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“The landslide will have—”
“The traffic jam,” Sam finished. “Thanks, Mr. Thule. We’ll see you then.”
Sam shut the door. From the bathroom he heard Remi say, “Sam, look at this.”
He found a wide-eyed Remi standing beside a gigantic copper claw-foot tub. “It’s a Beasley.”
“I think the more common term is ‘bathtub,’ Remi.”
“Very funny. Beasleys are rare, Sam. The last one was made in the late nineteenth century. Do you have any idea what this is worth?”
“No, but something tells me you do.”
“Twelve thousand dollars, give or take. This is a treasure, Sam.”
“And it’s the size of a Studebaker. Don’t even think of trying to fit it into your carry-on.”
Remi tore her eyes from the tub and looked at him mischievously. “It is big, isn’t it?”
Sam returned her smile. “Indeed.”
“Care to be my lifeguard?”
“At your service, madam.”
An hour later, clean and happy and prune-skinned, they settled into the sitting area. Through the balcony windows they could see the peaks on Annapurna in the distance.
Sam checked his phone. “Voice message,” he said. He listened to it, gave Remi a wink, and redialed. Selma’s voice came over the speaker thirty seconds later: “Where are you?”
“In the land of wicker and copper,” Sam replied.
“Pardon?”
“Nothing. Do you have good news for us?”
“Here, hang on.”
A moment later a male voice came on the line. It was Frank Alton. “Sam, Remi . . . I don’t know how you did it, but I owe you my life.”
“Nonsense,” Remi replied. “You saved ours in Bolivia a few times over.”
“Are you okay?” Sam asked.
“A few bumps and bruises, but nothing permanent.”
“Have you seen Judy and the kids?”
“Yes, as soon as I got home.”
Sam said, “Selma, how are things?”
“Absolutely awful,” she replied.
“Glad to hear it.”
Based on a healthy respect of Charles King’s reach, and perhaps a tinge of paranoia, Sam and Remi had instituted the “duress rule”: had Selma or any of them been at gunpoint or otherwise in jeopardy, an answer other than “awful” would have raised the alarm.
Remi said, “Frank, what can you tell us?”
