“You mean it’s an heirloom?” asked Halsted.
“If something totally without value can be an heirloom, this is one. In any case, my great-grandfather sent it home from the Far East in 1856 with a letter explaining the circumstances. I’ve seen the letter myself. I can’t quote it to you word for word, but I can give you the sense of it.”
“Go ahead,” said Rubin.
“Well, to begin with, the eighteen fifties was the age of the clipper ship — the Yankee Clipper, you know — and the American seamen roamed the world till the Civil War and the continuing development of the steamship put an end to sailing vessels. However, I’m not planning to spin a sea yam. I couldn’t. I know nothing about ships and couldn’t tell a bowsprit from a binnacle, if either still exists. However, I mention it all by way of explaining that my great-grand-father — who bore my name, or rather, I bear his — managed to see the world. To that extent his story is conceivable. Between that, and the fact that his name was Latimer Reed too, I had a tendency, when young, to want to believe him.
“In those days, you see, the Moslem world was still largely closed to the men of the Christian West. The Ottoman Empire still had large territories in the Balkans, and the dim memory of the days when it threatened all Europe still lent it an echo of far-off might. And the Arabian peninsula itself was a mystic mixture of desert sheiks and camels to the West.
“Of course, the old city of Mecca was closed to non-Moslems and one of the daring feats a European or American might perform would be to learn Arabic, dress like an Arab, develop a knowledge of Moslem culture and religion, somehow participate in the ritual of the pilgrimage to Mecca, and return to tell the story. My greatgrandfather claimed to have accomplished this.”
Drake interrupted. “Claimed? Was he lying?”
“I don’t know,” said Reed. “I have no evidence beyond this letter he sent from Hong Kong. There was no apparent reason for him to lie since he had nothing to gain. Of course, he may merely have wanted to amuse my great-grandmother and shine in her eyes. He had been away from home for three years and had only been married three years prior to his sailing, and family legend has it that it was a great love match.”
Gonzalo began, “But after he returned—”
“He never returned,” said Reed. “About a month after he wrote the letter he died under unknown circumstances and was buried somewhere overseas. The family didn’t learn of that till considerably later, of course. My grandfather was only about four at the time of his father’s death and was brought up by my great-grandmother. My grandfather had five sons and three daughters and I’m the second son of his fourth son, and there’s my family history in brief.”
“Died under unknown circumstances,” said Halsted. “There are all sorts of possibilities there.”
“As a matter of fact,” said Reed, “family legend also has it that his impersonation of an Arab was detected, that he had been tracked to Hong Kong and beyond, and had been murdered. But there is no evidence whatever to support that. The only information we have about his death was from seamen who brought a letter from someone who announced the death.”
“Does that letter still exist?” asked Avalon, interested despite himself.
“No. But where and how he died doesn’t matter. The fact is, he never returned home. Of course,” Reed went on, “the family has always tended to believe the story, because it is dramatic and glamorous, and the story has been distorted out of all recognition. I have an aunt who once told me he was tom to pieces by a howling mob of dervishes who saw through his imposture in a mosque. She said it was because he had blue eyes. All made up, of course, probably out of a novel.”
Rubin said, “Did he have blue eyes?”
“I doubt it,” said Reed. “We all have brown eyes in my family. But I don’t really know.”
Halsted said, “But what about your iron gem, your luck piece?”
“Oh, that came with the letter,” said Reed. “It was a small package actually. And my luck piece was the whole point of the letter. He was sending it as a memento of his feat. Perhaps you know that the central ceremony involved in the pilgrimage to Mecca are the rites at the Kaaba, the most holy object in the Moslem world.”
Rubin said, “It’s actually a relic of the pre-Moslem world. Mohammed was a shrewd and practical politician, though, and he took it over. If you can’t lick ’em, join ’em.”
“I dare say,” said Reed coolly. “The Kaaba is a large irregular cube — the word ‘cube’ comes from ‘Kaaba,’ in fact — and in its southeast corner about five feet from the ground is what is called ‘the black stone,’ which is broken and held together by metal bands. Most people seem to think the black stone is a meteorite.”
“Probably,” said Rubin. “A stone from heaven, sent by the gods. Naturally it would be worshiped. The same can be said of the original statue of Artemis at Ephesis — the so-called Diana of the Ephesians—”
Avalon said, “Since Tom Trumbull is absent, I suppose it’s my job to shut you up, Manny. Let our guest speak.” Reed said, “Anyway, that’s about it. My iron gem arrived in the package with the letter, and my great-grandfather said in his letter that it was a piece of the black stone which he had managed to chip off.”
“Good Lord,” muttered Avalon, “if he did that I wouldn’t blame the Arabs for killing him.”
Drake said, “If it’s a piece of the black stone, I guess it would be worth quite a bit to a collector.”
“Priceless to a pious Moslem, I should imagine,” said Halsted.
“Yes, yes,” said Reed impatiently, “if it is a piece of the black stone. But how are you going to demonstrate such a thing? Can we take it back to Mecca and see if it will fit into some chipped place, or make a very sophisticated chemical comparison of my luck piece and the rest of the black stone?”
“Neither of which, I’m sure,” said Avalon, “the government of Saudi Arabia would allow.”
“Nor am I interested in asking,” said Reed. “Of course, it’s an article of faith in my family that the object is a chip of the black stone, and the story was occasionally told to visitors and the package was produced complete with letter and chip. It always made a sensation.
“Then sometime before World War One there was some sort of scare. My father was a boy then and he told me the story when I was young, but when I considered it after growing up, I realized that it lacked substance.”
“What was the story?” asked Gonzalo.
“A matter of turbaned strangers slinking about the house, mysterious shadows by day and strange sounds by night,” said Reed. “It was the sort of thing people would imagine after reading sensational fiction.”
Rubin, who, as a writer, would ordinarily have resented the last adjective, was too hot on the spoor on this occasion to do so. He said, “The implication is that they were Arabs who were after the chip of the black stone. Did anything happen?”
Avalon broke in. “If you tell us about mysterious deaths, Latimer, I’ll know you’re making up the whole thing.”
Reed said, “I’m speaking nothing but the truth. There were no mysterious deaths. Everyone in my family since great-grandfather has died of old age, disease, or unimpeachable accident. No breath of foul play has ever risen. And in connection with the tale of the turbaned stranger, nothing at all happened. Nothing! Which is one reason I dismiss the whole story.”
Gonzalo said, “Did anyone ever attempt to steal the chip?”
“Never. The original package with the chip and the letter stayed in an unlocked drawer for half a century. No one paid any particular attention to it and it remained perfectly safe. I still have the chip, as you saw,” and he slapped his pocket.