Minneapolis Is Missing?

By Adam Dumphy

Adam class=GramE>Dumphy’sstyle='mso-spacerun:yes'>  early years in San
Diego, Ca, included service in the Navy of WW II and a
treasure hunt in Mexico
in which he learned of the Beale.

Undoubtedly the most genuine
treasure in history, the Beale is verified by newspaper accounts, private
letters, even his name on Pawnee Rock, Kansas.
It has fascinated people of every age, trade and profession. It has spawned
clubs, research from every profession and even support groups for the faint
hearted.

In the 1819 era T.J. Beale
returned from New Mexico with
treasure in silver, gold and jewels. He buried it near Buford,
VA and left a box with three manuscripts to
tell of its presence. Linguists, cryptographers and even the Navy’s famous
purple box have been unable to decipher all but one.

With this Dumphy
was able to concoct a lighthearted quest about a treasure hunt in the ‘40s with
people and background of San Diego.
The Beale remains as ever elusive but the characters do discover why ‘Minneapolis
Is Missing’.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Apr 26, 2004
• ISBN: 9781414062013

Adam Dumphy

Inflamed by a novel of and during the Spanish Civil War of 1936, titled, “The Kansas City Milkman”, Adam Dumphy searched out and contacted a clandestine enlistment center for the British Ambulance Corps operating there. Clandestine as it was at the time an illegal act to aid either side in the conflict. To Adam that fit the novel and made it all the more interesting to him and more Hemingwayesque. He ever after felt the British people generally to be biased and intolerant as he was rejected and simply for being only twelve years old. Still he found himself fascinated by that most peculiar of wars even as some men are towards our American Civil War. All the books and information he collected then he still has. His loyalty he has tried to maintain unbiased to either side although it has varied in degree from one side to another from year to year. Now from the vantage point of eighty years of age the only thing he can decide with certainty about the affair is that both sides got a very “bad press”. But then he believes that is true of most major events.

Book preview

Chapter 1

The ad in the Agony Column of the Evening Tribune, San Diego, CA for June 10, 1946, read:

f o ‘ T e e n m i l ezy as w H u p E d s y ll a B u b Er y A y y? 2038 hornblend down up Left lEft left.

It seemed so ridiculous, so silly. How could it be a legitimate lead to the Beale, the best documented, unrecovered, buried treasure in the United States? Still Marnie was certain that it was.

That ad was in her hand now as she stood vacillating on the bottom step of a solid if stolid, commercial building on Fourth Avenue in San Diego’s not quite uptown and definitely not downtown section.

She made a neat figure that perfectly fitted the caption beneath her picture in the well thumbed, if still smelling of printer’s ink, Senior Class Annual from San Diego State College.

Class of the class of ‘46…Quite simply the prettiest thing at State ever… and what a shape.

The shape was thinly disguised today in a simple, green wool suit with white blouse, white gloves, carried not worn, hose and heels, and a little hat, exactly as prescribed for Luncheon at The Savoy, Lesson 5 in Miss Chumley’s Socially Awareness Class for the Unwed at State College, with modifications.

The modifications were Marnie’s own in response to her quest. The heels were the very stylish hole-through-the-heel wooden wedgies. And the hat was a close fitting green cloche of her Mother’s with a feather that came down over one cheek. The appearance she was attempting was an egalitarian mix of the innocence of Nancy Drew, Detective, and the wiles of Theda Bara, Vamp. And she wasn’t sure she had achieved it.

Heads swiveled in appreciation as business types passed up and down the avenue while she stood, one foot on the lower step, unmindful of the attention, or accustomed to it.

What to do? And how did she get into this?

Maude Marie Albertson should have been a pseudonym. It was just not Marnie. Marnie could never be a Maude much less Marie, both family names.

Besides being pretty her prime characteristic was a very low minimal ignition temperature. And once ignited, she glowed, and cast a reflected, happy glow on all about her.

And she liked practically everything. Most anything ignited her.

She liked people, boys mostly, (except that since now newly matriculated that should read men), Australian Sheep dogs, catsup sandwiches, wind sailing, beach volleyball, water-skiing, parties, party dresses, any color as long as it was green. Almost everything.

Naturally she could not glow uninterruptedly and when her glow dwindled to a flicker she had a home grown remedy. She would retreat to a rustic, guest cabin behind the big family house in fashionable Mission Hills. There she would eat, sleep and dream her dreams, but mostly eat.

Idle dreams came easily to her and drew her into roles unlikely and worlds unknown.

But stomach replete, her dreamer turned user unfriendly, and too lazy for any intelligent pursuit, she might condescend to glance at the newspaper.

Not all the paper for the front page might bellow and bombast, the editorialist might bluster and blunder, the Fashion Pages tiptoe through the trivia, the business section pontificate over-bearingly or under-bullishly but they did not kindle her.

The sport page simply confused. Didn’t they decide that just last year?

Not so the Personals. Some of the best dream material came from the Agony Column. That kindled. And that was what had happened this morning.

Marnie leafing through the ads had noticed this one. She read it again, sniffed and went on to the next.

Lost. Adult, African Black Maned Lion answering to the name of Muffin. Requires raw meat daily.

Marnie sympathized, first with the owner, then with the finder and went back to read the first ad again. That’s what it said all right. She read on down the page.

Albert you blockhead. All is forgiven. I love you. I need you. Come home soon. The toilet is plugged.

She looked back at the first ad. Then suddenly, Er ya yy? Yy… wise? Am I wise? She thought. No not very. …Why …why the capital letters spell… The Beale." Just the most famous buried treasure in America. And that could mean 14 million dollars to some lucky body.

She read it again, considered then added. And that’s just what it says. With a little luck…..

Now no one in his or her wildest imaginings could consider Marnie unlucky and she knew it. She scurried to shower and dress.

Chapter 2

Slowly she resurfaced to her present situation. The lack of punctuation and odd wording of the ad always blurred the letters in her mind and she read it over again.

Yes, that was what it said.

And what had Lt. Sylvester Madigan, S.D.P.D. told her?

No Marnie, no, no, no. We can’t chouse out after every ad some low forehead puts in the Local Rag. It might be some new kind of sin; I can’t keep up with them all, but it’s no crime. And we do not ever recommend Private Investigators. Especially we do not recommend Dolly Dimple, chrome plated, tinker toys, like Elwin Timothy Rangerod to anyone, even an enemy. Say ‘hi’ to your Ma.

But Uncle Slip…. He had hung up.

Still here she was looking up at a new sign saying ‘Investigations’, nothing more. The sign was professional and neat enough if perfunctory. Beneath was painted in a scrawling hand ‘Not very good, and very expensive.’

She pushed the feather away from her eye and considered. With the decision that was reflected in the Albertson family jaw, she DECIDED and began to mount the steps as the tan sign indicated.

She stopped as she saw another tan sign at the top step of the outside balcony of the second floor of the building. Inves it said and pointed to the other corner of the building. And looking further she saw an even smaller sign there that said ‘In’ and a smaller arrow pointed down. At the foot of those stairs a tan sign said only I and pointed back to where she now stood.

If she followed the signs she would end up where she was now and if she continued she would circle the building indefinitely.

I have heard he was hard to catch but what is this, a some kind of obstacle course?

The name was not on the building register, and she looked around confused.

Playing hard to get, I guess.

There seemed no place to search except that she noticed the corner of a cement block outbuilding on her left.

She followed her nose and found a gate partly open. Here there was just an arrow in chalk on the sidewalk.

On the gate door was a hand written sign.

Beware of vicious Tabby!

Marnie hesitated at this, then felt a rubbing on her leg. Looking down she saw a tiny, fluffy kitten rubbing her ankle for attention. She bent to pick up the kitten, which closed its eyes and began a contented purring at her petting. You’re the vicious tabby? Oh I get it. You’re on lunch break. She decided.

Even more determined now she pushed the door open and looked inside. There was no one to be seen. She placed the kitten in the out basket on the nearby desk where it curled up and fell asleep.

She called Hello?

There was no answer but from the back of the hidden portion of the room there was a mumbling and the creak of a chair.

No one appeared so she entered. The office was minuscule but neat and nicely furnished. A desk with typing chair was in the front corner for a secretary, a small aisle led to the back which was shielded by a planter-divider. The rest of the room was over decorated with potted plants everywhere, badly needing cutting back she noted.

Tipping up on tip toes she could just see over the divider and looking down noted a large, very broad shouldered, young man seated facing away from her. He wore a starched chino shirt that was far too tight across the shoulders and the sleeves strained at the biceps, the back of the head was shapely, the blonde hair cut short, but still long enough to make a little duck’s tail at the nape of the neck.

He was writing busily then tapping his fingers, muttering something then writing again.

I am very sorry to bother you. Marnie began in her Miss Chumley’s Charm Class voice, The Pleasant Introduction.

The young man didn’t look up.

If you don’t mind… from the Pleasant Introduction Sustained.

There was no response. Now if the truth must be known, behind the glow, the Albertson chin and the charm school voice was the very short fuse of the O’Duffy clan. Carefully concealed at most times, of course, as befitted a nice girl from the nicest part of town but still very short.

Hey you! She yelled.

The young man jerked erect, looked wildly about the room and finally located a face in the greenery behind and above him.

Oh ah ah.. He started. Say what about this? ‘Christmas is over. Sanity is coming to town?’

Marnie surprised blurted, No..No you see..

No go? The young man interrupted. Well…Lawyer’s theme song, ‘Sweet Sue’?

Marnie was too surprised to answer.

Wait, wait. ‘You can lead a horse to water but you can’t make him think.’

He looked at his paper again. ’Agatha Christie got away with murder?’

He observed her expression then tried again. These days there appear to be only two sizes in brassieres, minimizers and mesmerizers.

Now there he had chanced upon a subject in which Marnie felt herself fully competent to critique both by taste and by endowment. And she objected.

It is not funny. She said.

The young man seemed to shrink down. I was afraid you would say that. And well…there is Mother.

Your mother?

Yeah. You see she still thinks I am about twelve years old. he drew himself up. I was a decorated Navy SEAL with four combat bars.

Decorated seal? Bars? Marnie had visions of a clown wearing a California Sea Lion suit balancing a tinseled Christmas ball on its nose for drinks in some bar.

How very interesting. she responded politely.

And she’s pretty liable to read it don’t you think? He continued.

Read it?

You know the book. He sighed. If it ever gets started or gets written or gets finished or gets an agent or gets a published. He finished sadly. She will probably read it don’t you think so?

Marnie was certain about that. Well, Mothers do have a tendency to do things like that. And not always with an open mind. I should think that she would definitely not approve of such an opening gambit.

He tapped the desk again. Ok. I suppose you are right…… Well you’re hired. There is pencil and paper in the desk and a typewriter here somewhere. He sighed. I don’t expect there will be much to type.

Hired? Hired? What do I do?

Do? You do secretary.

But.

You know. Don’t let people catch me. Misspell their names. Lose their files. Transpose their address. Tell them I am in Tibet or the Dry Tortugas. Fib a lot. Secretary.

Mr. er ah.. It is Timothy Rangerod isn’t it?

I’m afraid so. Actually the name is Elvin. But how would that sound on a book cover especially with Rangerod.

He looked out to the sky. Of course it is better than Anise Pugh. He considered again. She sat near me in high school. A very nice, fastidious girl if unfortunate in parents. She married while she was still in school and I heard that it was not because of the usual reasons. I always thought is was on a patronymic basis.

A what? Marnie thought. This guy is agly, a favorite word of her grandfather. Then she wondered how she could get that word into the conversation.

He was still far away. Now if it was only Silken Ranulf Dangerfield or…

She interrupted. Mr. Rangerod I thought you were doing investigations here.

Hmm?

Investigations. Investigations. It says so on the front of the building. ‘Not very good and very expensive.’

Oh that. Yeah, well I guess I do if I have to.

But that is your business. I mean how can you pay the rent and live if you send everybody away?

Oh yeah, the rent. There is that. Well I’ve still got a few saving bonds and $386 cash from mustering out pay. That should last a little while yet.

He brightened and while she was digesting this, You see I just hate investigations but my mother thinks I am a natural at it.

He drew himself up again. Actually I was once a war correspondent.

Really?

Well maybe not a real one, but a piece I wrote about Guadalcanal was printed in the Washington Post. Of course they spelled my name wrong but that’s pretty routine for the Washington Post, I guess.

He considered. Now there is the life. A novelist. Sitting in peaceful solitude dreaming up a couple snappy sayings and then off to Tahiti to spend the loot.

He thought a minute. Definition of a city bus…’sic transit?’

He observed her facial expression.

Wait, wait. ‘Eliminate snap decisions use Velcro.’

He slunk further down into his chair. ’Indian Indian woman in their sorries?’ He tried hopelessly.

Investigations. She said firmly.

Oh yeah, well you see. That is my mother’s idea too. Goes back to my childhood and everybody has to have a childhood don’t they? Its not one’s fault really if he has a childhood, just something that has to be.

He considered glumly a minute then continued. I was always the only one that could find her purse when she lost it or where she left her car keys. Usually her keys were just on the top of the ah… the toilet tank because she was in such a hurry when she came in from shopping.

His gloom deepened and he continued. And then there was those three hundred sausages missing from the Italian American Pizza Festival. I determined that it was neither a schism nor a felony but the Pastor’s poodle’s Original Sin. He got into the supplies and buried the weenies in the back yard of the Rectory. And like that. Natural born investigator she always said.

Marnie had had enough. She pulled down her coat, straightened her blouse, looked back to see that her seams were straight, pushed the damn feather out of her eye and marched around the plantar.

She was accustomed when she entered a room to have young men stand up, then smile or simper or gawk. This young man stood up, took one look and looked away.

He was, she had to admit, ‘quite presentable’ with classical type features, strong chin and rather sad blue eyes. Still looking away he continued. You see I just hate to listen to all those sad stories and then… well. I hate all women you know. And well if you get right down to it, I guess I don’t like anybody very much. He sighed again. Not any more at least. Not since last Thursday.

Chapter 3

Marnie was assembling some well-chosen words when someone knocked and entered the outer office. As the young man didn’t seem to notice and there was no one there to be secretary she peeked out.

It was a woman a few years older than herself of the type she inherently and at first glance disliked. Tall, flamboyantly feminine, with red hair, green eyes, peach like complexion wearing a spaghetti strapped, sun dress with tiers of umber ruffles to the knee and the whole thing three sizes too small.

Impelled by some unconsidered protective instinct she stepped out.

May I help you?

I am looking for Mr. Rangerod.

Marnie didn’t like the sound of this and after a short struggle with her conscience she said. Oh dear. He has a conference all this morning, a hectic day today actually. Meetings all afternoon and then a quick trip to the Dry Tortu …that is Drive Through Legal Society tonight.

This secretary business is easy she thought.

Her confidence increasing she continued. Maybe if you would care to return later, ah.. end of November, Friday the 13th at 6:00 A.M., be convenient? It is quite the earliest.

Oh I am so disappointed. The voice was low, throaty, and slow almost to the point of a drawl. Men would like that Marnie knew.

It is so important. It is about this ad in the paper.

Marnie stiffened. Ad? But before the flouncy lady had located the ad in the bottom of a huge, umber, suede bag that exactly matched her make up, her nails, her dress, hose, and her attitude, Marnie knew what it was.

While pretending to read it she thought desperately. Who is this broad anyway? Not a San Diegan for sure. And why was she interested in her, Marnie’s, case?

And then perhaps as a result of all that extra curricular reading, nights in her bedroom and days hidden in the woman’s lounge of the library at State, she DECIDED.

Decided to stay the unnoticed, unimportant secretary leading and guiding in subtle ways that dummy dream boat in the back room and befriending this Mata Hari. And when the moment was ripe…. To STRIKE. Slink off with the 14 million to Tahiti or… Now why did she say Tahiti? Shopping in San Francisco rather.

Ah, this does sound important. Perhaps I can do something. She gave the woman a little pat on the hand and retired to the other part of the room

Pausing she felt something oily on her fingers and smelling her fingertip was almost overwhelmed by a fragrance that she vaguely recognized as sold only in negligee boutiques. That broad was using a body creme. She was one of those kinds of woman then, Marnie decided. For just a moment she worried that her own plain, baking soda based deodorant was rather… well rather…. But never mind that now.

Mr. Rangerod. There is a client here.

What? But you were going to…

It seems quite important and just your type. Mysterious and a lady.

Lady?

Well not exactly a lady, perhaps. A maiden in distress. Well maybe not exactly a maiden. But in distress.

Oh. Well what is she like?

Definitely not the minimizer type.

Not waiting for an answer she called. Come in, Dear.

Entering, the perfumed lady caught first sight of the young man behind the desk, her eyes widened, she gave a little wriggle and a smile that would have charred permafrost. She gracefully swayed, or was it undulated, across the room to extend her hand. A hand that Marnie was certain was warm, soft, and friendly as well as smelling good. Men would like that too, she was sure.

Mr. Rangerod?

Marnie interrupted. Mr. Rangerod this is Miss. I don’t believe I caught your name.

There was a momentary hesitation then, Carmelo Otero.

I’ll bet. Marnie thought. More like Mamie Polanski from Detroit. She added, but only in her mind, as she surreptitiously wiped her hands on her handkerchief.

Looking more closely she saw that the great, umber handbag was now lying face down on the lady’s lap and Marnie vaguely remembered that it had fancy gilt initials on it, an A.E.G. or something, not C.O.

The woman was still shaking hands so Marnie pushed a chair into the back of her knees so she had to sit down and release her grip.

The new secretary then hurried to the next room dropped her gloves, pushed the feather out of her face, then pulled off the whole damn hat and catching up a pencil and scratch pad hurried back. She pulled a chair up beside the desk