And now it was all done and Will was alone, alone in the hovel with Rune’s steamer trunk. And Will was wondering what he should do about it and its contents. Whose were they now? Were they his? He was after all, Rune’s heir. But here was an anomaly. Rune had apparently died wifeless and heirless. No one had come forward and none had been mentioned in Rune’s will. Perhaps the answers to the many questions Will had, might be found within the steamer trunk.
There was no doubt in Will’s mind that Rune had possessed wealth. He was born of noble stock, a member of the landed gentry. He was not the son of a brewer, as he had originally told Will. His entry in Who’s Who filled three whole pages. Will had always considered Rune’s refusal to pay for anything an amusing, if somewhat dishonest, affectation, curiously typical of the very rich, who have been notorious throughout history for failing to pay their bills.
The chances that the trunk was crammed not only with Rune’s clothes but indeed with countless stocks and shares bonds, jewels of high value and large denomination money notes seemed most probable to Will.
And as Will was a stranger in a strange land and presently without funds, hungry and awaiting the knock upon the door that presaged eviction into the street, now would be as good a time as ever to open up the trunk and take a look inside.
And after all, Will had dragged that trunk across five continents and never been granted a peep within. Rune had kept the key upon a chain around his neck. Will had not been able to gain possession of this key.
Will sighed, rose from his verminous pallet, took up the crowbar he had “acquired” and gazed down at the trunk.
“Mr Rune,” he said, “I am going to open your trunk. You will pardon me for this, I trust. I swear that I will avenge your death and bring your murderer to justice. But in order to do this, I require funds. If, to this end, I am forced to sell your clothes and whatever magical accoutrements are held within this trunk, so be it. I am hoping, however, that this trunk contains treasure. And that’s all I have to say really.” Will might well have crossed himself after this brief speech, but instead he made the sign of the pentagram as he had seen Rune do upon many occasions, mostly before a moonlight flit.
And then Will put his crowbar to the lock of the steamer trunk and forced it open. He put the crowbar aside, applied his hands to the lid, and lifted it.
A curious fragrance breathed out from the open trunk, as of lilacs; the “odour of sanctity” that issues from the incorruptible bodies of the saints. Will sniffed this fragrance. “It pongs of his aftershave,” said Will.
And then Will delved into the trunk. He heaved out Rune’s clothes: the hand-made shirts, and vests, (no underpants, for Rune had always gone “commando”), socks, garter-straps and spats. And suits: the Boleskine tweed six-piece suit, the linen tropical number, Rune’s pink chiffon evening dress. There were papers, many papers, but most of these were unpaid bills. And then there were books. Will did what you did with books, Will pored over them. Tomes they were, books of magical lore. Here was Joseph Glanvil’s Saducismus Triumphatus and also the Daemonolatreia of Remigius, the 1595 Lyons edition; and The Book of Rune, and inevitably The Necronomicon of the Mad Arab Abdul Alhazred. Will knew of The Necronomicon, because, let’s face it, everyone knows of The Necronomicon. He set it aside for a later bedtime read and proceeded with his search for Rune’s hidden wealth.
It did not appear to be forthcoming.
He came across Rune’s swordstick, the slim ebony shaft topped by a silver skull. Will twirled it between his fingers. He’d always rather fancied that cane.
There were boxes now, beneath where the books had been stacked. Cufflinks; many, many sets of cufflinks. Will viewed these approvingly. Some were set with diamonds and emeralds. There was wealth here. And watches, gold hunters, several embossed with Masonic symbols set about their faces in substitute for numbers. And there were the golden brooches and the watch chains.
“There is money here,” Will smiled to himself. “He certainly favoured a bit of jewellery.”
Will opened box after box after box. Many great rings displayed themselves, magical rings, inscribed with enigmatic symbols, inlaid with cabochons and turquoise and lapis lazuli. Will gasped anew as each new treasure revealed itself. There was wealth here, great wealth: the legacy of Hugo Rune. Will plucked a ring at random from its box and put it onto his finger. The ring was far too big for his slender digit, but Will blew upon the ring and buffed it on his sleeve. “Splendid,” he said. He took up another and another until his hands could hold no more. “Thank you, Mr Rune,” said Will. “None of this will be wasted, I assure you.”
Will let the rings drop from his fingers onto his bed and sought further treasure. Only one box remained in the trunk. Will fished it out. It was larger than a ring box, and weighty too; of considerable weight in fact.
“This has to be it,” said Will. “The mother lode.”
And Will sought to open the box, but could not.
Will puzzled at this. There was no sign of a keyhole. It was just a box with a lift-up lid; a curious box though; an interesting box. Will studied the interesting box. It was of tanned hide, tanned pink hide. Will could not guess from what manner of beast this hide had been extracted, but there was something about it which Will found unsettling.
Regarding the dimensions of the interesting box, it was cuboid and about ten centimetres to a side. Upon its lid was an engraved brass disc. Will studied the engraving upon this disc: a name, a single name.
And lo, this name was Barry.
“Barry,” read Will. “Now I wonder who Barry might be. Some former owner of this box, I suppose. So how do you get it open?” Will fought with the box but it was an unequal struggle. The box would not be opened. Will took out his pocket knife and selected a suitable blade. He struggled and forced, and the blade sheared off and almost took his eye out.
“Right,” said Will. “Well, I’m not going to be beaten by a little box. If I can’t pry you open, then I’ll stamp you open. Even the most vigorous stamping is unlikely to damage a diamond.”
“No chief, don’t do that.” The voice was a tiny little voice and came, it seemed, from far away.
“Who said that?” Will span around. His box-free hand became a fist. “Come out wherever you’re hiding.”
“I’m not hiding, chief. I’m nestling.”
“Who said that?”
“It’s me, chief. In the box. I’m Barry.”
“Barry?” Will held the box at arm’s length, peered at it, lifted it to his ear and gave it a little shake. “Barry?” he said once again.
“Yes, chief; Barry. Please stop jiggling me about.”
“Wah!” went Will and he flung the box across the room. Across the room was not too far. The box bounced off a damp-stained wall and fell to the uncarpeted floor.
Will lifted his foot and prepared to do stampings, this time not in the cause of finding hidden wealth but rather to destroy whatever lurked within the pink skin box.
A creature? A demon? A witch’s familiar? Will didn’t know just what.
“Ooh that hurts,” the tiny voice came from the box. It jangled Will’s nerves something wicked. “Don’t stamp on me, chief. I’m your buddy now. And I’d really appreciate it if you’d let me out of this box.”
Will was getting a real sweat on. “Who are you?” he asked in a tremulous tone. “What are you?”
“I’m Barry, chief. Please don’t stamp on me.”
Will stared down at the box. “Are you a genie?” he asked.
“A what, chief?”
“A genie,” said Will. “I’ve read about genies, they’re magical entities trapped in bottles or lamps or suchlike. When you release them they grant you three wishes.”