Corley Hall somewhere between Pitt and
himself.
135

Chapter 8
Randy knew that he had to utilize his short
breathing spell to the utmost: there couldn't be any
further slip-ups, for he sensed that Adam Pitt was in
no mood to play games, once he returned. There
were two problems to be considered. First of all, the
treasure hunt was bound to be disappointing, when
Pitt would come face to face with the empty
suitcase! There was little doubt in Randy's mind
that Pitt would not be satisfied with the present,
incorrect site for the dig. It was only a matter of time
before the real location, four yards further on, would
be discovered. To begin with, there had been no rain
to wash away the traces of Randy's earlier digging,
and then, too, Randy's failure to find the exact spot
would scarcely be acceptable to his employer. One
way or another, the real location had to be
disclosed. Depending upon his need for additional
time, Randy had decided to give away the actual
site in order to save the men useless work and
himself a possible emotional outburst on the part of
Mr. Pitt. If, on the other hand, he disclosed new
findings as a result of further studies, Pitt would
respect him as a better researcher and the explo-
sion, bound to come on account of the other matter,
would be postponed somewhat, at any rate until the
time was right to deal with it.
As for the other, larger matter at hand, there
would be no point in catching the king-pin without
also catching all the branches of the organization.
Consequently, Randy had seen to it that all the
136

necessary steps were taken to close in on the
organization. There was plenty of time now, the
better part of the day and all night, to prepare for
the inevitable the following morning. For one thing,
Randy wanted to go through the house once again,
thoroughly and without interruption. Mrs. Berris,
the cook, would pose no problem. Randy felt that
she was completely innocent of whatever wrong-
doings were being done in the house. She was just a
cook, and a good one, Randy remembered with
pleasure. Janet, the maid, would undoubtedly be off
to her lover again, and Bullets, the gardener, never
cared what went on in the main house. Banks had
driven to London with his master, which left only
Ludlow, the butler, as a member of the staff to be
reckoned with.
There was, of course, Rowan. Her presence was
not only no hindrance to his plans, but a definite
asset, for his inner promptings told him that she
might yet become instrumental in some fashion,
even save his life. Apart from this usefulness he had
discovered concerning the actress, Randy felt a
growing attachment to her. This was not entirely
unnatural, in view of her looks and personality, but
Randy knew from years of past experience how
dangerous such developing inclinations could be
for his future. Years before, he had promised
himself a life of bachelorhood in which he would
always be supreme in his own affairs. Naturally,
with a man who gets around as much as Randy
does, who had the kind of background and personal-
ity Randy Knowles had, countless encounters with
attractive women were part and parcel of his daily
experience. On occasion, a deeper attachment
resulted, which caused Randy, as well as the young
lady in question, some pain. Fortunately, or
137

unfortunately, depending how one views such
matters of the heart, there was always another case
taking him away to some distant location just in the
nick of time. But Rowan had impressed him on
many counts, not just the obvious ones. During
lunch, he had accidentally discovered that she
shared an interest in psychical research with him.
Ever since childhood, she had been plagued, if that
is the word, by psychic dreams in which she foresaw
events which later transpired. There had been
flashes of memory, indicating an earlier existence,
and the idea of reincarnation had occurred to her
from time to time. All this she confessed during the
lunch hour, finding herself also strongly attracted
to the man from San Francisco. For Rowan, such a
liaison could have no serious overtones, in view of
her blossoming career. She felt herself far too young
to settle down to marriage and considered her
encounter with Randy strictly a pleasure cruise.
Nevertheless, there was something extra in it and
she became increasingly aware of its implications.
Their animated discussion concerning the possi-
blities of reincarnation, and the need to be regressed
hypnotically to find out whether there was in fact
some remnant of a previous life in one's uncon-
scious mind, was suddenly interrupted by a
seeming commotion outside the dining room.
Ludlow went outside to see what it was, and
returned with the news, evidently obtained from
Janet, the maid, that the body of Dr. Richard
Graves, the town doctor, had been found floating in
the river not a half an hour before. Randy half
cursed himself. How foolish of him not to have
prevented this. He should have warned the three
attackers of the dangers in which they found
themselves. Of course, at the time Randy had no
138

idea what Mr. Pitt's real business was, nor what he
might be capable of. Undoubtedly, the innkeeper
was dead too.
As soon as the commotion had died down, lunch
resumed. Judging by the expression on the butler's
face, the murder upset him, too, and he was
apparently not in on it. It would seem that a man
like Adam Pitt would avoid mixing up his domestic
staff with his more sinister affairs, Randy rea-
soned. Perhaps Pitt even used a different name for
his "other activities." For the first time, this
thought occurred to Randy, although it had not yet
crystalized itself into anything concrete.
"It looks like a lazy afternoon, to quote the late
John Latouche," Randy remarked, as they rose
from lunch. "Would you care to try a reincarnation
experiment?" "Why not?" Rowan replied. She had
nothing else to do, and the idea of finding out who
she might have been in another lifetime, intrigued
her. No sooner said than done. After they had
retired to her room, Randy began, as he had done on
many occasions before when reincarnation was
being suspected. Carefully closing the window
shutters and lowering the lights, so that no direct
light might shine into the subject's eyes, Randy
then locked the door and asked Rowan to make
herself comfortable on the bed. "Very well, Svenga-
li," Rowan said gaily, kicking her shoes off with
such force that they hit the closed door. "Do your
worst."
As soon as Randy was sure that she was
sufficiently relaxed, what with all the hullabaloo
going on during lunch, he suggested to Rowan that
she visualize herself floating above her own body.
"Your left arm is getting lighter, now your right arm
is getting lighter, now your left leg seems to float,
139

now your right leg floats. Your whole body feels
lighter and lighter, slowly rising into the air. You're
floating, you're moving." Randy stepped back and
looked at her. Her eyes were closed and she was
breathing regularly. Whether the ample luncheon
and warm afternoon hour had helped him get her
relaxed, or whether she was consciously cooperat-
ing with him, in order to go "under," did not matter.
The fact was, she seemed like a good subject for
hypnosis. Randy continued his work. "Let go more
and more, let go," he commanded, using a soft
monotonous voice, "I want you to go to sleep for a
little while, to rest completely, to let go completely."
Her breathing became deeper and her muscles
relaxed even more. "I will count to ten," Randy
continued. "At the count of ten, you are to be fully
asleep. Yet, you are to hear every word I speak. You
are to listen to all I say and to obey my commands.
Even though you hear every word I speak, you will
not awaken, I repeat, you will not awaken, until I
awaken you. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven,
eight, nine, ten."
Even before Randy had reached the figure ten,
the girl seemed fast asleep. But Randy wasn't going
to take any chances. This was the first degree of
hypnosis, the light state, during which most people
remember what goes on around them, and on
awakening, have a clear memory of their hypnotic
state. The second state, which Randy began to
suggest immediately, left them with less of a
memory intact, and generally resulted in the
operator's ability of inserting some simple com-
mand in the unconscious mind of the subject. "I
want you to sleep now and not to awaken until I
awaken you. Even though asleep, you will hear
every word I speak, and you will obey all my
140

commands." Randy waited for a few seconds, then
suggested, "You are now in a beautiful meadow.
The grass is high, the sky is blue, the sun is warm.
You are walking through the meadow towards the
forest. You are feeling very free, very light, very
relaxed. You are happy. You are alone and you don't
have a care in the world. When I count to ten, you
will be in the forest." Again, Randy counted to ten.
The body of Rowan seemed even more relaxed when
he reached that number. Her arms had carelessly
fallen by her side and her breasts rose and fell
rhythmically with each breath. For the occasion,
Rowan had put on an East Indian robe, going with
the occasion, she thought. Whether she had
anything else on underneath, Randy could not tell,
nor was he thinking of this at the moment. He was
ready to proceed into the third, deepest stage of
hypnosis, the stage which alone allows for regres-
sion experiments to take place.
"You are now entering the forest, and you are
walking through it, calmly, quietly, serenely. Now
you come to the edge of the forest, and you see the
ocean before you. You descend down to the water's
edge. You are all alone. You are free, happy and
relaxed. The water is warm to your touch. The sky is
blue and the sun is mild. There is a gentle breeze
about. You decide to go for a quick swim. You take
your clothes off and you walk into the water. You
swim for a while, then you return to the shore. Now
you stretch yourself on the sand, letting the sun dry
your skin. The warmth of the sun does you good.
You are happy, relaxed, and well. You will now
sleep for a while. But even though you are asleep,
you will hear every word I speak and you will obey
all of my commands. You must obey my commands.
After you return to consciousness, you will not
141

remember them, however. Just the same, you will
obey them."
Quietly, Randy stepped back and viewed his
masterwork. Rowan was quite obviously deeply
under hypnosis. "Rowan," Randy began in a soft
but authoritative voice. "You are your present age.
You will not awaken until I awaken you, but you
will hear every word I speak and you will respond to
all of my commands. When you are asked questions,
you will answer truthfully, even though you may
not remember it afterwards. You will speak to me
when you are asked to speak, but you will not
awaken, even though you speak." Again, he waited
a few seconds, then continued. "You are now fifteen
years old, fourteen, twelve, ten. Tell me, Rowan,
where do you live?" Like an automaton, the girl
replied, eyes closed and lips barely opened. "110
Edgeware Road, London." Of course, Randy had no
way of checking on the accuracy of this address, but
he knew that it wasn't her present address.
Edgeware Road at that number is a very modest
neighborhood, scarcely suitable for the needs of a
successful actress. Randy continued to regress her
down to age four, and finally to the moment of birth.
With excitement mounting, even though he had
done this many times before successfully, Randy
then suggested that the subject go back in time to an
earlier lifetime, until she found herself face to face
with another personality which was her, but in
another incarnation. "I want you to go back in time,
minus fifty, minus a hundred years before the
present. What do you see?" "Nothing," Rowan
replied, almost inaudibly. "Go back further, minus
hundred and fifty, minus two hundred years, minus
two hundred and fifty years," Randy commanded.
"What do you see?" This time he hit paydirt. "I'm in
142

a large house," Rowan said, her voice faltering and
not at all like her usual self. "There are many people
here, and they're wearing strange clothes." "De-
scribe them," Rahdy demanded. "Long dresses,
puffy sleeves, and the men have strange short
trousers on," the girl said. "Go back now a few years
until you find yourself, and when you have found
yourself, allow your former self to speak to me
directly," Randy commanded.
For a few seconds, the girl lay almost motionless,
except for the breathing which had become much
more shallow. Then a sudden transformation took
place. It was as if a giant hand had touched
Rowan's face and altered it, for she seemed like a
different person now. Without opening her eyes or
awakening in any sense, another personality took
hold of Rowan's body. "Where am I? Who are you?"
Rowan asked, in a voice heavy with a French accent
and totally dissimilar from her normal voice. One
might argue, of course, that as an actress she would
be able to impersonate almost any character. The
proof of the pudding lay not so much in the
performance as in the contents of the message, if
any. "I am Randolph, a friend from another
country," Randy replied, playing the game her way.
"What would you want with me?" "Tell me, first of
all, your name and where you live?" "Everybody
knows me, how ridiculous of you to ask. I am
Francoise Legere and my house is not far from the
Palace of St. James, as it should be, for my clientele
is the best in all of London," she replied not without
pride in her voice. "What sort of house?" Randy
asked, not quite sure. A shrill laughter was his
reply. "How strange you are, Monsieur, to ask such
a question. My house, in case you would like to
peruse it, contains twenty of the most ravissantes
143

demoiselles in all of London, directly from Paris,
Monsieur, and yours for a price." Well, Randy
thought, this is a fine kettle of fish I've got myself
into here. But he decided to pursue the strange
career of Francoise Legere, French courtesan
domiciled in London. What emerged was a compo-
site picture of a young girl from an impeccable
background in France, early given to pleasure and
vice, and eventually winding up in London where
she became, according to the entranced Rowan, a,
highly successful madam. All this could be checked
out quite easily, Randy decided.
For the moment, it was merely a diversion which
would serve to keep Rowan interested and perhaps
make her a stronger ally for the enterprise to come.
Step by step he brought her back to the threshold of
birth, suggesting that her age was again that of a
baby, then that of a child, and eventually, her
present age. All that time he admonished her not to
awaken until he awakened her and to stay asleep
until she was told to wake up. Now she was fast
asleep, breathing heavily again, and her face had
returned to the lovely contours it had had prior to
the sudden arrival of Francoise Legere. He contem-
plated the lovely picture before him for a moment,
then decided to make use of the opportunity to find
out more about her present incarnation. "You are
Rowan Dorset," he began. "You must tell me
everything you know, and you must speak the truth,
you cannot help but speak the truth, but you will not
awaken until I awaken you. Do you understand?"
"Yes, I understand," she said, with her voice again
dropping down to an almost inaudible level. "What
do you know about Adam Pitt?" "He is a business
man. He takes care of my finances." "What sort of
business is he in?" "I really don't know too much
144

about him. He has an office on Water Street. Goes to
the Exchange and has lots of money." Her voice
seemed strangely halting, as if she were searching
her memory for an answer. To Randy, this was an
indication of the genuineness of her efforts. It
reflected her own uncertainty concerning Pitt's
business, for one does not lie under hypnosis,
especially not in the third stage. "Where does Mr.
Pitt's money come from? What sort of goods does he
handle?" "I really don't know. Tea, I believe, yes, I
remember his telling me, rare, foreign tea." "Does
he have any other business?" "Not that I know of."
"Do you work for him at times?" "Yes, three or four
times he's asked me to deliver a small package to
someone in the city. I don't know much about it."
"Can you tell me the names of the people you
delivered a package to?" "There was a Franklin
Morehouse, and then I recall one large letter I
brought to an office on Fleet Street, in a building
where there was a newspaper as well, the man's
name was Dunn, either Ernest or Eric Dunn." There
was time enough to check into these names, Randy
thought, and made a note to have them checked out
by his London contacts.
But it didn't seem to satisfy Randy's curiosity as
to why a girl of Rowan's appearance and possibili-
ties would attach herself to Adam Pitt. Clearly,
money was not the only incentive. Or was it? "Why
are you going with Adam Pitt?" "I've got to." "Is it
because of his money? Or what he does for you?"
There was the mere suggestion of a sardonic smile
on her lips when she replied. "Neither his money
nor what he can dq for me." "Why then are you
going with him?" The entranced Rowan hesitated
to answer. "Remember, Rowan," Randy insisted,
"you must tell me everything, you cannot hide
145

anything from me, nothing but the truth." He then
repeated the question, why was Rowan attrached to
Adam Pitt. After a brief moment of silence, Rowan
began, hesitatingly at first, and then gaining
momentum. "I once had a sister named Doreen. She
is dead now. Three years older than I, she was.
Lovely, blonde hair, sky blue eyes, a figure men
whistled at. She was everything I wasn't—keen,
smart, good. A year before I met Adam Pitt, Doreen
was going with him. She was working in one of
Raymond's bars at the time, trying to get into legit.
Pitt saw her doing one of the shows and started to
date her. They began to take weekends in the lake
district, where he had a little house. Eventually, Pitt
got her pregnant. He urged her to have an abortion,
but she wouldn't do it. Instead, she committed
suicide. He didn't even show up at the funeral."
"But didn't you recognize him when he started to
court you?" "Of course I did. Why do you think I
encouraged him?" "Then your relationship with
Adam Pitt was to get even for your sister's death. Is
that it?" Rowan's face was suddenly flushed.
"Sooner or later, there would be an opening. I knew
in my heart that I could and would avenge my poor
sister. My relationship with Adam Pitt was going to
be the most difficult part in my entire career, I felt,
but I wanted to do it. Doreen and I had been very
close. It was the least I could do for her, take care of
that faithless man who had Doreen's death on his
conscience, even though he wouldn't own up to it."
Rowan began getting agitated now and Randy
thought it best to bring her out of her hypnotic state,
to avoid her coming out of it suddenly with possible
shock results.
Again, he suggested that she was leaving the
seashore and slowly walking back to the forest. Ten
146

steps at a time, Randy brought her up to the surface.
All that time he suggested that upon awakening she
would feel extremely well, as if she had rested for
several hours. Moreover, upon awakening, she
would not be able to recall what had transpired
under hypnosis. This was a precautionary move on
his part, since he didn't want her unconscious mind
to be troubled by the conflicts which were still in it,
until it could be resolved by exterior action. On the
other hand, he had every intention of confronting
Rowan with the material that had come through
her while under hypnosis.
It was half past four when Rowan opened her
eyes again. At first, she seemed genuinely baffled
as to where she was. Quickly regaining her
composure, however, she realized that she had been
under hypnosis for well over an hour. "What
happened?" she asked, indicating that she did not
recall a thing from the moment when Randy had
sent her into the meadow, the meadow of her mind,
that is. Randy secretly congratulated himself. Quite
obviously, Rowan was an excellent subject and he
had succeeded in getting her "under" to the third
stage on the very first try. After she had stretched a
bit and taken a glass of water, she wanted to know
whether anything special had come through her.
Quickly, Randy acquainted her with her 17th
Century incarnation, which caused Rowan to break
into a delightful giggle. Imagine her being a 17th
Century madam in London! However, when Randy
went on to explain what she had said concerning
Adam Pitt and her late sister, her face became very
serious. "I should have known," she commented,
"all this would come out under hypnosis. But I
trusted you, and I still do. Somehow I have the
feeling that you and I have to do things together."
147

"Of course, everything you said under hypnosis is
on the tape," he said, to see whether it bothered her.
After all, he could blackmail her with Adam Pitt, if
he wanted to, but she obviously didn't care. Her
feelings were genuine, and she offered to help him
in whatever it was he was searching for. For it had
become abundantly clear to Rowan that the man
from San Francisco wasn't at Corley Hall just to
assist Adam Pitt in the finding of a Spanish
treasure. Now it was Randy's turn to surprise her.
Briefly sketching in Pitt's real activities, he found
that Rowan was more than eager to help him
destroy Pitt. "I had no idea," she kept repeating.
"Had I known, I would never have delivered those
papers."
Randy assured her that her part in delivering the
packages could not be considered criminal by any
Court of Law, since she had no knowledge of what
was in them. "We've got work to do," Randy said,
"please stay here for a little while and rest. I shall
return in about fifteen minutes."
Quietly, Randy returned to his room. There was a
telephone in it, for Adam Pitt had equipped Corley
Hall with the latest conveniences. Randy was not
sure whether the butler was listening in on his
conversations or not, or whether someone, of whom
he had no knowledge, might be intercepting his
calls. On the surface of it, at least, it didn't look that
way since he had a direct line. But Randy Knowles
was not a man to take chances. He had worked out
an elaborate code system which made even the most
important communication from him sound like an
innocent fairy tale. The number he was dialing in
central London rang three times before being
answered. "This is Johnson speaking," a pleasant
voice said at the other end. "Hello, this is Randy
Knowles. How is Mrs. Johnson?" "Thank you, Mrs.
- 148

Johnson is fine and ready to go out tonight." "Is it
all right with her doctor?" Randy inquired. Seem-
ingly, they were discussing the state of health of a
dear friend. But the casual listener or interceptor
didn't realize, of course, that Mrs. Johnson was the
code name for the operation due to take place that
night, that the term "doctor" referred to "clearing it
with th§ higher-ups," and that Randy's conversa-
tion wasn't with his old friend Johnson, but
Timothy B. Johnson, head of the Special Branch,
the most effective police machinery in Europe, if not
the entire world.
"Did the doctor allow Mrs. Johnson to travel by
plane?" Randy inquired, with a tone of genuine
worry in his voice. "Quite," the other man replied.
"She's even allowed to take a very small plane. Of
course, it has got to be a good pilot. Otherwise she
may get sick." "Did you contact my friend yet?"
"Oh yes, we did. He was most interested at the
news." "Then he will come to see you?" "Oh yes, he
will see me just as I've asked him to." "How are your
eyes, Johnson?" Randy inquired, again displaying
the tone of voice in which a friend might inquire
after the failing eyesight of a dear friend. "Oh
thank you, Mr. Knowles," Johnson replied, in a
calm tone of voice, "my eyes are just fine. They see
everything. Don't worry about them."
Of course, Randy knew very well that they were
not speaking about Mr. Johnson's eyes but about
his operatives, his "eyes" which were to follow Pitt
and his henchmen every step of the way. Evidental-
ly the initial contact had been made. "Is there
anything else you wish to know, Mr. Knowles?"
Johnson inquired. "Nothing important, really,
thank you," Randy replied. "Oh yes, there is, do you
happen to know a couple of friends of mine, I believe
they are some sort of stock brokers. Morehouse and
149

Dunn are their names." There was a moment of
silence on the other end of the line. "I seem to recall
the names, yes. If I'm not mistaken, they are in the
tea distribution business." "It is a small world, isn't
it?" Randy remarked, before hanging up. He was
pleased with himself. Everything went the way he
had wanted it to go, at least until now. Thanks to
psychometry, Randy had reconstructed Pitt's
operation in every detail.
Later that night, Adam Pitt would be receiving
some real narcotics. They would be just like any
other shipment he had received through the years,
landed from offshore boats and transferred by him
by small aircraft to his favorite landing field. The
reference to Mrs. Johnson's desire to fly was, of
course, not without meaning. In his earlier call,
Randy had suggested that the pilot usually used by
Pitt for his operation, should be "prevented" from
showing up for work, and that a substitute should
take his place at short notice. In view of the risk
involved in the short time left, Pitt could not very
well refuse, especially as the man sent to him would
be a friend, allegedly, of his sick pilot. What Pitt
couldn't know, however, was the fact that the pilot
landing the little beach craft for him and transfer-
ring his precious cargo was a Special Branch man,
as were the lorry drivers helping him take the
narcotics to his London warehouse. This time
Randy had suggested that a rendezvous with
distributors on the road was not feasible, as too
risky. Instead, he suggested that the distributors
pick up theirs at Pitt's warehouse. Through John-
son, he had discovered that Pitt did not only
maintain an office on Water Street, but had a loft in
the same building which was locked most of the
time. Since Pitt's usual distributors had no idea of
the shipment, substitute distributors had to be
150

found, all of them Special Branch men of course,
and they were the ones to suggest a rendezvous at
the warehouse instead of the open road. Pitt might
object to this, because it was different from his
usual routine. On the other hand, Randy had
assumed him to be greedy enough not to let the deal
go by because some details had been changed.
Randy never liked raids in open territory, if he could
avoid them. There was nothing as cozy as a
building with one, or possibly two, staircases and a
lot less likelihood for a criminal to make a getaway.
Satisfied, Randy returned to Rowan's room. She
had locked herself in, but his signal, three sharp
knocks, readily opened the door to him. Locking it
again after himself, he looked at his watch and
discovered that they had at least two hours until
dinner time. "Under the circumstances," he said,
looking directly at Rowan, who was lounging on the
bed, "under the circumstances, you and I ought to
relax in order to be fit for what follows." "I quite
agree," Rowan replied, undoing her Indian robe,
and Randy was now able to discover that she hadn't
anything else on under it. Under the circumstances,
he felt that he could do no less and removed his
clothes as rapidly as the intricate nature of male
clothing permits. In that respect, Randy had
observed on earlier occasions, women are so much
better off. One pull, or possibly two, and the moment
of truth is at hand. As it was, this moment of truth
was delightful and Randy congratulated himself
secretly on his excellent taste in allies. He found
Rowan's ample curves a soothing influence, letting
him even forget the confrontation that lay ahead, or
the precarious task that was yet to be done that
evening, after dinner. For the moment, at least,
Randy Knowles was off duty.
151

Chapter 9
Adam Pitt was pleased. The unexpected ship-
ment turned out to be quite substantial, even
though there were two disquieting factors involved
in the operation. Why on earth Charles Carsgrove
had to take sick j ust when he needed him. But even a
dependable pilot can take sick sometime, his calmer
self argued, and since Carsgrove had been decent
enough to supply a substitute, he couldn't very well
be angry. Frankly, Pitt did not believe in Cars-
grove's illness. He knew only too well how much the
pilot was given to over-indulging, and how much he
liked hanging around pubs till all hours of the
morning. Most likely, he had over-indulged and
would have been unable to fly anyway. That was
just as well, since a crash would have had
disastrous results, not just for the pilot. The man's
license seemed in order, and though Pitt had never
met him before, Frank Roundhouse was a person-
able chap. Apparently, he had been in a couple of
jams before, and could use the extra cash. Pitt never
asked people what difficulties they might have
encountered. He was satisfied when they did their
job well and asked him not too many questions
either. Of course, Roundhouse was only told that he
was bringing in some expensive tea without benefit
of Customs.
Pitt also missed his usual lorry drivers. But he
realized that the men had other jobs to do. The fact
that others were available was of course conve-
nient. It did seem odd that the men offered
152

themselves for any unusual jobs just when he was
about to go through his list of availabilities. But
that was probably just a coincidence. What he
didn't like was their insistence of bringing the
merchandise to a warehouse or office and their
absolute refusal to meet distributors on the open
road. The other fellows had simply taken orders and
hadn't cared one iota where they were met by the
buyers. But the older one of the two lorry drivers
explained that they had once been caught in an
open air operation and ever since had taken an oath
not to do it again. Under the circumstances, Pitt
suggested they bring the merchandise to his loft.
That loft had been in use on and off, mainly for
storage, but on occasion for similar purposes.
Nobody would question them, so there was no risk
involved, but Pitt had always preferrsd doing
business way out in the country, so that the
possibility of a raid was entirely eliminated.
Just the same, everything went smoothly. By one
a.m., the parcels had all been stowed in the loft, the
lorry drivers paid off and the loft locked. Shortly
after, his two best distributors, Morehouse and
Dunn, had arrived with spot cash and their own
cars. By two a.m. everything had left the loft again
and the two distributors were well on their way to
their own premises. With a song from one of
Rowan's musicals on his lips, Pitt had locked up his
loft and gone home to his apartment. Thus he was
unaware of two black sedans following his two
favorite distributors and stopping them several
blocks away from his loft. By the time Adam Pitt's
head hit the pillow to waft into sweet dreams of still
another fifty thousand pounds profit, Morehouse
and Dunn were being escorted to Scotland Yard. Of
course, Special Branch knew very well that the case
153

might be thrown out of court, since the evidence had
been planted upon Pitt; that was not really their
purpose. What they hoped to gain from the arrests
was information about Pitt himself, and since the
two distributors had no idea that the drugs had
been planted by Special Branch, they would most
likely be cooperative in order to get a lighter
sentence. It was all part of the game, a game that
the forces of law and order knew just as well to play
as those of crime and violence. Pitt, of course, would
be dealt with in exactly the same manner. The lorry
drivers had managed to take a number of infra-red
photographs of their "employer," and of the
operation itself. All of this would be used to force
Pitt into a confession.
Pitt, ever the greedy one, would have been
happier had the operation yielded full results: it so
happened that his third London distributor was
unavailable or perhaps low in cash. Uncfer the
circumstances, Pitt was able to dispose of only two-
thirds of the merchandise brought in during the
night. The final third had been left in the loft, to be
disposed of just as soon as he could locate another
distributor. For a day or two, the "hot" cargo would
have to remain in the loft, but Pitt had carefully
camouflaged it in the middle of tea parcels, so that
no one who was not in the know would suspect
anything amiss. No, Pitt wasn't worried about the
presence of some drugs in his loft; he was annoyed
that his usual administrative genius had been
unable to complete the entire operation within the
night as usual. McPherson, his secretary, was not
likely to go to the loft, since the key was kept in
Pitt's drawer. That night, Pitt dreamt of golden
clouds, clouds on which he floated through a sky
populated by lovely girls not unlike Rowan Dorset.
154

Mrs. Berris had again outdone herself with
dinner. Whether it was the absence of the master
which gave her a feeling of less pressure, or whether
she had simply taken a liking to Randy and Rowan,
Mrs. Berris seemed in an unusual jovial mood that
evening and the dinner reflected it. After a generous
helping of banana flambee, Randy thanked Lud-
low, who was serving them, stressing his satisfac-
tion of having had such a restful and wonderful
stay at Corley Hall. Under the circumstances,
Randy remarked, would it be in order for Ludlow to
join him in a toast to the master of Corley Hall?
Ludlow was somewhat taken aback by the sugges-
tion; he was too much the butler to break into toasts
with his master or the guests of the house. However,
Randy seemed rather insistent that he do, so
Ludlow smiled and nodded assent. Swiftly, Randy
took two glasses from the bar, filled them with
Brandy, but with his back turned towards the table.
Thus he was able to put a small white pill which he
had secreted in the palm of his left hand into the
glass destined for the butler. By the time Randy had
turned around and offered Ludlow his glass, the pill
had dissolved in the Brandy.
"To the master of Corley Hall," Randy said
cheerfully, lifting his Brandy and motioning to
Ludlow to do the same. Obediently, the butler did
and with a swift move, both men emptied their
glasses. Ludlow then bowed and asked permission
to withdraw. As the butler left the room, Randy
consulted his wristwatch. It was exactly eight
thirty. By nine o'clock, Ludlow would be fast asleep,
dead to the world for at least three or four hours.
Offering Rowan his arm, he suggested a brief walk
through the garden, in order to partake of the
pleasant aroma of spring flowers now fully in
155

bloom. It was around nine o'clock or a little after,
when Randy and Rowan returned to the manor
house. Everything seemed very quiet. Calling for
Mrs. Berries, Randy remarked that it was time to
turn in, since they had such a big day ahead
tomorrow. A moment later, Mrs. Berries appeared,
already in her nightgown. Randy excused himself,
saying only that he wanted to commend her on the
excellence of her meal. With that he wished her a
good night and went to his room. As he looked out
the window towards the entrance gate, he noticed a
furtive figure. Fortunately, it was a moonlit night,
so he could easily make out that it was Janet, on her
way to her lover.
Retracing his steps to Rowan's room next, Randy
knocked softly, and was quickly admitted. Rowan
had waited for him, for she wanted to share his
nightly adventure, whether or not there was any
risk involved. Quietly, the two went down to Pitt's
office. This time, there was no need to hurry. Pitt
wasn't likely to be back until morning, and
everyone else was safely out of the way. Neverthe-
less, Randy closed the door behind themselves,
locking it from the inside. His search of Pitt's office
was as thorough as it was cautious. Meticulously
making sure that every paper, every object he
picked up was also put back exactly as it had been
before, wiping the handles of the drawers with a
handkerchief after he had closed them again and in
every way making sure that their presence in the
office could not be noticed, should Pitt become
suspicious for one reason or the other, Randy
nevertheless realized before long that his search
wasn't going to be particularly fruitful. The
interesting document which he had discovered on
his first visit to Pitt's office, was nowhere to be seen.
156

Nothing of the same kind could be located either on
the desk, in the desk drawers, or in the files.
Evidently, Mr. Pitt did not attach too much
importance to his files, for they were all unlocked.
Going through them at random, Randy realized
that they contained nothing more interesting than
stock market reports, buying orders, correspon-
dence with stock brokers all over the world and
sundry legitimate correspondence. One entire
drawer, however, was given over to archeological
matters, evidently Pitt's correspondence pertaining
to the Spanish treasure. Although the matter was
now academic, Randy examined the file somewhat
more closely. There was an enormous amount of
misinformation contained in it, he realized right
away, letters from so-called experts, opinions
expressed by British museum Keepers, and legal
opinions as to his rights, should he unearth the
treasure. Evidently Adam Pitt had spent a great
deal of time with his favorite hobby. But nowheres
in the large office was there any indication that
Adam Pitt had another business, a business far
more lucrative than his stock exchange operation.
It puzzled Randy; surely, there had to be some
sort of depository in the house, but probably not
easily visible to the casual visitor. With that in
mind, he began to examine the walls of the office
inch by inch. When Randy and Rowan had reached
the side wall of the office, they began to pay closer
attention to the dark red velvet curtains framing
the windows. The right hand curtain extending
from the far side of the window into the room itself
seemed unusually wide. Quickly, Randy put his
hands underneath the heavy curtain and immedi-
ately felt a chill. His fingers had come in touch with
a steel door. Pushing the curtains aside now, they
157

discovered a narrow steel door leading to another
room. One look at the double lock securing the door
convinced Randy that he had come to the end of his
resources. "What do you suppose is behind this
door?" "Adam spoke of the workshop where he used
to experiment whenever he had bought some
excavations," Rowan said. "Couldn't this be the
door leading to it?" "Possibly," Randy replied, then
knocked at the steel door and listened. From the
lack of sound, he deduced its heaviness. Quite
obviously, whatever lay behind the door was of
some importance to Pitt. "Let us leave now," Randy
said, "there's nothing here of further interest."
Quietly, as they had come, they let themselves out of
the office, and Randy sent Rowan to bed. As soon as
he was alone, Randy proceeded to the garden.
Walking close to the wall of Corley Hall, he
examined it carefully inch by inch. It had occurred
to him that there could be a cellar, in fact that there
should be a cellar, yet he had not seen any stairs
leading down into it. Above him were the French
windows of Pitt's office. He continued his walk to
the corner and then around it. Suddenly he saw
what he had been looking for. Almost at ground
level, there were two small, heavily barred win-
dows, indicating that there were subterranean
rooms adjacent to Pitt's office. Lying flat on his
stomach, Randy tried to peer through the windows,
but the room or rooms behind them lay in total
darkness. After he had made the entire tour of the
house and convinced himself that there was no
other egress from the cellar nor entrance into it,
Randy returned to the main floor and searched for a
possible cellar stairs there. Again, the results were
negative. It was obvious to him now that the only
entrance to the cellar was through the steel door
from Pitt's office.
158

Short of using violence to obtain access to the
basement, Randy had no choice but to leave the
matter alone. Under the circumstances, Randy
could do with some sleep; too, since the next day
promised to be lively, if not to say, exhausting.
159

Chapter 10
Promptly at eight, Adam Pitt arrived at Corley
Hall. An early riser despite his nocturnal habits, he
could barely wait to begin the dig. Randy was
already up, getting dressed and as he went down to
breakfast, he found a beaming Pitt already waiting
for him. "Splendid weather we are having," his
"employer" greeted him, "Today or never." "Today
or never," Randy replied, and raised his orange
juice. By nine, Rowan had descended in all her
splendor, dressed in a khaki outfit in keeping with
the nature of the expedition. She was going to be the
lady archaeologist, looking on while the others
worked hard. Chatting gaily about the amenities of
London, which he somehow missed at Corley Hall,
Pitt then led the little expedition back to the spot
where they had dug several days before. "Well,
men," he said, "let us get at it again and this time,
let us find it." But before any pick-ax could touch the
soil, Randy took Pitt's arm and asked to speak to
him privately. "Look," he said, keeping his voice
down, "I think we are several yards off the mark."
"What do you mean, off the mark?" Pitt demanded,
"didn't you yourself pinpoint the spot?" "Right. But
I had time to re-examine the map and go over some
measurements again. Since the map was drawn,
the sands have shifted. We forgot to take into
account the passage of time, you see." This
contention seemed to make an impression on Pitt,
even though on careful examination, the logic of
Randy's remark would have dissipated like the
160

sands of the shore with the first sign of wind.
"Quite. What have you found?"
There was a renewed tone of tenseness in Pitt's
voice. Nobody was going to rob him of his triumph
today, this was it and the treasure had better be
there. "The way I figure it, sir," Randy said in a
businesslike voice, pulling the map from his pocket,
"I feel we are between three to four yards off, and
ought to be digging here." With that, he put his
finger on a spot slightly to the right of the spot
indicated on the map. "Very well then," Pitt said
resolutely, "let us try it." Commanding his men to
follow him, Pitt then allowed Randy to steer him to
the spot where Randy and Slaughter had removed
the treasure several days before. By now the ground
was smoothed out again but it was obvious to
anyone looking at it that there had been some
digging done before. Pitt, however, took it to be the
sign of the original digging and exclaimed, "Look,
by Jove, you are right, Knowles. It looks as if there
has been some digging here in the past." Half an
hour later, the men had reached the level at which
the treasure had been buried. "There's something
hard down there, Governor," the gardener said.
"Hard, eh?" Pitt replied with undisguised greed,
"bring it up, bring it up!"
With baited breath, the little group surrounded
the hole now. Even Randy was swept up in the fever
of imminent discovery although in his case the
reaction was entirely different. What would Pitt do
when he discovered the truth? Moments later a
dirty suitcase was flung on the ground in front of
Pitt. "Here it is then," Pitt said, still overjoyed that
he was at last close to his goal, but his face fell when
he realized that the suitcase before him was
scarcely more than twenty years old. "What is
161

this?" he demanded, and reached out for it. Lifting
the suitcase, he realized immediately that it was
empty, and swiftly turned towards Randy. "What is
this, some kind of hoax?" he demanded to know.
There was steel-cold anger in his eyes now. Randy
said nothing. Gesticulating wildly, Pitt approached
him, yelling, "You bastard, you' stole my treasure.
Where did you put it, quick, tell me, where did you
put it?" "I'm sure you're mistaken, sir," Randy
managed to say in as quiet a voice as he could
muster. "You know where to dig, you led me here,"
Pitt bellowed. With the force of fury, he tore the
suitcase open. It was empty all right, but the little
note Slaughter had managed to insert when Randy
and he had placed the suitcase in the hole,
immediately attracted Pitt's attention. "What is
this?" he demanded and read it. "Is this some more
of your work? Some kind of a grim joke?" With that,
he handed the note to Randy.
"Mr. Pitt, long before you came on the scene, we
were working hard and long to find this treasure. It
is as much ours as it is yours. As I write this, I do not
know when the treasure will be found. But if you
want your share, you must come to me for it. Signed,
Constable Derek Slaughter." Pitt was visibly
shaken by the discovery. "A dead man's writing,"
he mumbled, and turned away. "Look, sir," Randy
said, trying to sound as smooth as he could, "you
can see yourself that I had nothing to do with it.
Someone evidently got here first, but believe me, sir,
we will find it." Pitt gave Randy a dirty look but a
look that was no longer filled with the kind of
hatred he had displayed a moment before. Quite
obviously, Randy was not the guilty party to him,
but he still felt betrayed, feeling that Randy should
have known of the theft of the treasure, even before
it had happened.
162

Without another word, Pitt stalked back to
Corley Hall, the others following him at a distance,
discussing amongst themselves the strange dis-
covery they had just made. Rowan and Randy were
last. "I trust you know where it is," Rowan said
quietly, "but you realize that old Adam is not going
to take this lying down. Better be on your guard. He
is capable of anything now." "I know," Randy said,
quietly, "I am fully prepared."
Back at Corley Hall, an atmosphere of disaster
pervaded the house. Somehow, word of the failure
had reached the staff which had remained behind,
even before the principals had returned to the
house. Randy consulted his wristwatch again. It
was just ten thirty. If all went according to plan,
Randy thought, the day would end quite differently
than it had started. There was nothing to do now
but play for time and wait. Consequently, Randy
seated himself in the drawing room, pretending to
leaf through old magazines on a cocktail table.
Sooner or later the enraged Pitt would appear and
engage him in conversation. Randy was right. Less
than five minutes later, a fuming and obviously
disturbed Pitt walked into the room. "Now see here,
Knowles," he began unceremoniously, walking up
and down nervously, without looking Randy in the
face, "I paid you a handsome sum to help me find
this treasure. I did not pay you so that someone else
could find it." "Quite so, sir," Randy replied, "I
don't blame you a bit for being upset." "Then what
do you intend to do about it?" "I will of course go to
work immediately to recover the stolen treasure,"
Randy said, casually, emphasizing the term "stol-
en." He seemed to hit a responsive cord in Pitt. In a
somewhat less aggressive tone, he inquired, "Who
do you suppose took it?" "Well, sir, you read the
note, it was signed in the hand of the late Constable
163

Slaughter." "Rubbish," Pitt replied, pearls of sweat
standing on his forehead, despite the fact that it
was fairly cool. "Slaughter has been dead for some
time." That clinches it, Randy thought, Slaughter's
death had not been announced publicly, there had
been nothing in the newspapers, yet Pitt referred to
it as a fait accompli. "Perhaps it is someone faking
the Constable's signature then," Randy suggested.
Again, Pitt shook his head. "No, I don't believe that.
This is a gang of local thieves who are trying to
steal my treasure." "Any idea who they are?" "Yes,
I know some of them, but not all, not all." There was
an ominous overtone in the way he said the latter
words. Quite obviously, Pitt thought, if he knew the
one member of the gang he had missed, he would
call his henchmen and have him done away with,
too. There could be no survivors in this game.
"I cannot guarantee it, sir," Randy began again,
"but I daresay that within twenty-four hours, I will
be able to put my finger on the treasure. I have
certain leads already." "Leads?" Pitt asked, his
curiosity again aroused. "Yes, I am convinced that
this is the work of some local men. When I was at the
inn a few days ago, I overheard them talking,"
Randy lied. "One of them was the innkeeper
himself, the other one was a young man I didn't
recognize."
Pitt took the bait. "Yes, yes," he said, eagerly, "go
on." Randy realized that he had to give him
something more tangible, if he wanted Pitt off his
back for now. He continued to describe the young
man, giving him all the attributes of young Mark
Slaughter. There was no danger that Slaughter
could become Pitt's fourth victim. At this very
moment, Mark Slaughter was hiding in the aban-
doned barn, two guns in his pockets, with explicit
164

orders not to move until Randy himself came for
him.
Suddenly, there was a glimmer of recognition on
Pitt's face. "That young man you mention, I know
who he is. That is young Mark Slaughter, the
Constable's brother. Of course, it all fits in. It is he
who faked his brother's signature on the note."
"Well, then," Randy said and rose, "let us see what
he is up to." "Yes, let's," Pitt said, his composure
once again returned. "Let us see indeed what young
Slaughter is up to. But I'll go alone. You, however,
will follow me." With that, Pitt whipped out a small
gun, pointed it at Randy, and motioned him to go up
the stairs ahead of him. Randy hadn't thought that
Pitt would show force openly so soon, but evidently
events ran very much ahead of time now and, as he
had himself said, anything could happen. "I don't
understand you, sir," Randy mumbled, still playing
the part of the surprised detective, "but I'll do
whatever you say." "You will kindly stay in your
room until further notice. I don't think I can trust
you," Pitt said as he locked a protesting Randy in
his room, taking the key with him. Then he
descended the stairs again, stopping briefly in at
his office on the main floor and depositing the key to
Randy's room in the drawer of his desk. Checking
his gun whether it was fully loaded and satisfied
that it was, he replaced it in his hip pocket and
prepared to leave the office again. As he reached the
door, the telephone rang. "What now," he said, half
under his breath, retracing his steps and picking up
the telephone.
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Chapter 11
On the other end of the telephone was McPher-
son's shaky voice. "I don't understand it sir," the
secretary said, obviously very much upset. "The
police are here. They're ransacking the place. What
shall I do?" The police, Pitt thought, how was that
possible? Who had betrayed him? Randy Knowles
perhaps? Immediately he rejected this notion. Had
he himself made a mistake? But this was no time to
reflect on the causes of his problem. He had to deal
with it, and deal with it in such a manner that
nothing was lost. "Put whoever is in charge of the
police on the telephone immediately," he com-
manded. A moment later a flat, nasal voice
resounded in the telephone. "Sergeant Peters
speaking." "Sergeant, this is Adam Pitt. I under-
stand from my secretary that the police are in my
premises. May I ask what is the meaning of this
outrageous intrusion?" "Orders, we've got orders."
"On what grounds, may I ask?" "I rightly don't
know, sir, I've got my orders from higher up," the
Sergeant replied. "What exactly are you looking for
at my office?" Pitt demanded. "I rightly don't know,
sir," the Sergeant replied, "me orders are to look the
place over, and bring back to headquarters any-
thing suspicious." Then there was hope, Pitt
thought, for he knew only too well that the police
couldn't find anything suspicious at his offices on
Water Street. Except, for the key to the loft. Only he,
Pitt, knew what the key was for. McPherson might
remember that Pitt had stored some records
166

somewhere up under the roof, but he wasn't likely to
have any bright ideas about the loft either. Still, one
has to be sure. "May I speak to my secretary
again?" Pitt demanded in a somewhat quieter
voice. "Right you are, sir," the policeman said and
handed the telephone back to McPherson, "Listen
carefully, McPherson," Pitt began, "above all don't
get excited and don't lose your sense of balance. I
don't know what this is all about, but there is no
point interfering with the police, you understand?"
"Yes, sir," McPherson replied, seemingly some-
what quieter now because he was speaking to his
superior. "Now then," Pitt continued, "listen very
carefully and don't say anything except yes or no. I
don't want the police to get ideas, you understand?
Let them look through every thing, let them take
whatever they want, but be sure they give you a
receipt for whatever papers they take." Pitt thought
it would sound more rational to his secretary, if he
insisted on getting receipts for the papers to be
taken. "If they should ask you any questions, refuse
to answer on the grounds that yon want an attorney
present. If they should ask you whether I have any
other offices, inform them that to your knowledge
there is no other office. It is really none of their
business that I have an office here in my country
house or that I have on occasion stored things with
a friend upstairs, you understand?" "Yes, sir, I
understand," McPherson replied. By casually
mentioning the "friend upstairs," Pitt thought he
would cover the times when McPherson had seen
him carry documents and packages upstairs to the
loft. "I don't know what this is all about, you
understand, but I have a sneaking suspicion that
one of my competitors on the Stock Exchange is
trying to make trouble for me, because I just made a
167

big killing," he lied, hoping that McPherson would
buy the idea. "You understand now, don't you
McPherson," Pitt repeated, "if they should ask you,
and only if they should ask you, I have no other
place than the one you're in. Is that clear?" "Yes,
sir, Mr. Pitt, don't worry about a thing. I'll hold the
fort." "I'll be back in London just as soon as I can.
But I've got to do some things here, so it'll be at least
three hours before I can get back to town. Mean-
while, keep me posted, will you?"
Fortunately, Pitt had put Noonan Jack's tele-
phone onto the special list which he always carried
on his person. Now he took out the list and dialed
the number. It was the middle of the day and the
man might very well be out on a job, but luck was
with Pitt and the strange, gruffy voice of Noonan
Jack answered directly. "There is a little job I want
you to do," Pitt began, trying to disguise the
excitement in his voice, "but you've got to do it right
away. Are you available?" "That depends, gover-
nor," the man replied, "what do you want me to do?"
"There js a certain loft on Water Street which I want
you to blow up for me," Pitt said, hoping that Jack
wouldn't trace the call back to Adam Pitt, since he
only knew the voice now speaking to him as the
voice of The Unicorn. Jack wanted to know whether
any people were involved, and when he realized
that it was merely a matter of destroying the
premises thoroughly, he readily agreed. From Pitt's
description, it appeared to him that two or three
sticks of dynamite might do the job. He instructed
Jack to lay in wait until the police had left the
premises, and until McPherson had gone too. As
soon as the coast was clear, he was to go up to the
loft, and destroy the lock. For a man of Jack's
talents, that would take no more than a minute or
168

two. Once inside, he was to put all the boxes he could
find into the center of the premises, and destroy
them. If possible, he was to avoid a conflagration,
however, if the fire could not be contained, he was to
wait until he was sure that the boxes had been
consumed before turning in an alarm.
As soon as he had completed his conversation
with Jack, Pitt called McPherson once more and
instructed him to leave just as soon as the police had
left. He was to lock up the premises and go home
and telephone him from there. This done, Pitt sat
down at his desk for a moment, trying to sort things
out.
His squaring away things with Randy Knowles
would have to wait now. There was more urgent
business to be done, and no time to be lost. He
wasn't sure how much the police already knew, or
whether they were linking him to The Unicorn or
not. No matter what their information might have
been, he was confident that they could not have
found anything of value in his offices. How could
Pitt know the real facts behind the police raid?
Through one of the fine ironies of fate, which
sometimes occur when least expected, the police
had gotten wind of last night's delivery to the loft by
sheer accident. An officer on duty not far from the
Water Street building happened to pass by just
when the two distributors, Morehouse and Dunn,
were leaving the building, heavily loaded with the
parcels they had just picked up. This officer
happened to have been on duty with the drug squad
for some time prior to returning to the street beat
and he recognized the two men immediately. Rather
than trying to arrest them on the spot, and either
run a risk for his life or, in case they were innocent
of any wrong-doings, risk a wrongful arrest suit, he
169

decided to go through channels and advise his
superiors of what he had seen. For several minutes
prior to recognizing the two men, he had watched
the building, which was the only one in the block
with some of the windows still lit, despite the late
hour. It wasn't too difficult to remember which set
of windows had been lit after the two men had left
with their parcels. Pitt had opened his offices as
part of the operation, and thus there were lights; but
the loft itself had no windows and consequently no
lights could be seen from the street. After everyone
had left the building, the officer checked and
discovered that the windows belonged to the offices
of a certain Adam Pitt. When he turned his report in
at headquarters, a routine investigation was
ordered. Why were two well-known drug merchants
leaving the offices of a respectable stock broker in
the dead of night, loaded down with heavy
packages. It was enough for a local j udge to issue an
order to search the premises. That is how the police
decided to raid the offices of Adam Pitt, respectable
stock broker. They weren't sure what they would
find, but it seemed strange that Mr. Pitt had such
unusual friends, especially in the middle of the
night. The whole thing was nothing more than a
routine investigation. Special Branch had of course
not notified the local police precinct of their own
role in the rather complicated venture. Had the
officer come by ten minutes earlier, he would have
seen some of the Special Branch officers, disguised
as lorry drivers, delivering the packages to the
Water Street address. In that case, the Special
Branch operation might very well have been
discovered and the raid on Adam Pitt's premises
would never have taken place. But as it was, the
finger of fate decided to move on and cause Mr. Pitt
170

some anxious moments, driving him to take action
he would not have normally taken.
Pitt of course couldn't figure out why his offices
should be raided by the police, but he thought that
blowing up the loft with its remaining drug supplies
was a matter of prudence, even if the raid proved to
be entirely inconsequential. It was a matter of
taking a calculated risk, he figured, for the police
might sooner or later have stumbled upon the key to
the loft and used it; in that case, the drugs would
have been discovered, for Pitt couldn't have gone to
recover them himself, nor could he have sent
anyone in his stead. He was sure that the building
was now under surveillance, and that the best he
could do was have the premises destroyed by a true
professional. He wasn't worried about Noonan
Jack being caught; the man knew his business, and
even if he should, against all expectations, run into
the hands of the police, he knew how to handle
himself. Jack had been in and out of jail so many
times in his life that he knew all the angles.
Adam Pitt was a man who did not believe in
taking chances. All his life, that had been his credo.
An insignificant slip-up, perhaps, or the revengeful
denunciation by a competitor, or a mistake by a
subordinate or by someone he was doing business
with, all of these possibilities might be behind the
unexpected police raid. It wasn't the raid itself that
worried him, for he had covered himself well, as far
as his offices on Water Street were concerned. It was
the consequence of such a raid, that concerned him
much more. Adam Pitt, stock broker and importer,
Water Street, had nothing to fear from the authori-
ties. Adam Pitt, country squire and owner of Corley
Hall, on the other hand, wouldn't want to be raided
by the police just now. With the loft taken care of,
171

and presumably no traces of anything illicit to be
discovered there, if Jack did the job well, there
remained the problem of what to do about his
records and other incriminating evidence at Corley
Hall. True, there might never be a follow-up, and the
entire matter might blow over, perhaps only due to a
mistaken notion by some local police captain. Then
again, it might not. The police, or Scotland Yard
perhaps, might be at Corley Hall in a matter of
hours. Adam Pitt did not cherish the notion of
spending the rest of his life behind bars. He decided
to leave nothing to chance.
Carefully locking the door of his office, Pitt then
drew the heavy curtain shielding the steel door
leading to the cellar and prepared to open it. From
his pocket, he took two small keys, swiftly inserted
them in the complicated locks which had stopped
Randy the previous night. A moment later, the door
swung open almost noiselessly, disclosing a narrow
stairwell leading down into the basement. Sudden-
ly, a notion came to Pitt which made him walk up
the stairs again, carefully locking the door once
more and opening the office door. Somehow, in his
troubled state, he had completely forgotten about
Rowan. Rowan knew the names of people he had
done business with, not as Adam Pitt but as The
Unicorn. He had a choice now: to kill her, or to
involve her even deeper into his machinations. In
his own way, Pitt had come to love Rowan, and the
idea of hurting her was the furthest thing from his
mind. Then, too, another pair of hands might prove
very helpful under the circumstances. Gently, he
knocked at Rowan's door. "Who is it?" he heard her
voice from the inside. "It is I, Adam," he replied,
"I'd like a word with you." She opened the door, but
made no move to ask him in. "May I come in?" he
172

said, at the same time pushing his way inside the
room. "Where's Randy?" she said, somewhat
imprudently, for he noticed the blush in her face.
"Ah, is it that way?" he said, and looked at her, a
tinge of jealousy rising within him. Quickly, the
actress within her came to her aid. "Nonsense,
nothing of the sort," she replied, and gently kissed
him on the forehead, "just curiosity, that is all. I
haven't heard of him since he got back from the
treasure hunt." "Don't you worry, Randy is quite
safe," Pitt replied, "he's resting in his room." "What
are you up to, Adam?" Rowan said, casually
brushing her arm against his. She knew that Pitt
was an easy target for casual sexual touches, and
her innate curiosity was aroused by the strange
look she noticed about him. As much or as little as
she knew Adam Pitt, she knew that he was troubled.
If Randy was unable to attend to matters, as she felt
somehow, then it was up to her to carry the ball.
Completely feeling herself at home in her role as
Randy Knowles' special assistant now, Rowan
decided to play it cool with Adam.
"I want you to come with me," Pitt said, pulling
her towards the door. When they arrived in front of
the steel door, Pitt explained briefly that his private
records were stored in an office in the basement,
and that he needed her help to make sure that these
records did not fall into the wrong hands.
"Are you expecting visitors?" Rowan managed
to say with a mixture of studied innocence and
intended curiosity. Pitt shot her a doubtful look.
"Visitors? Yes and no. A man wants to be prepared
for all eventualities." Again, he unlocked the double
lock, carefully pulling the door shut behind them,
but without locking it. Then they descended the
narrow stairwell into the cellar of Corley Hall. This
173

part of the cellar had evidently been carefully
restored in recent times. Heavy, cemented walls
supported the structure of the Hall itself, and the
corridor was well lit. From time to time other
corridors crossed it, leading into semi-darkness and
disclosing uncertain objects in the distance. No
doubt, Corley Hall had its secrets, not the least of
which was Adam Pitt's secret office.
They had walked for perhaps twelve or fifteen
yards, when the corridor seemed to end abruptly.
Before them was nothing but a cement wall. To the
left, another corridor opened and to the right one
could hear the faint noise of the not too distant sea,
indicating that they were facing in that direction.
What now, Rowan thought. For a moment, panic
rose in the young girl. Had Pitt brought her down
here to kill her? Surely, if he meant to do it, he could
not possibly be heard from the outside. Well, Rowan
decided, if she was to die, she would give him a good
fight. But apparently Pitt had no such intentions.
"Look," he said, pointing at the blank wall before
them, "look and watch me." With his knuckles, Pitt
then knocked against the wall, three short knocks,
followed by two more knocks. As if by a miracle, the
wall disclosed an opening large enough for a man to
walk through. "It works with a sonic device," Pitt
explained casually, as they walked through the
door. Shades of the Arabian Nights. Rowan
thought. Once inside, she realized they were
standing in a comfortable, square-shaped office,
about twenty by twenty foot in diameter, and
perhaps twelve.foot high, but without windows. She
noticed air vents on the ceiling and the faint hum of
a motor indicated to her that the office was supplied
with fresh air by an electric air conditioning
system. The office itself was functionally but
174

elegantly furnished. Along one wall, there were six
wooden cabinets, and in the corner a number of
cardboard boxes had been stacked up all the way to
the ceiling. It was here where Adam Pitt had stored
some valuable "merchandise", towards the day
when his suppliers could no longer get through, or
when his distributors wanted more merchandise
than he had on hand. The stuff did not deteriorate
with age, and no one was likely to suspect his
having this kind of "merchandise" in the secret
office below Corley Hall. Opposite the filing
cabinets, there was an ancient fireplace, Rowan
noticed, and she realized that the secret office might
have been a kitchen or servants quarters at one
time. Pitt had fixed up the fireplace so that it was in
working order, she noticed, which puzzled her. Was
it his antiquarian sense that made him do this, or
was there an ulterior motive? Surely, the office
could be well heated through central heating also,
which was being used throughout Corley Hall.
"Here, Rowan, help me with these," Pitt de-
manded, opening the first file on the left and
dumping stacks of papers on the floor. "What do
you want me to do with these?" Rowan inquired.
Wordlessly, Pitt pointed to the fireplace. Now she
understood. The fireplace was for burning. Obe-
diently, but as slowly as she could, following some
deeper instinct within her, she carried the papers to
the fireplace and threw them into the fire.
Long before Adam Pitt had descended to his
secret office in the cellar, Randy Knowles had left
his room. At a time when Pitt was thinking he had
safely locked the famed detective away, Randy was
already outside Corley Hall looking for the people
he knew were to arrive at any moment. Sure
enough, there was a familiar face looking out of the
175

gardener's cottage. "Hello there, Johnson," Randy
said cheerfully, "come for the show?" "Right you
are, Knowles, the boys are all ready," Johnson
replied and whistled softly. From the bushes and
trees around Corley Hall, a dozen heads popped up,
and Randy knew that the time to act was at hand.
The gardener and the butler had already been
taken, and Special Branch people were stationed
along the walls of the Hall, and in the manor house
itself.
"Come," Randy said to Johnson, "I think I have
an appointment with Mr. Pitt." Quickly and
noiselessly, the two men let themselves into Pitt's
office. At the steel door behind the curtain, Randy
discovered that it was no longer locked. Whistling
softly through his teeth, he asked Johnson to stay
behind and cover him, if necessary. If he didn't
return within five minutes, he was to follow him.
Recognizing the element of surprise in such delicate
operations as they were now engaged in, Johnson
agreed, somewhat reluctantly, since he feared for
Randy's life. But it was Randy Knowles' game, and
he did not dare dictate his own terms.
In a few moments, Randy arrived at the blank
wall. It did not stump him. From his side pocket he
took a delicate instrument, similar to a doctor's
stethoscope. This he placed against the wall and
listened. As soon as he had found the right spot, he
was able to listen in on the conversation going on
inside, despite the fact that the walls were thick
indeed. He could clearly hear the conversation
going on between Pitt and Rowan. "But why are
you destroying all these papers," Rowan said, "are
you going some place?" "Definitely," Pitt replied,
"and I hope that you will join me. Wouldn't you like
to be on the Riviera this time of year?" "Definitely,"
176

Randy heard Rowan reply, "but why do we have to
destroy your files?" "I'll tell you later, just keep
throwing them into the fire as quickly as you can.
We've got lots to burn," Randy heard Pitt say
somewhat impatiently, it seemed to him. Randy
didn't like the sound of what he heard. He had to be
inside that office before Pitt was able to destroy all
the evidence. Bravely, he decided to knock at the
door. Had he known the right combination of
knocks, the door would have opened. As it was, the
sound registered inside, but did not open the door.
Pitt jumped back when he heard the knocks.
The very idea of anyone knocking on his secret
door! Motioning Rowan to be silent, and stand back
from the door, Pitt swiftly went to the last filing
cabinet on the right, opened the bottom drawer and
took a small object from it. To her horror, Rowan
realized that he held a small gun equipped with a
silencer in his hand. What was she to do? Gain time,
her intuitive processes told her. "What are you
going to do, Adam?" she said, trying to sound as
concerned for his well-being as she could make
herself sound. "Don't you worry," Pitt replied.
"Stand back and you won't get hurt. I'm afraid I'll
have to get rid of Mr. Knowles now. It is really a
pity, considering I paid him all that money." "But
Adam, you're not going to kill him, are you?"
"Nothing illegal about that, my dear," Pitt assured
her, "he is trespassing, and I'm merely defending
my rights."
Meanwhile, Randy decided to astrally project
himself quickly through the door to see what lay
ahead. Even if there were a second exit from the
cellar, the house was by now completely surrounded
and it didn't matter. Johnson hadn't followed him
down the stairs, so Randy was alone. He sat down
177

on the floor, leaning against the wall, closed his
eyes and commanded his Inner Self to float freely
from his body, to enter the closed cellar door, and to
look around. What he saw convinced him that he
had used his E.S.P. powers well. Of course, he had
expected Pitt to show his true colors sooner or later
and a man like Pitt would naturally carry a gun.
But a gun with a silencer was something else again.
Obviously, Pitt was driven to desperation and was
now going to use it. Immediately, Randy snapped
back into his own body, and awakened himself.
Breathing three or four times deeply in Yoga
fashion, he then knocked once again, this time
demandingly.
"Open up, Mr. Pitt. I know you are in there. We
have to talk." "We'll talk all right, but when I am
ready and not sooner," Pitt mumbled, more to
himself than to Rowan. Rowan's eyes feverishly
examined the wall. Finally, she saw what she had
been looking for: the mechanism that released the
entrance door and permitted it to open. Located to
the right of the door, it consisted of a set of buttons
which controlled the opening and closing of the
door as well as the electrical lighting in the office
itself.
Pitt busied himself on his gun now; swiftly
opening it, he found it to be empty and returned to
the file. From the bottom drawer, he took the
necessary bullets, and prepared to place them into
the gun. For a moment, his back was turned to
Rowan and the entrance door. This was the
moment, she thought, her big chance. Almost
noiselessly she leapt to the door, quickly pressing
the buttons. Pitt turned around in surprise, just as
the door opened, disclosing Randy Knowles holding
his famous water pistol in hand. Quickly, Pitt fired
178

twice in succession, but Randy had already entered
the office and the bullets went far off their mark.
Never underestimate the ingenuity of a woman.
While Pitt was concentrating all his efforts against
the San Francisco detective, Rowan managed to get
behind him and put her elbow around his neck.
Although Karate was not a must subject at the
Royal Academy of the Dramatic Arts, Rowan had
taken some classes and found them now exceeding-
ly useful. Within a fraction of a second, Randy had
seized the gun in Pitt's hand. Johnson and two of
his men now appeared at the entrance. The Unicorn
was at bay.
Only, Pitt thought, never losing his cool, did they
really know who he was? How could the authorities
possibly connect him with The Unicorn, the man
who had been importing drugs from the East for all
these years? Pitt liked to get things straight, even
when it was his neck he was dealing with. At the
moment, he believed that Knowles had somehow
caught on to his disposal of the Constable, the
innkeeper and the doctor, and had brought the
police because of that. Every criminal has a
weakness: perhaps Adam Pitt's weakness was his
treasure mania, his preoccupation with treasure
hunting and his great resentment against those
who were interfering with it. In his own way, he
considered the death of the three men a just
execution for crimes committed rather than out-
right murder.
If only he hadn't stored some of the excess
merchandise in the cellar, he thought, when they
put handcuffs on him. It didn't take the Special
Branch people very long to find everything,
narcotics, records, correspondence—the lot. Per-
haps it was Pitt's weakness also to keep such
179

meticulous records of his transactions, perhaps it
was part of his nature to do so, since he also pursued
a legitimate career as a businessman. "I'm John-
son, from Special Branch," the chief introduced
himself.
In one corner, Rowan was crying hysterically.
The excitement of the moment had finally caught
up with her, and the woman within needed to let go
of the accumulated tensions. Much as he had
wanted to, Randy could not console her at the
moment. "We've got the goods on him all right, Mr.
Knowles," Johnson said in his usual low voice, "I
think you've done a splendid job." Pitt shot Randy
an angry look at these words. "I must apologize to
you, Mr. Pitt," Randy said, acknowledging the
problem. "I didn't come here to send you to jail as a
narcotics dealer, it just worked out that way, it
would seem. On the other hand, I certainly earned
my fee. After all, I did find the treasure for you." At
the mention of the word treasure, Pitt's eyes lit up.
"Where is the treasure? Have you taken that, too?"
"As a matter of fact, the treasure is quite intact. It
will be turned over to the British Museum just as
soon as arrangements can be made." "I suppose it
doesn't matter now," Pitt commented, with a dash
of sadness replacing the arrogance in his voice. "I
wish I could have seen it, though." "Incidentally,
lest you have any misgivings about having paid me
a fee, I am turning it over in its entirety to the
British Society for the rehabilitation of drug ad-
dicts."
For a moment, everyone stood around, somewhat
in awe of what had just transpired. "Well, we've got
to get back to town, I guess," Johnson said finally,
looking at Pitt with an unspoken command to walk
180

up the stairs between two of his men.
"I suppose you have to do your duty, yes," Pitt
said, rather too smoothly for Randy's taste, "but
there's one special favor I would like you to do for
me, if possible. You see, I love antiquities, they are
the most important thing in my life. Since I am not
likely to see them again for quite a while, might I
have a chance to have one more look at my antiques
upstairs in my office, especially the tapestry over
my desk which has always been one of my prize
possessions?"
That tapestry, Randy thought, I knew there was
something special about it. But what? Somehow,
his E.S.P. warned him that Pitt was still playing a
game. But Johnson, happy at his catch, was willing
to be pleasant, in a strange display of British fair
play which is not always understood by sterner
policemen on the Continent or in the United States.
"Very well, Mr. Pitt," he said, pointing towards the
door, "I see nothing wrong with such a request. You
may go upstairs with these men and have a look at
your antiquities, if you wish. But be brief about it."
"Wait a moment," Randy said and motioned the
men to wait. Then he took Johnson's arm and asked
him to step aside, so he could speak to him in
private. Rowan had come over to join them, but
when she saw Randy's serious expression, she
stood back. "Look," Randy said, "I don't mean to
interfere with your operation. It's your baby now.
But I have a strange premonition that you oughtn't
to let Pitt go upstairs into his office again. Mind
you, I have no proof whatever, just a hunch, that is
all." There was a slightly condescending smile on
Johnson's lips. "A hunch, eh? Sort of a psychic
thing?" he said, obviously not putting much stock
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in such phenomena. "Yes, if you will." "Don't
worry, Mr. Knowles," Johnson assured Randy,
"we've got enough men to take care of things now.
Let him have one more look at his stuff, what harm
can there possibly be? We've searched the house top
to bottom. Carry on," he then added to his men, and
the little procession started up the stairs. Randy
shrugged. There was nothing to be done but go
along.
Upstairs, things looked a little different now. The
door to Pitt's office was open, and Special Branch
men were all over the place. There was no mistaking
them now, for they were in their usual uniforms,
dark, conservative suits, sky blue eyes, and tight
lips. Johnson and two of his men escorted Pitt into
the office now, with Randy and Rowan following
behind. Without saying anything further, Johnson
motioned Pitt to stand by his desk, if he wished. If
Pitt was going to pull a fast one, Randy thought,
using his native idiom, he would have to do it in
plain view of everyone. How could he? Randy began
to doubt his own intuitive processes now; perhaps
his dislike for Pitt had misled him into believing
that Pitt would do something to escape? For once,
Randy felt his E.S.P. had let him down.
Pitt looked around the office, sighed in most
dramatic fashion, then stepped behind the desk.
Looking up at the tapestry above him, he smiled at
it, and again Randy noticed the uncanny similarity
between Pitt's face and that of the Unicorn in the
tapestry.
"Now you gentlemen know that I've had some
drugs in the house, and you know that I've been
dealing in them," he began, with as pleasant a tone
of voice as if he were describing an operation at the
stock exchange. "But now that the jig is up, you
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might was well know one more thing: I am The
Unicorn." None of the Special Branch people
showed any particular surprise. There was a
moment of embarrassing silence. Finally, Pitt,
looking from one face to the next, asked, "You don't
seem surprised? Does the name Unicorn not ring a
bell with you?" Finally Johnson spoke up. "I'm
afraid it doesn't, sir," and with a sinking feeling,
Pitt realized that they weren't on to him after all.
True, they had raided his house and had found some
heroin and all sorts of records. But for all they knew,
this could have been a one-time operation, perhaps
one that hadn't yet taken place. It could be fought in
the courts. Now, however, he had put them on to
something. But Pitt was not a man to let his errors
stand in the way of further action. "The name The
Unicorn is given me because I look like the unicorn
in the tapestry," he explained, quickly regaining
his composure, "at the Exchange, they say I'm as
stubborn as a unicorn." Randy couldn't help notice
the sudden change in approach, from a very
boastful criminal telling his captors how great he
really is, to a glib and almost apologizing stock
exchange operator who tells a little anecdote about
the nickname the boys down at the Exchange had
given him. Something didn't seem quite right, but
Randy didn't want to say anything since Johnson
had already indicated his lack of faith in Randy's
intuitive processes. "Might I have a glass of
sherry?" Pitt asked now, looking at Johnson. "I
don't see why not," Johnson replied, motioning to
one of his men to bring the tray of sherry and
glasses over from a corner table. Quickly pouring
himself a glass, Pitt then raised it and began to
toast his captors. "To the victor, the spoils. To the
loser, oblivion." He raised his arm as high as he
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could while Johnson smiled benignly. Suddenly,
his fingers grabbed at the tapestry above the desk
and he yanked it down with great force. At the same
instant, Adam Pitt disappeared into the ground.
Apparently, there had been an extremely effective
drap door below the desk, for Pitt had disappeared
and the trap door closed again before anyone could
be behind the desk. "Nothing could possibly
happen, eh?" Randy heard himself say, somewhat
against his will, for he hated telling people that he
had been right, after all.
For a few minutes, Special Branch men were
scurrying all over the house. The cellar was
searched again and again, walls were tapped and
the grounds were thoroughly searched. The result
was nil. Adam Pitt had made a clean get-away.
Evidently the search of the house had not been as
thorough as Johnson had thought. Finally, on the
third try, one of the men discovered a discrepancy in
the circumference of the wall in a part of the cellar
roughly corresponding to the office above. With a
pick-ax, the men were able to establish that the trap
door behind Pitt's desk was indeed connected with
an escape corridor, wide enough for one man to go
through, but not to stand up in. Following the
corridor along, they found themselves several yards
outside the wall. Obviously, Pitt had gone this way
and was by now well on his way to freedom.
Apparently, he had reconstructed an ancient
"priest hole" into an escape corridor for himself.
But hindsight was of little use now. A much more
subdued Johnson was forlornly stirring his coffee,
as he and Randy sat in the drawing room, trying to
figure out what to do next. Naturally, all the
necessary alerts had been given. But a man of Pitt's
talents wasn't too likely to run into the dragnet out
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for him now. Half an hour later, word was received
that Pitt's car had been discovered, half way
between Werrick and London. Obviously, Pitt had
decided to get himself another vehicle, or perhaps
someone was picking him up. At any rate, the fox
had gotten away. "Might I suggest something?"
Randy said, looking Johnson directly into the face.
"I realize you have little use for E.S.P. and psychic
phenomena," he began, "but under the circum-
stances, would it not be unwise to overlook any
possibility of gaining information concerning
Pitt?" "Oh quite," Johnson replied. "Please don't be
offended, I just don't know enough about the
subject. But by all means, go ahead and try. We'll do
anything you say." "Very well," Randy replied.
"All you have to do is be quiet, not to touch me, and
to record everything I say. If the telephone rings,
have someone else answer it. That is all."
With that, Randy stretched out on the couch in
his room, with Johnson, Rowan, and two of
Johnson's men, the only others present. Again,
Randy commanded himself to dissociate from the
physical body and to project outward towards Pitt.
Since he had no idea where Pitt had gone, he
projected an image of the fugitive and ordered his
Inner Self to act like a homing pigeon, homing in on
Pitt wherever he might be. By now Johnson was no
longer skeptical about E.S.P., but ready to take
down anything Randy might say.
"I think I have him," Randy began, in a voice not
at all like his own, but faint and somewhat
trembling. Johnson had some difficulty hearing
him. "He is in a small launch. I see him heading out
to sea. " "Can you tell us where?" Johnson said
almost respectfully now. "It looks like an island ot
sorts." "Describe it, if you can." Randy then went
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on to describe the island, as he projected himself
closer and closer. By now Pitt in his launch was
only a few yards off shore. "Sounds like the Isle of
Wight," one of Johnson's men commented. "You
might be correct," Johnson said, waiting for
additional material to come through the projected
Randy Knowles. "I see him heading towards shore.
Now he's gone. I'm sorry. I must get back." With
that, Randy sighed deeply and fell back onto the
couch. With eyes closed, he lay there for perhaps
two or three minutes, then reopened them and
looked at everyone, as if he had just been away on a
long trip—which, in fact, he had.
Johnson rose abruptly. "I'll have my people
check the Isle of Wight," he announced and left the
room. He didn't really believe what he had just
witnessed, but as a conscientious police officer, he
couldn't ignore it either. If it was incorrect, no harm
done. If it was the truth, he would have never
forgiven himself for ignoring this unusual method,
E.S.P. projection, in search of a fugitive criminal.
As soon as Randy was off the couch, he
remembered that the Spanish treasure had to be
removed from the barn. With Rowan and two of the
men, he walked over to it. Slaughter was still there,
guarding it, and quite reluctant to let the British
Museum have it now. "Look, Slaughter," Randy
said, "there's been enough lawlessness around here
already. I'll recommend that the British Museum
take only that which they need and let you have the
rest. I'm sure that you will get part of the treasure.
Have confidence in me. We don't want to break the
law." Slaughter shook his head. No, he didn't want
to break the law either. His late brother wouldn't
have liked it.
"Can't we at least have a look at it then before we
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turn it over?" he finally said. "Of course," Randy
agreed. He himself was curious what there really
was in the chest. With some difficulty, they broke it
open. Evidently, Pitt had been on the right track.
What lay before them now was a tightly stuffed
paymaster's chest, with rows upon rows of dou-
bloons, and smaller parts thereof. Turning to one of
the Special Branch officers, he said, "Take this and
Mr. Slaughter to the British Museum, and see that
he is fairly treated," and closed the lid of the chest.
"Right you are, sir," the officer nodded. "Wait,"
Randy said, and opened the lid of the treasure chest
once more. He then picked one of the coins from the
many hundreds inside, flipped it up into the air and
caught it again, saying, "This shall be my pay for
the job." With that, he closed the lid of the chest and
sent Slaughter and the Special Branch man on their
way. Weeks later, Randy heard that the Museum
had indeed been generous. They had taken about
half the contents of the treasure chest, letting young
Slaughter sell the rest. It didn't bring back
Constable Slaughter, but it helped the young man
pursue a career at the university.
There was nothing further he could do at Corley
Hall, so Randy decided to return to London himself.
As he had just about finished packing, there was a
knock at his door. "Come in," he said, not really
knowing whom to expect. It was Rowan. She, too,
was dressed for travel. "Going someplace?" she
said teasingly and planted a sensuous kiss on his
lips. "Yes, aren't we?" he replied, "I assume you are
coming back to London with me." "You assume,
you assume correctly, sir," she said and it was
plainly visible that the strain of the last few hours
had already left her. When Randy reached his
London hotel, there was an urgent message waiting
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for him from Angus McPherson, Pitt's secretary.
Quickly, Randy dialed Pitt's office number. What
could the secretary want? "Thank goodness you've
called Mr. Knowles," McPherson said when he
recognized Randy's voice. "I have been going to
pieces here, ever since these terrible policemen
came. They've been ransacking the office, it is a
mess." "Sorry about that, McPherson," Randy
replied, "but there is really nothing I can do about it.
Have you heard from Mr. Pitt lately?" "No, sir," the
secretary replied, "have you? That is why I am
calling." "I suggest you close the office and go home
then," Randy replied. "Mr Pitt is not likely to come
back right away." "But what about my pay?"
McPherson replied, and there was great anxiety in
his voice. Suddenly, Randy remembered an enve-
lope filled with banknotes, which he noticed
fleetingly in Pitt's desk drawer at Corley Hall. "I'll
see what I can do," Randy said, "but if you don't get
your pay by tomorrow night, get in touch with me
again." As soon as he put the receiver down, Randy
called Corley Hall. Johnson was still there. Randy
briefly explained that the money in Pitt's drawer
really belonged to his secretary, and that the man
should not be made to suffer. Johnson was only too
eager to please Randy and promised to send the
money to McPherson on the next train.
"I think I need a change of climate," Randy said,
looking at Rowan. "Do you think you can leave
London for a couple of days?" "That depends," she
replied, "if it is with you, the answer is yes." "It is, it
is," Randy assured her.
Within a matter of hours, they were in Paris.
Randy had taken a leave from the British, who like
to spend their weekends after a strenuous week in
London in the less strenuous climate of the French
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capital. Also, very few people were likely to track
him down here and for once Randy could relax.
Pitt had been to the Isle of Wight before. He knew
the parts to avoid, if he did not want to run into
people. There was no need to go into the populated
areas, since he had bought some sandwiches en
route. It wasn't going to be easy to get out of the
country, he knew. As soon as he had abandoned his
own, and rented another car, he had stopped en
route to telephone Noonan Jack. Jack had not yet
been paid off for his job, and was the most likely
individual to help him escape. Pitt's calculation
proved correct; Jack was willing, provided there
would be a substantial pay-off. On his way through
the corridor, Pitt had grabbed the emergency kit,
prepared for j ust such a situation a long time before.
Never a man to leave things entirely to chance, Pitt
always felt that there might come a day when he
had to make a fast get-away. In a small briefcase he
had secreted a false passport, a loaded gun, and
several thousand pounds and other currencies,
enough to see him safely abroad. There were other
deposits in Swiss banks and in New York City, for
Pitt was a man who liked to spread his bets around,
never to put all of his eggs into one basket. At the
outskirts of London, Jack came to fetch him in his
own car. Again, Pitt abandoned the car he was in
and went with Jack.
Jack was not the sort of fellow who asked a lot of
questions, especially when they didn't concern him.
He had a pretty good idea that Pitt was a man who
had done certain things against the law, but he
didn't want to know about them. The only thing he
wanted to know was where did Pitt want to go, and
189

how much was he going to be paid for the job. As a
starter, Pitt gave him two thousand pounds, to take
care of the elimination of the three men, and
another thousand pounds on account of his escape.
For a man like Noonan Jack, that was a lot of
money. For a man like Adam Pitt, it was nothing.
Especially as his life was fit stake, a life that could
easily make many times that much within a matter
of months. Jack arranged for a small boat that
would take Pitt to the Isle of Wight. In the wild
forest of the Isle, Jack owned a small cottage.
Originally, it had been his mother's, and he used it
for business purposes primarily, whenever he had
some dealings that required secrecy. The cottage
wasn't much, it was in a state of disrepair, and
consisted of a kitchen and one room, but Pitt was
glad to go there and stay the night. Early the next
morning, a Beachcraft Bonanza from the Flying
Buzzards field would fly him out of the country.
Although the cottage was surrounded by woodland,
there was a small clearing nearby, large enough for
a small plane to land and take off from. As Pitt
started the motor of the little launch, Noonan Jack
left him in order to make the arrangements at the
airstrip. It was shortly after that moment that
Randy Knowles had "seen" the fugitive with his
pyschic eyes, crossing the straits to the Isle of
Wight.
That night, Pitt could not close an eye. It wasn't
that he was fearful for his life, but the uncertainty of
the future and conditions he could not control
directly, upset him. He trusted Noonan Jack
completely, but he realized the limitations of the
man. Suppose something went wrong at the
airstrip, suppose his usual pilot was not available
and the replacement didn't want to play ball. All
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sorts of supposes ran through his mind. It was close
to three o'clock when he finally dozed off. The hour
of departure had been set at seven o'clock. Thus it
was with some surprise that he found himself
awakened when it was still dark outside. It can't be
more than five o'clock, he thought, still half asleep.
Two men stood by his bedside. What were they
doing here? "Where is Noonan Jack?" he demanded
to know. "Oh, we've got him all right," one of the
men replied, and with deadening suddenness,
Adam Pitt realized that the jig was up. These were
not men sent by Noonan Jack to help him escape—
they were Special Branch men come to arrest him.
As if he had read his thoughts, one of the men said,
flashing a badge at him, "Special Branch officers."
"Just a moment," Pitt said, getting out of bed. The
two men were watching him with eager eyes. "May
I put my coat on?" Pitt asked. "It is rather chilly at
this hour of the morning." One of the officers
nodded. Pitt crossed the room and put on his jacket.
Then he reached for his trousers and put them on.
The two Special Branch men stood there, observing
him carefully. "May I have a cigarette?" Pitt said,
"I'm rather upset, you know." Again, the officer
nodded. Pitt put his hand in his right coat pocket.
Turning his back towards the two men for a
moment, he then put the entire contents of a small
inside pocket into his mouth and quickly swallowed
it. Once again, he turned around and faced the two
men. This time he smiled. He knew that within a
matter of minutes he would be dead. An overdose of
the very stuff he had dealt in was to be his fitting
end.
Somehow, Johnson had discovered where Randy
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was staying in Paris. Leave it to a Special Branch
man to get his information, even when a Randy
Knowles wants to remain incognito. When the
telephone rang in Randy and Rowan's suite at the
Ritz, Randy's E.S.P. told him that the news wasn't
going to be good. After listening for a moment, he
put the receiver down. "Adam Pitt is dead," he
announced, "from an overdose of heroin. That was
Johnson calling." Rowan didn't reply. For a
moment, the two stood silent and looked out into the
early morning sky.
Later that afternoon, Rowan accompanied
Randy to the airport. She would stay on in Paris for
a day or two, visiting with old friends. Randy was
needed on the other side of the ocean, but he
promised to be back for her next opening. When his
plane was being called, Randy quickly handed her
the gold doubloon he had taken along as his only
pay for the job. "Take it for good luck," he said,
pressing it into her hands. Rowan protested. "But
you won't have anything to show for all your
troubles!" "Not so," Randy replied, and, opening
his briefcase, pulled from it the tapestry of the Lion
and the Unicorn. Only now, as they both looked at it
in the light of day, the unicorn's face looked like any
other unicorn would, not like Adam Pitt.
192