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The Lost Dutchman Climb

Kevin Cole

    On the day that Grant retired, Hobbes was miserable on the Brooklyn Bridge. There was Monday rain and a fenderbender. A four seat yellow rickshaw had totaled a two wheeler. The helmet clad drivers exchanged textphone insurance data while the rickshaw passengers, a tourist family, stood silently at the roadside.
    Hobbes drove around the traffic refugees. He followed a line of cyclers offramp to lower Manhattan. Ahead of him, downtown teemed with bikers and joggers, the automobile ban in healthy effect. He found a lane through the traffic crosscurrent to 120 Broadway, parked the bicycle in his assigned rack, and ran into the building.
    Reagan waited inside, backdropped by the lobby swarm of workday morning. She was in company uniform—grey pantsuit, red lipstick, ponytailed hair. A quick shift from at ease position got her to Hobbes.
    “Grant’s retirement is going down this morning,” she said.
    “Is his package ready?” Hobbes asked. He doffed his rain poncho, placed it in the company recyclable bin, straightened his grey suit, smoothed his “euro look” blonde hair.
    “The package is ready,” Reagan said. “Then it’s our neverending problem, The Lost Dutchman. The CEO who vanished, but never goes away.”
    Hobbes grimaced. Gallatin had dumped this issue on them at the annual nonparty. Walter Volz had taken the company’s longest elevator ride four years ago, last seen going down, two billion dollars in internet gold along for the ride.
    “I have a sort of something,” Reagan said. “We’ll see. After the Grant retirement.”
    One Twenty Broadway was a “Health Building”, and the elevators were shut down. Hobbes and Reagan passed through the sensory detectors, were identified as “Hobbes, Morgan” and “Reagan, Chase”, and followed the upwardly mobile working throng to the stairwell.
    Some jogged, most walked upstairs. A buzzcut intern stepped on Reagan’s heel.
    “Watch your pace,” she said, kept climbing.
    This was done.
    After Floor Ten, the pace slowed. An octogenarian messenger stopped on the landing, hair sweatmatted.
    “Better keep pace,” Reagan said.
    The messenger resumed pace, got off at floor twelve. His grey uniform shirt was wrinkled, grey tie askew.
    The climb went on.
    “We’re there,” Hobbes said.
    They left the stairs at Floor Twenty-nine. The conference room waited at the end of the functional hallway. Reagan knocked. Dillon opened the door. He peered at them over blackframed miniglasses.
    “Seats six and seven,” he said, a conference head waiter.
    The conference table sat twelve, six pairs of two, with one seat for the chairperson. There were no cups, plates, or water glasses. Book computers faced each chair. A large window faced north. Gallatin stood in front of it. Reagan and Hobbes sat at six and seven. The table was full. The computers snapped on.
    Gallatin gave everyone a moment to check the monitor agenda. He looked out the window at the Empire State Building, slopes festooned with workbound rockclimbers.
    “Now,” he said, “to today’s agenda. Dillon and Barstow, bring in Mr. Grant.”
    Dillon firmed up the frame of his miniglasses. Barstow smoothed out her grey suit, pursed her red lips. They left the room in tandem.
    Gallatin smiled like a best friend. He was Lincoln tall, mustacheless chinbeard to match.
    “Early retirement, Philip Ochs Grant,” he said to the conferees.
    The door opened, Grant walked in slowly. He was followed by Dillon and Barstow. They took parade rest positions behind him.
    Grant was a wispy old man in a powder blue suit.
    “Phil,” Gallatin said, “the requirement is still grey suits. As you well know, this has been the company code since 1980.”
    He shook his head, beard sweeping like a broom.
    “Al,” Grant said, “it’s over. Blue and goodbye to all of you.”
    “I give you credit,” Gallatin said. “You’re getting out at eighty. You soldiered on through three years of hearings, and a big court victory.”
    “Two court victories,” Grant said. “I won the appeal, too.”
    Gallatin’s beard twitched.
    Dillon and Barstow took a step closer to Grant.
    “Ninety is a reasonable goal,” Gallatin said. “It’s reasonable for the company, reasonable for the employees.”
    “Death isn’t reasonable,” Grant said. “Remember when sixty-five was retirement? That was reasonable. Everyone had a little end of life free time.”
    “Those days are gone,” Gallatin said.
    “For me, too, Al,” Grant straightened his blue sleeves, “but I’m out. Now, let’s not take up any more company time. Let’s just give me the package, and I’m gone.”
    “Coming right up,” Gallatin said. He reached into his portfolio, withdrew a pistol.
    Hobbes half stood. Reagan grabbed his arm, sat him down. The other conferees sat quietly. One of them, McAdoo, scratched his nose.
    Grant backed up. Dillon and Barstow blocked his way. Barstow kissed Grant on the cheek, leaving a red streak. Dillon held Grant’s shoulders, stood him up straight Gallatin aimed the pistol, pulled the trigger. Grant flinched as the water stream hit his chest. Everyone at the table laughed. Hobbes shook in his chair. McAdoo slapped his partner, Cobb, on the back. She punched his shoulder.
    An envelope appeared in Gallatin’s hand.
    “Here you are, Phil, your just rewards for a somewhat shortened worklife.”
    He tossed the envelope across the table to Grant. The conferees applauded. Grant shook his head, grabbed the package, turned to leave. Then, Gallatin tasered him in the back.
    Gibbering, a dropped marionette, Grant fell to the floor. His body convulsed with continuing electric shock. He wet himself.
    Gallatin nodded to Dillon and Barstow.
    “Drag our retiree to the freight elevator,” he said. “Dump him. He’ll find an appropriate maintenance fee reduction from his package.”
    They bent to the task, dragged Grant from the room. He was in seizure— twitching, retching. The door closed behind them.
    The book monitors switched instantly to the next agenda item. A business brochure picture of Walter Volz appeared. He wasn’t smiling.
    “The Lost Dutchman,” Gallatin said. “Gone with the gold. Four years ago this week, our beloved CEO disappeared with two billion dollars in direct bullion holdings. Our European and Chinese forefathers are festering, corporate angry. They’re ready to step on something. That brings me to you.”
    He snapped his fingers at Hobbes and Reagan.
    “You’ve had four weeks on this, and you’re oh for four.”
    Hobbes got incorrectly loud.
    “There isn’t anything,” he said. “What are we supposed to find that every hungry creditor, every company hired investigator hasn’t?”
    Gallatin stood over him.
    “I think we’ll refer you to an emotional control class,” he said. “After Friday. That’s your deadline for solving this. You, too, Reagan. You’re going down with him. I’m concerned about you.”
    Walter Volz’ monitor picture stared at Hobbes from the book computer. The mouth was set in a bonethin face.
    “Just as cheery as I remember him,” Hobbes thought.
    “Meeting adjourned,” Gallatin said.
    The book computers shut down.
    Gallatin shot Hobbes a look of future agenda. The room emptied quickly.
    Reagan moved Hobbes down the hall to the prayer room, formerly a snack bar. She shut the door behind them.
    “I found something in Volz’ expense list,” she said. “It matches up with current maintenance costs.”
    There were no seats in the room, only kneelers facing a candlelit portrait of Christ in which he resembled Confederate hero, Stonewall Jackson. Hobbes and Reagan stood beneath the portrait.
    “A current expense? What is it?” Hobbes said.
    “Dogfood,” Reagan laughed, choked it off. “bags of Big Dawg dogfood. It’s supervised and administered by Penny Felcher. Her office is down the hall.”
    “Time to see Ms. Felcher,” Hobbes said. He opened the door. Dillon and Barstow entered the room.
    “Hi, cub reporters,” Dillon said. “We’ll save you some work.”
    Barstow palmed a taser.
    “Really hurts to get zapped,” she said.
    “We’ve been listening in on the prayer room antiterrorism system, Dillon said. Great find, Reagan, you’ll get an honorable mention at the next conference. Now, you guys just skedaddle back to your regular routines. Mr. Gallatin has put us in charge.”
    “Typical,” Reagan said. “you’re the company’s useful tools of the moment.”
    “Sorry,” Dillon peered over the miniglasses,” wish I had time to explain it to you. We’re off to see Felcher about some mystery dogs. Have a productive workday.”
    The door closed. They were gone.
    “That’s what I found,” Reagan said. “Why order dogfood four years after the owner split? After the disappearance, Gallatin would have had them removed and gassed.”
    “What does it matter?” Hobbes said. “Game over.”
    Reagan eyemotioned Hobbes into the hallway.
    “Let’s wait a bit,” she said. “Let’s see what’s happening.”
    Down the hallway, Dillon exited an office. Barstow followed, holstering a taser.
    “Should’ve spoken up right away, ya dumb kennel yokel.” She shook her head, followed Dillon to the far end of the hall, into The Climb, the private stairwell to Walter Volz penthouse. They vanished upstairs.
    Reagan punched a message into her phone computer, held it for Hobbes to see:
    “No way we’re taking this!”
    “Interesting assignment,” Hobbes said. “The Chief sure knows how to challenge us.”
    “We wait, then follow them!” The next text message read.
    “Excellent,” Hobbes said. “I do have some input here.” He took the phone.
    “Big time!” he texted.
    Reagan was flushed, but maintained the requisite company deadpan.
    After a pause, Hobbes texted “Now, let’s see how our aggressive self-starters are doing.”
    They walked slowly to the entrance to The Climb, the steepest stairway in Manhattan. A heart attack had claimed an unwary building inspector here. After Volz’ disappearance, the stairwell had been searched and cleared. There were no mystery guard dogs in sight. Superstitious maintenance personnel kept the area intact and clean. Walter Volz’ lack of people skills with employees left lingering fear.
    Hobbes ran to the first step. Reagan stopped him with a quick glance.
    “Careful,” she said, “I don’t think this was designed to be welcoming.”
    The Climb was attic narrow with bare iron steps, dim lighting from wall sconces. A skylight twenty floors above marked the upper limit. The entire route was painted military grey, and there was an accumulated smell of pine cleanser, an antiseptic atmosphere of permanent stillness.
    They started upward, Reagan leading. There were no landing doors at each floor, just a seamless route up. The skylight at the top drew slowly nearer.
    There was a downward commotion. Reagan pulled Hobbes to the side.
    Dillon stumbled past them, left ear and right hand missing in spurting blood. He whispered a gargled something, went out of sight around a stairwell turn below. The noise stopped, followed by a bouncing, rolling, echoing sound. Dillon’s head had come loose.
    “What’s up there?” Hobbes said. “It’s a crazy Volz trap. Forget this!”
    “We’re not going back,” Reagan said. She pulled a taser from a blazer pocket.
    This wasn’t necessary. When they got to the top level, the dogs were preoccupied feeding on Barstow. One growled in feasting contentment, the rest continued eating. They were an elegant wolf and mastiff mix.
    A door disguised as a wall panel opened. Reagan and Hobbes entered the sanctuary of Walter Volz. This was a loft sized single room with huge wraparound windows surveying New York. There were impressive views of the stately Financial District Condos, the Jersey Palisade Condos, the Central Park Sheep Meadow Condos, and the East River Efficiency Condos. There was a long mahogany bar with ten empty stools covered by two whirling ceiling fans. A dining area included six unoccupied tables with linen and place settings for four. Two leather sofas faced wall sized flat screen entertainment systems. A corner office area included an executive desk, plush chair, logged on monitor. There was also a bleating sound.
    Reagan turned like a defensive policeman. Hobbes backed towards the door.
    “No, come here,” a voice said from the floor. “You are pre-approved.”
    In a wicker basket on the floor lay Walter Volz. He was shriveled to dwarf size, wizened and mummified. The eyes were drug addled, glazed. His smile was a rictus of sharp teeth.
    “You are pre-approved,” he said. “Eleven, two, eighty.”
    A yellow skinned finger pointed at his desk.
    “Eleven, two, eighty,” he repeated. One eye floated independently. The other fixed on Reagan.
    “A beauty,” he said, phlegm rattling in a shrunken throat, “from a painting. There, baby. It’s eleven, two, eighty. You, my dearest only, are pre-approved.”
    The blinking monitor was perfectly centered on an immaculate desk decorated with framed photos of Walter Volz with real estate developers and Wall Street brokers . Hobbes walked to it, tapped in eleven, two, eighty on the keyboard.
    A photo appeared, a room of stacked gold bullion. Another appeared, an account listing in the Bank of Antigua. There was an access code.
    Volz bobbled in his basket. “Pre-approved,” he said. “Pre-approved.” He rocked back and forth on the soiled bedclothes.
    Reagan went to Hobbes side. She read the screen. She pulled her computer phone from a pocket.
    “Going to call it in?” Hobbes said.
    Reagan pulled the grey clasp from her hair.
    “We’re going to climb the golden stair,” she said. “It’s all pre-approved.”

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