The Mystery of the
Nourdon Blue
by
L. J. Kottke
One
Felicia Weberley hesitated before the door and looked uncertainly at the
elegant black lettering on the glass panel: Sidney Langdon, Private
Investigator. She heard Michelle’s voice behind her, “Well, go on in. He’s
expecting you.” Knowing she had no choice at this point but to follow her
friend’s instructions, Felicia turned the knob and entered the office. “Mr.
Langdon?” she inquired of the man watching her from behind the desk by the
window. Suddenly she felt as foolish as she expected she looked. Mr.
Langdon, indeed. Who else did she expect would be waiting for her in an
office with his name on the door?
He stood and smiled at her as he said,
“Call me Sid. I assume you are Miss Weberley. May I call you Felicia?” He
indicated the heavily upholstered wing chair opposite his own at the
gleaming dark cherry desk. She approached and sat down, propping her handbag
against the leg of the chair, and observed the detective she proposed to
engage. Her eyes nervously swept over his well-tailored charcoal brown suit,
his carefully clipped and combed hair and his freshly manicured nails. He
was not a young man, but not old either; his brown hair was just tinged with
gray. When he stood to greet her, she noticed he was slightly taller than
she was, with what would probably be considered a medium build, and nice
looking although she would not have called him handsome.
Then she remembered his question and heard herself stammering, clearly
embarrassed, “Oh, yes…yes, of course. Thank you, Mr. Lang…Sid.”
He took his seat again and made himself comfortable. He was still
smiling, although now with something like an amused look on his face as he
said, “Michelle has told me something of your situation, Felicia, but I
wonder if you’d mind explaining it yourself, in your own words. Just why do
you believe I may be able to help you?”
Felicia suddenly felt tears building in her eyes and she had to blink
them back before she was able to speak. It was something that had been
happening regularly in the past few weeks, a reaction she had been unable to
control, the result, she supposed, of the concern and uncertainty which had
caused her to finally consider the services of a private detective. She took
a deep breath and swallowed; once she felt she could speak with a steady
voice, she began her story.
“I last saw my father, Andrew Weberley, three years ago. We lived in
Philadelphia at the time; my mother is still there. He was a unique man, Mr.
Lang…Sid, with a need to live his life on his own terms. He had some sort of
wanderlust even before then and was often gone for long periods, business
trips he claimed, searching for classical antiquities for the international
export company he founded. After one of his trips he simply never came back,
although we kept in touch, at least after a fashion. It must sound strange
to anyone who didn’t know us, but my mother and I always understood and
accepted that in spite of his absences my father loved us dearly. It was as
if there was an unwritten and unspoken pact among us that one day, when he
finally found whatever it was that drove him to the ends of the earth, he’d
come back to us. He traveled a great deal after that, something we could
only surmise because of the cards he’d send at holidays and anniversaries;
they were postmarked from all over the world, yet the only address we ever
had was a post office box in San Antonio, Texas.” She was aware of Sid
listening to her and watching her as she spoke and she was glad she had
decided to consult him. Maybe it was the way his eyes had appraised her when
she approached his desk and settled herself in the chair he’d indicated.
They seemed to her to be kindly eyes, yet intelligent and perceptive. She
felt she could trust him. “His mail must have been forwarded to wherever he
was at the time,” she said, “because he made mention occasionally of the
things we’d told him. He agreed when, unsure of the duration of his absence
and being ill-prepared to run his business, my mother hired a manager for
the company; for a while, after I graduated, I worked there too. A year ago,
I came to Seattle at the urging of my uncle. He owns a title company here
and offered me a job in his office. I guess the truth was that I was tired
of Philadelphia and welcomed a chance to start over, so I accepted. I sent
my father a note telling him of my decision and giving him my new address.
My mother and I continued to receive cards from him, cards that never said
anything of his whereabouts or the kind of life he was leading. It seemed to
be his way of letting us know only that he was thinking of us and that he
was well.”
The girl paused again and absentmindedly twirled a ring on her finger,
then continued with her story. “Last Christmas was the first time since I
can remember that neither my mother nor I received any communication at all
from my father. My birthday was two months ago. Again, there was no word
from him. Sid, something is very wrong. This isn’t like my father, not at
all. If I could make you understand him—us—you’d see how very wrong this is.
If my father were able to communicate with us, I’m sure he would have; we
always received the most beautiful cards on special occasions and he would
never have neglected my birthday—never! I have no idea where he is, but he
must be very ill or…,” her voice trailed off, unable to voice the
alternative she didn’t want to believe. Felicia had to stop again to compose
herself, and then blurted out her reason for coming to see him, “You have to
find him, Sid! You have to! We have to know what’s happened to him! Both my
mother and I have been frantic with worry, wondering if he’s sick or hurt
somewhere. We know—we just know, Sid—that he would contact us if he could.
Please! Help us!” Fear, agony and desperation echoed in every word as she
leaned forward and looked at the detective, intently searching his face as
if just looking at him would surely make him understand everything she’d
told him and why he had to help her.
All during her narration, Sid had sat back and watched her, listening to
her every word and watching her every movement. He saw a young woman he
estimated to be perhaps in her mid to late twenties; she was about five foot
four and attractive if rather plain looking; she had short blondish hair and
sad looking blue eyes. She wore a dark gray tailored suit, not new and
strangely out of place for April, and had entered his office carrying a
large brown leather handbag with a long strap, also rather plain looking and
out of place. He noticed that while she spoke, her hands fidgeted and her
eyes often darted about the room, as if she were trying to remember all she
had apparently rehearsed telling him. He was beginning to get a sinking
feeling in his stomach, the kind that usually meant he was about to become
involved in a losing proposition. Pushing it aside, he asked her gently,
“Felicia, where was your father the last time you heard from him?”
“My mother received a card on their wedding anniversary last September.
It was postmarked somewhere in Mexico.”
“I see,” he said, as if absorbing and processing the information, “and
have you filed a missing person report with the police?”
“Yes, we did, several weeks ago; but you know that’s just procedure. They
won’t look for him, certainly not in another country; that’s why I came to
you.” “I suppose that’s true,” he admitted. “Tell me, have you any idea at
all as to what your father may have been doing in Mexico?”
“Not really,” she said, almost to herself; then, seeming to remember his
question, she said, “My father’s expeditions were always well planned,
carefully documented and open; he relied on trusted and experienced agencies
he’d used many times to handle his travel arrangements and to secure any
additional personnel and equipment he might need. His comings and goings
were never secret; he had nothing to hide. At least, that’s the way it was
until his virtual disappearance three years ago. When he failed to return
home after that last expedition, that is, the last one we knew about, we
naturally tried to track him through the people he’d worked with in the
past, but they were unable to help us; it seems that once the dig was over
and the artifacts fully accounted for, my father simply left without saying
anything to any of them regarding his future plans. For the first time he
handled all his own arrangements. No one had a clue to his whereabouts or
intentions. She looked across at him with pained eyes moist with the tears
she’d been holding back, and she said slowly, “The only thing I can think
of, the only thing I’ve always felt he might spend his life searching for
even though I’ve always thought it a pipe dream, is the Nourdon Blue.”
Sid’s eyes narrowed at the term. “The Nourdon Blue? I don’t understand.
Just what is the Nourdon Blue?”
“As far as I’m concerned, it’s a fantasy,” she told him. “You see, when I
was a small child and we were still together as a family, my father used to
tell me a story he said was passed down from his own father; it was one of
many stories, actually, about a Legionnaire in Turkey during the Crimean
War. This particular story was about a fabulous sapphire known as the
Nourdon Blue, which was said to have disappeared from the collection of a
wealthy merchant, Sir Henry Nourdon, in Constantinople during the chaos of
the war in 1854. It was rumored to have been spirited out of the country by
a mercenary serving with the French Foreign Legion. The stone was believed
to be an omen of good fortune only as long as it remained shielded from the
outside world; but, according to the story, it was also the source of a
deadly curse should it ever see the light of day in the hands of its
possessor. As the years went by, the stone disappeared time and again, while
tales of tragedy continued to surface involving any number of its alleged
subsequent owners.”
She paused, as if reliving those earlier times; then she continued. “The
story, and my father’s many embellishments, naturally fascinated me as a
child and I never tired of hearing it, but as I grew older I came to see it
as nothing more than a bedtime tale. But my father was a dreamer, Sid; I
think he suspected his great-grandfather was the mercenary in the story and
that the stone did indeed exist. I remember he always said that one day he’d
find it; and I think it’s the kind of thing he would have tried to find, no
matter where the search took him or,” she added wistfully, “what it cost.”
That sinking feeling in Sid’s stomach was getting stronger. He knew where
this was headed and he didn’t like it. His instinct was to somehow get
himself off the hook on which he definitely felt he was hanging. For one
thing, his gut told him this would be a pro bono case, and he was never in
the mood to work for nothing. On the other hand, she had come to him on his
secretary’s recommendation. If he refused this case, that same instinct told
him Michelle would put an end to his happy home away from home, a situation
he was reluctant to contemplate. Finally, trying his best to be tactful and
aware the trait was not his forte, he said, “Felicia, I must tell you this
is very little to go on. As much as I would like to help you, I have no idea
just what it is I would be looking for or really where to start. Although I
have no wish to discourage or disappoint you, you can surely understand my
reluctance to become involved in a situation where success seems…well,” he
paused, searching for the right phrase, “rather remote.”
“I understand,” Felicia replied softly. “I was afraid you might feel that
way, although I can’t really say I blame you. I know it all sounds pretty
preposterous, even to me.” Obviously straining to hold her composure, she
said finally, “Thank you for seeing me and for being so kind. I’m so very
sorry I troubled you.”
Sid watched the girl as she began to rise from her chair when, with a
definite and ill concealed air of resignation, he heard himself telling
Felicia Weberley that he’d see what, if anything, he might be able to do for
her.
He saw her young face relax with relief as she reached into the purse at
her feet and withdrew a thick envelope, which she handed to him. “I brought
a picture of my father and the cards he’s sent us over the last three
years.”
After glancing at the photo of a smiling, balding, middle-aged man in
casual clothes, apparently taken during a family vacation, Sid thumbed
through the envelopes containing the various cards. He noted their diverse
postmarks, but was in no mood for closer examination just then. He wanted to
wait until he had time to digest what he’d just gotten himself into. He
believed his client truly knew nothing more than what she’d told him, so he
smiled and tried his best to project a confidence he didn’t feel as he said,
“I’ll look these over later, Felicia. Let Michelle know where we can reach
you and don’t worry. I assure you I’ll look into this and see just what, if
anything, I can find out. If there’s any way I can help you, I’ll certainly
do my best.”
He stood up and stretched out his hand toward the girl, who also rose and
put her hand in his. “Thank you…Sid,” she said as she turned and started to
leave. He walked around the desk and escorted her out of his office. Before
closing the door behind her, he noticed Michelle watching them. She smiled
at Felicia as the girl passed her desk but didn’t stop. No need, he figured,
certain the two would be in touch very shortly—Felicia to report on their
meeting and Michelle to critique his progress. He was trapped. With a barely
audible sigh, he returned to his desk to contemplate his predicament.
Turning his chair to peer through the window behind his desk, he sat for a
while studying the outline of the Olympic Mountains in the distance on the
other side of the Sound. Visibility was unusually good that late in the
morning and his view was impressive, or at least it would have been if it
were not for the other buildings in the foreground in downtown Seattle which
partially blocked the sight. He considered what Felicia Weberley had told
him. He also considered what he had been thinking as she spoke. He couldn’t
help but wonder at her emotional state, which to him seemed precarious at
best in light of her hand wringing, ring twirling, and the both halting and
rapid manner in which she’d recounted her story. She was asking him to
locate someone she had not seen in three years, with whom her only contact
was an occasional card postmarked from anywhere in the world, whose present
and most certain peril she could only imagine—all based on the fact that he
had missed two card-sending opportunities. A logical initial assumption
might be that Andrew Weberley is still at his last known whereabouts.
Assuming that assumption is correct, what was he doing there in the first
place? Sid knew it was not difficult for someone to disappear in Mexico or,
for that matter, for someone to arrange for that to happen. There are wild
and lawless places in the country beyond the teeming cities and glittering
resorts that hug the coast, bandit strongholds where things can be arranged
with no questions asked. Could that have been what happened? Or might it
have been a legitimate accident? It’s entirely possible that he could be in
a hospital somewhere, badly injured or perhaps even stricken with amnesia.
Or, of course, he might be dead. Sid wondered if it were possible to find
out, whatever the case might be. He continued contemplating his limited view
of the Olympics, deliberately postponing the need to honor his word and
delve into the case represented by the envelope on his desk. He was not
anticipating a successful outcome for this caper, and the longer he could
put off the near certainty of that unsuccessful outcome, the better.
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