|| An American short story ||
I was just thirty-seven when my Uncle Philip died.
A week before that event he called me to his home. He hated my mother, but I do not know why. She told me long before his last illness that I can expect nothing from my father’s brother. He was an inventor, an able and ingenious mechanical engineer, and had made much money by his improvement in turbine-wheels.
He was a bachelor; lived alone, cooked his own meals, and collected precious stones, especially rubies and pearls. From the time he made his first money he had this mania. As he grew richer, the desire to possess rare and costly gems became stronger. When he bought a new stone, he carried it in his pocket for a month, and now and then took it out and looked at it. Then it was added to the collection in his safe at the trust company.
At the time I visited him, I was a clerk, and poor enough. Remembering my mother’s words, I was not hopeful, but I thought it was rude to ignore his invite.
“I have been rich and successful and lived my life as I pleased. But I regret my wickedness to you all”, he began, not looking at all as if he regretted. ” I wish to live in the memory of atleast one family member. You are my sole heir. I leave my prized collection of precious stones with you”
I was pleasantly shocked. I stammered as I thanked him. He kept grinning and said, “You will have to pay for my funeral.”
I must say that I never looked forward to any expenditure with more pleasure.
He continued, “The rubies are very rare and valuable. They are in my safe at the trust company. Before you unlock the box, be very careful to read a letter which lies on top of it; and be sure not to shake the box.” I bade him goodbye and left. The whole meeting was odd yet very fruitful.
The day after he died, his will was found, leaving me his heir. He left me an iron box, evidently of his own making, for he was a skilled workman and very ingenious. The box was heavy and strong, about ten inches long, eight inches wide and ten inches high.
On it lay a letter to me: ” Dear Tom: This box contains a large number of rubies and a fair lot of diamonds; one is blue—a beauty. There are hundreds of pearls—one the famous green pearl and a necklace of blue pearls. I would have left these stones to some charity, but I hate the poor as much as I hate your mother’s son.
The box contains an interesting mechanism, which will act with certainty as you unlock it, and explode ten ounces of my improved, supersensitive dynamite. Doubt me, and open it, and you will be blown to atoms. Good luck handling your expectations. They will never be fulfilled.”
I stood appalled. That monster! Was it a lie? I had spent all my savings on the funeral, and was poorer than ever.
The more I thought, the more I began to feel that he told the truth in this cruel letter. No wonder the last meeting seemed odd.
I still took home the box, laid it under the bed carefully and began to think of ways to open it undisturbed.
What if I placed it far and triggered it with some sort of wires? No, the rubies would explode all over the place.
I kept thinking. I kept the key with me but constantly grew worried.
What if the box was stolen. Could the box explode from the rumble and vibrations from the street? What if I accidentally step on it?
I was not getting enough sleep. One day I found the list of precious stones and their worth in the uncle’s Bible. Several of the rubies were described with care, and curious histories of them were given in detail. One was said to be the famous “Sunset ruby,” which had belonged to the Empress-Queen Maria Theresa. One was called the “Blood ruby,” not, as was explained, because of the color, but on account of the murders that happened because of it.
I consulted the learned Professor Clinch about my dilemma, and as to some safe way of getting at the rubies.
He said that, if my uncle had not lied, there was no way to get the stones. I offered him the biggest ruby if he wished to test. He did not want to do so.
In fact, I did nothing else but think of wild plans to get them safely. I spent all my spare hours at one of the great libraries reading about dynamite. Indeed, I talked about dynamite so much until the library attendants, believing me a terrorist, reported me to the police.
I suspect that for a while I was “shadowed” as a suspicious, and possibly criminal, character. I gave up the libraries, and, becoming more and more fearful, set my precious box on a down pillow, for fear of its being shaken; for at this time even the absurd possibility of its being disturbed by an earthquake troubled me. I tried to calculate the amount of shake needful to explode my box.
At one time I thought of finding a man who would take the risk of unlocking the box, but what right had I to subject any one else to something I dared not face?
I could easily drop the box from a height somewhere, and if it did not explode could then safely unlock it; but if it did blow up when it fell, good-bye to my rubies. Mine, yes mine!
I was rich, and I was not.
Both my doctor and my priest begged me to forget about the box and the stones. They said that it was a cruel trick played by a wicked man and that I should not fall for it.
But, my friend, greed has stuck in my mind like a bubblegum on a shoe. I am one of the richest men in the city, but I have no money to keep me alive. My fiancee, Susan, broke off her engagement.
In my despair I have advertised in the “Journal of Science,” and got dozens of absurd and useless ideas. At last, as I talked too much about it, the thing became so well known that when I put the box in a safe, in bank, I was promptly asked to withdraw it. I was in constant fear of burglars, and my landlady gave me notice to leave, because no one would stay in the house with that box.
I became homeless. I moved into the suburbs and hidden the box and changed my name and my occupation. This I did to escape the curiosity of the reporters.
It’s been two years since my uncle Philip died. The sunlight is shining through the window. I just finished having a breakfast of toast and juice.
I looked at my watch and tried to ignore the red streaks across the wrist. It was just past 8:30 am. I will read the news, then take a walk around the garden and play chess with Maurice before lunch.
I am at the Wilson’s Care Facility for the Troubled. It’s been 6 months since I was brought here.
I had become a hopeless alcoholic. The wealth had driven me crazy that I tried to take my own life in a drunken state. I was rescued and put here. I should hold myself very lucky. I haven’t thought about the jewels in 3 months.
I don’t know what happened to them, nor do I intend to find out. Maybe they are still out there driving another man insane.
Like (0)