Jules Bleeker was a despicable man. We all knew it, and he knew we all knew it, and he didn’t care. I won’t dwell on his despicableness, but suffice it to say that he was despicable.
That day I was in the local café; you know, one of those social little places with lots of people talking, writing, studying, arguing, and all the other pursuits humans engage in when they gather for pleasantness. Lots of little towns have coffee shops for this, but ours is a café, though they do serve plenty of coffee, and it’s good too.
But anyway, back to the point. Me and a few of the other regulars were there, putting our time to good use, when Jules Bleeker busted in the door. I use the term “busted” rather loosely. Actually he probably entered just like everybody else, but his presence busted in the door like it was Billy the Kid, or Wild Bill Hickok, or Clint Eastwood, or whoever the heck it was that busted in doors.
Anyway, back to the point again. He came and the room fell silent. The nervous tapping of laptop keys was the only sound, and it came from some pitiful novelist too engrossed in his pathetic little story to notice anything. For a moment I thought that Bleeker was going shove the laptop down the novelist’s throat, but then I realized with horror that he was headed towards us.
“My, how time flies,” I said, rising. “I must be getting home. I have some very important…things to do.”
“Sit,” said Bleeker, putting his hand on my shoulder.
I obeyed without noticing and he sat as well.
“I got this in the mail,” he said, holding up a piece of white paper with a printed message on it. “Did any of you send it?”
“What’s it say?” asked Rebecca, one of the regulars.
“I will read it,” he glared around the table at us. “But one of you already knows what it says.”
When we said nothing in reply he began to read. “Dear Jules Bleeker, did you know there is a secret room in your house? The way your house nestles up to the base of the cliff makes it perfect. Even if you measure the walls you will conclude that there is no secret room, but there is. Here is how you find it. When the Jules that is Bleeker finds the Jules that is bleaker, then the jewels will be Bleeker’s.”
No one said anything for awhile, then John spoke. “What do you want us to do about it. A piece of childish poetry means nothing to us.”
“It means something to one of you.”
“Are you insinuating that one of us sent that note,” Loretta lifted an eyebrow, as was her style.
“Give her the prize,” Bleeker clapped his hands. “She has guessed it.”
“How could you possibly know that?” I was incredulous, if that is the word. I can think of no better.
“Because on the back it says, ‘this was sent by one of the regulars from the café. But you’ll never guess which one so you’ll have to bring us all.’ That’s how I know.”
We were stunned, shocked, astounded, flabbergasted, all of the above. Of course we all sounded our opinion that Bleeker had made up the whole thing himself, but as we chattered we also could not help casting suspicious glances at each other.
“So what,” said Josef. “It doesn’t mean anything, even if it was one of us.”
“Oh, but it does,” Bleeker was acting pretty sinister and I began to get an uncomfortable feeling. “I found that secret room.”
“Well done,” said Tom, warmly.
“I found a key in a picture frame that fit a slot in the wall that looked like a nick in the old plaster. The picture in the frame was of my father, his name was Jules as well, and in the picture he was looking very dreary. Don’t you get it, When the Jules that is Bleeker (me) finds the Jules that is bleaker (my father) then the jewels will be Bleeker’s.”
“So…there were jewels in the secret room?” asked Loretta.
“No,” I said. “If there were he wouldn’t be here.”
“A spark of intelligence remains,” Bleeker marveled. “It hasn’t all been sapped by the mind numbing social interaction of this place. When I opened the door it led to a room that was cut into the side of the cliff. There is nothing in the room but a trunk. But I didn’t open it.”
“Why not, you darn fool,” cried John. “It probably has your jewels in it if they exist at all. But you come bothering us instead, I don’t understand that at all.”
“Because, the fact that one of you told me about it. Why would you tell me about? Because you wanted me to open it? Maybe, but I don’t know. Whoever sent the letter to me knew that I would have to come to you, and I have come. Now we all must go to my house and we’ll sort this out together.”
“No way,” I said.
“Not a chance,” said Rebecca.
“I’d rather not,” said Josef.
“Yeah right,” Loretta lifted an eyebrow.
“Definitely not,” said Tom.
“I don’t think so,” said John.
We all stood on the winding lane that led up to his house, looking in awe at the wondrous abode that lay before us. The house was very old and nestled right up to the stone of the cliff bottom. It was a ridiculous place for a house, but we had just discovered the reason for it. I was in the back as Bleeker let us in the front door, and I could see a wave of shudders come up the line as they passed into the house. Bleeker didn’t bother giving us a tour, which was fine with us, but led us straight to the secret room.
“The key was old,” he said. “But it had been put in the frame recently.”
No one replied and he proceeded to place the key in a notch in the wall and turn with all his strength. Finally there was a rusty click and section of the wall was suddenly defined from the rest, little cascades of dust rolled down from the gap.
“Give me a hand,” said Bleeker, as he put his shoulder the door. I joined as well as Josef and the resisting door soon creaked its way open.
“You got this open by yourself?” I said, gasping for breath.
“I admit it wasn’t easy, now follow me.”
He had a flashlight and it lit the little room well. But still, not being in control of the light made me nervous and I think the others felt the same. He focused the light on a little chest at the end of the room.
“There it is,” said Bleeker. “And since you are all so sure that it contains the jewels, whoever opens it for me can have a handful of their choice.”
“Why do you even think there is any treasure,” I said. “How do you know that someone isn’t just leading you on to for fun?”
“Maybe they are, but my father was a rich man not a cent has been seen since his death. I believe it is at least worth a look. And I think you just volunteered to be the one who opens it.”
“Fine,” I snapped. “But only to show who’s mature around here.”
Despite my words I approached the chest cautiously. It wasn’t at all a strange chest, just old. It had a curving wooden lid and a large brass lock, which was unlatched and ready to open. I grabbed the handles and lifted. As I opened the lid of the trunk, the words on the underside caught my eye right away. “Nothing is irrelevant, everything is intentional.” With the words in my mind, I began exploring the contents of the trunk.
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