The Golden Legend
By Robert Legleitner

It's either a pickup or the Vice Squad. Kydon Schmidt slowed his pace but did not look back. God, he thought, I hope it's not the damned Vice Squad. One quick look. Kydon glanced back with a carefully casual shrug of his shoulders.

The black Packard sedan cruised behind him and kept the same distance no matter how slow or fast he walked. What did the man want? He could not be a fairy godfather coming up with money for a dig in Guatemala now that Hank had turned down Kydon's request. What did the man want, a pickup? Or was he the Vice Squad?

Kydon Schmidt made a pretense of looking at the sky.

A balmy, early March night in Washington, D.C., rich with promise and the ache of loneliness, and his heart beat faster. Kydon brushed back his blond hair, glanced at the car, lit a cigarette, cupping his hands around the match so they wouldn't shake, and stared at the Packard. He threw the match away, tossed his jacket over one shoulder, and walked on. Yes, it could be Vice.

The driver, in his thirties and dressed in civilian clothes, better make his move whatever it was, the borrowed apartment, a miracle in wartime Washington, was one block ahead. A bath, a drink, something to eat after a day at the library, was what Kydon wanted. Until seeing the car made him wonder, Am I going to be picked up? I need something to forget having my funding for a dig refused. Damn Hank!

The black sedan nosed to the curb and the driver leaned across the seat and lowered the window. The top of his face was in shadow as he said, "Get in."

Kydon felt a quick surge of fear, thinking that every crime in Washington is a federal offense, then he thought, be careful, back away, he can arrest me. Go along with the act but watch it. Aloud he said, "Thanks, but I'm home now."

"Please get in, Doctor Schmidt." The man drew back so his whole face was in the dark.

His name and title was a cold shock. "You know me?" Kydon asked.

"It's important that you come with me."

Kydon bent down to stare. "Important to whom?"

"I'm supposed to say it has to do with Gervaise Foix D'Ancienne."

Kydon laughed, he couldn't stop himself, the relief was so great.

"It's not a joke. Get in, Doctor Schmidt," the man said.

Who wanted to see him about a long dead knight of the Second Crusade? Kydon opened the car door, all thoughts of dinner and a drink gone.

***

The drive was short. Neither man spoke until the driver parked in an alley behind a gray stone building and took Kydon inside. He opened a door and stepped aside for Kydon to enter. It was an office out of the Coolidge era with one single contemporary item, a poster of Uncle Sam. I WANT YOU! The man behind the oak desk was smooth-faced and well-tailored.

"I'm Preston," he said with an expression of distaste as he invited Kydon to sit. When the driver left them, Preston began in a quiet, cultivated voice.

"It's convenient for us that you're here in Washington for research and to raise funds. Sorry that Henry Van Cleve had to refuse you, but we have a more important project in mind." If he saw disappointment on Kydon's face, Preston ignored it as he outlined his project.

When he finished, Kydon drummed his fingers on the desk for a minute before he said, "The Gervaise Hoard is a legend like the Holy Grail and the lost Inca gold, the Seven Cities of Cibola. God knows I'd like to find proof of it, there's not a man in my field who wouldn't, but most think it's a fairytale, they'd tell you that." Kydon's face went dark with anger. "So that's what it was. You asked Hank Van Cleve to turn down my request for funds for this, didn't you?"

"I did not."

"Have you approached anyone else?"

Preston lit a cigarette with manicured hands. "No, Doctor Schmidt. Apart from your academic qualifications, you have another which makes you uniquely suited for the job." He threw a pack of Chesterfields onto the table. "Please help yourself, they're your brand, I believe."

A cool gesture to prove they'd investigated him beyond the fact that the driver knew his route and where he lived. Preston looked like a man who held aces. He smiled, it was icy.

"Neither you nor anyone in the academic community has our information, Doctor Schmidt. The Nazis do not believe the Hoard is a legend, they're convinced and they've dispatched a team to look for it. We're preparing. We believe in it."

Kydon opened the cigarettes. The scratch and hiss of the match was the only sound in the room for a minute.

"Why am I uniquely qualified for this job, Mr. Preston? There are other men, my father for one, who have a better grasp of medieval Latin …"

"I'll come to it as it's to do with the man heading the German team. He was to be a collector of art objects for high ranking Nazi officials, and he has the background for it. From an old family, a baron in his own right, educated, cultivated, everything most of them are not."

Preston wet his lips, the first sign of nervousness the man had shown. "And he shares some things in common with you."

"A Nazi? Not damned likely!"

Preston ignored the remark. "You are German born as he is. He has, like you, an interest in archaeology but without your degrees. You must not underestimate him, that would be unwise. He is, like you, a superb physical specimen, and—" Preston looked at his hands. "—like you, he's a homosexual."