A Black Triangular Drama
dark and platonic, but promising; a three-pointer written with conventional audacity!
Donald was browsing along the returned books shelves, pretending to look for a particular book, and, though easily detected by the attractive librarian sitting at her desk opposite, furtively spying through gaps in the books at the conspicuous black triangle of the panties she seemed to be libidinously exposing at the top of her long shapely legs.
She looked up as Donald quickly concealed himself, ironically behind the back of a huge medical book on anatomy, thinking he had saved the situation.
After a few seconds, he slowly slid sideways along to get another look, at which point she suddenly appeared at the end of the gangway causing him to almost stumble with several books crashing to the floor around him. Laughing, she said “Can I help you find what you’re looking for?” Donald, recovering, thought this a tempting offer, but contained himself while grabbing at the first book he saw, stuttering out “Th..th..that’s very kind of you, but I think I’d already caught sight of it.”
She gently grabbed his wrist and turned the book towards her “Treasure Island – Part II? Well that was an unlucky choice, unless of course you’ve just read part one?” This remark along with her wry smile now revealed quite plainly he’d been caught in the act.
Donald replaced the fallen books and followed her to the books-out desk and while being mesmerised by rocking movements of her voluptuous rear, nearly crashed into her when she stopped to turn and sit at her desk. “Ooops!” he quipped deliberately swapping word order “I never seem to go where I’m looking!” He shrank though when she looked at him crossly as if to say we’re all amused by double entendre, but don’t make it too obvious!
She recorded the loan and passed the book to him with his library pass. “Jolly reading and hope to see you again soon!” Donald took the book and when he caught her eyes, they just melted him away.
Donald arrived home still thinking of the erotic encounter that caused him to clutch the superfluous object in his left hand, which he threw down nonchalantly onto his bed. As he did so, a piece of folded paper fluttered out. Hoping against hope it was her telephone number, he picked it up and on opening it out, saw there was a simple, hand-drawn map with various objects and some distance marks between capital letters that formed a triangle.
He made a cup of tea and two slices of toast, thick with jam, before crashing onto the bed to peruse the map and investigate its contents further. Now Donald was an avid walker and knew the woods around where he lived not just as well as anybody, but more than most. He had in fact founded the ‘Straight Line Club’. The idea being to hike from randomly-chosen As to Bs veering off the crow-flying line as little as possible. To date, he was the only member. Local walkers thought him slightly eccentric, seeing him wandering off well-tramped paths, crashing through bushes and dry branches, returning home each time covered in branch twigs, moss, and mud up to his knees! But this old habit from military patrolling as a leading scout, a pathfinder, would prove to be useful, for he immediately had a notion as to where the map might be a representation of; the crudely sketched rock formations, the shape of forest edges, where outlying paths crossed or merged. The only problem he thought was locating three small circles marked with capital letters G, S, and M. He hoped there would be some visible clue when he searched in the designated vicinity. It was then he noticed a little black cross at the bottom, above the scribbled numbers 1982 , which immediately struck him as being the year.. of someone’s death?
Half asleep in the small hours, he had a Eureka moment. This could be buried treasure, the result of some hideous crime like a big robbery…. and the letters stood for gold, silver, and M…myrrh! “Hahhahaha!” But what does M stand for?
Now fully awake, he quickly phoned up a longstanding mate whose hobby was sweeping over the large grass and beach areas with a metal detector. An annoyed sleepy voice answered “What do you want, Donald?” “Sorry to disturb you Alf, but when you find precious metals, how do you classify them?” This was typical Donald thought Alf, but he sleepily mumbled back “Gold, silver, and er.. miscellaneous? Mostly coins….” “Hahahahaha!” guffawed Donald in reply, “Thanks!” and hung up. Alf thought, God Donald, won’t be long now until you’re involuntarily incarcerated!
Early morning, hurrying past the librarian and waving a quick greeting to her like a man possessed with an urgent mission, he sat down at a microfilm monitor in the Newspaper Records section.
After locating the largest local rag and in a quick blur, he slid the page cursor back to 1982, and sure enough, after sliding the cursor on a few months and days, he came upon the headline of a bank robbery in May. Reading the article his excitement turned to sadness as the events of that day unfolded before him.
The robber, a young man, apparently had managed to conceal himself overnight in the bank vault, break fragile safe-deposit boxes open with a crowbar, and help pass the time away by sorting the contents into three small sacks. He had then waited patiently until a bank employee had opened the vault in the morning, grabbed her with one arm, and with the three bags in the other, frog-marched her out hostage-fashion with the intention of getting unopposed-passage to the stolen car he’d parked nearby. But the slim woman had squirmed free from him, at which point he snatched a female baby from her mother, and used this delicate abduction to get clean away. Searching through more reports in the following months and years revealed that neither baby nor bullion had been seen or heard of since. But, the man had been identified a month later from police descriptions, and spotted near his home by an alert member of the public, where, in a shoot-out while attempting to apprehend him, he had been shot dead, leaving the young baby’s whereabouts and fate a tragic unsolved mystery. Then he saw something which pierced his heart with a breathless sadness. The baby girl’s name was Molly!
In case the map he had inadvertently obtained was just ridiculous coincidence, the jottings perhaps by kids or a would be crime-writer, Donald thought, before reporting it, he would research the location area to see if there was any evidence to support or disprove the connection.
On the way to the vast Nature Reserve just south of where he lived, he called in on Alf to borrow one of his folding spades. Alf just gave it to him without queerying or questioning the purpose of its need, he thought, with Donald, bitter experience had learnt him, the less known about his sudden urges, the better!
After walking for a half-hour in from the forest edge, Donald arrived at what his extensive experience of the area had determined to be the map’s physical counterpart. Spring had just burst out into fresh green foliage, but he had no difficulty in spotting a large, but movable, stone at roughly the location of M.
Donald dragged the rock to one side, removed his coat, rolled up his sleeves, marked out about a yard square, and started digging.
After digging about two feet into hard, stony ground, he paused to wipe the sweat off his brow. Just at that moment, he caught sight of a policeman’s helmeted head bobbing along at high bush level. “A soddin’ plod!” he involuntarily vocalised, for he’d forgotten there was a sanded horse track passing nearby where the mounted police exercised and occasionally patrolled round the bathing areas with their horses.
Luckily, the policeman hadn’t heard Donald’s expletive, or he was subconsciously so used to hearing it, it hadn’t registered, and with an aloof, self-contented smile, remained looking ahead and soon disappeared out of sight. He continued digging, until he struck something soft and bouncy. He dug carefully further until, by getting a grip on one of its legs, he was able to pull out a dirty old mangy rag doll. His countenance went from excitement to sadness again as he continued digging, now with greater care. After a foot or more, he struck something firm, but not rock hard. It was the top of what looked like a small wooden box.
At this point, Donald thought, that’s as far as I dare go, I’ll roll the stone back and let the police take over from here.
The desk sergeant cautiously stroked his mustache as he listened in curious disbelief at the disjointed story Donald was nervously spluttering out. But finally remarked in typical ex-army voice “If you thought it was a crime scene sir, you should not ‘ave disturbed it by trampling all over the area in your big ‘iking boots, let alone digging into the grave you postulate is at location point M!” Seeing Donald cringe like a scolded schoolboy he quickly added in a friendly tone “Thank you sir for your public spirit in ‘elping us fight crime. I’ll send our constable on ‘is bike to investigate this suspicious grave or loot cache in secluded woods as soon as ‘e gets back from the Chinese take-away. I just need a few more details.”
Donald arrived home, and for a couple of days could barely contain himself from either ringing the police to check on progess, or daring to return to the scene of someone else’s crime.
Then Alf called round “Crikey Donald!” Have you seen? The approach road and part of the Nature Reserve has been cordoned off, and there’s police crawling all over it! It’s got nothing to do with my shovel, has it?”
Donald led Alf into the front room and explained to him all that had happened. “Crikey Donald!” he repeated again “This calls for a cup of tea. Good Heavens above!” Donald, looking sheepish, but relieved to share his burden with his friend, shuffled out into the kitchen.
Later that evening, the police called to thank Donald for his good work, and to report on what they had found. Everything their digging uncovered had indeed come from the robbery in 1982. In the small wooden box, half dug up by Donald himself at M, was a whole bunch of vauable papers, shares, and saving bonds, and quite a hoard of paper money. “In spite of the doll being hidden there, there was no small body in the box, so that should put your mind at rest. We agree with your original assumption, M probably stood, not for Molly, but miscellaneous. Also, your guess at the other letters were undoubtably correct too, for we found small sacks of gold and silver in G and S respectively. You’re due for quite a sizable reward. The insurance company estimate it at about £6000 pounds.”
Donald thanked the detective inspector for coming and informing him of the outcome, said how glad he was for their combined partial success, in clearing up this unhappy event “But, the abducted baby, had this new discovery given any clues to help trace her whereabouts?”
“Unfortunately,” the DI answered “no progress had been made with regard to this tragic aspect of the case. We’re all glad though there’s still no proof of the little mite’s demise.” And after throwing on his overcoat and carefully replacing his trilby, he left.
With all the nationwide publicity, Donald had become something of a local hero. “Well done, Donald!” said many, even strangers, as he shopped in the Town centre. He called at the library, and the sexy librarian, whose beauty and soft, friendly manner he admired so much, hugged and praised him too for his fine detective work. “My Treasure Island hero.” she quipped. “Part II!”
Feeling quite pumped up by this boost to his self-confidence, he ventured to ask her for a date. “I’d love to” she replied, “I’ll meet you at the pub next door tonight at eight?” And added with a saucy smile “Oh, and by the way, I never wear any.”
Donald was over the moon with anticipation as he started to go, but couldn’t resist turning around and asking “You’re not a local girl, are you..I detect a very slight inkling of an accent…just curious?”
The librarian, enjoying this more intimate interaction, replied “That’s because I spent my first nine years in France before coming to England. I had been adopted there only one year old, by a wealthy, childless English couple… from a group of New Age travellers….”
Thomas Hardy once said “Coincidences that divert the paths of destiny
are quite commonplace.”