St. Peter's Umbrella Part 15

"But it was my fault you came too late."

"And why did he so much want to see me?"

"He said he wanted to give you something."

A light broke in upon Gyuri's brain. The Vienna carriage-builder had given him to understand that his father's fortune was represented by a receipt for money placed in a bank, and from the information his mother now gave him, he concluded that the old gentleman had intended giving him the receipt before his death. So he must always have kept it by him.

But what had become of it? In which bank was the money deposited? Could he, knowing what he did, give up the idea of finding it?

No, no, it was impossible! It could not be lost! Why, a grain of wheat, if dropped in a ditch, would reappear in time, however unexpectedly. And in a case of this kind, a chance word, a sign, could clear up every doubt.

He had not long to wait. One day, the dying mayor of the town, Tamas Krikovszky, sent for him to make his will. Several people, holding high positions in the town, were a.s.sembled in the room. There lay the mayor, pale and weak, but he still seemed to retain some of the majesty of his office, in the manner in which he took leave of his inferiors in office, recommending the welfare of the town to them, and then taking from under his pillow the official seal, he put it into their hands, saying:

"For twenty years I have sealed the truth with it!"

Then he dictated his will to Gyuri, and while doing so, referred now and then to various incidents in his life.

"Dear me, what times those were," he said once, addressing himself to Gyuri. "Your father had a red umbrella, with a hollow handle, in which he used to carry valuable papers from one camp to another, in the days when he was a spy."

"What!" stammered Gyuri. "The red umbrella?" and his eyes shone.

Like a flash of lightning a thought had entered his head. The receipt was in that umbrella! His blood began to course madly in his veins, as the cert.i.tude of the truth of his suspicion grew upon him. Yes, there it was, he was sure of it; and all at once he remembered the incident in Szeged, how Gregorics had let his umbrella fall in the water, his anxiety, and offer of a large reward for its discovery. Then again, the old gentleman's words rang in his ear:

"The umbrella will once belong to you, and you will find it useful to protect you from the rain."

The bystanders could not imagine why Gyuri seemed so much put about at the mayor's death; in their opinion it was quite right of the old man to take his departure, he had dragged on with his gouty old leg quite long enough, and should now make room for younger men; he had not lived his life for nothing, for were they not going to have his portrait painted and hung in the Town Hall, a grand ending to his life? If he lived for ten years longer he could have no greater honor done him, and his portrait would be even uglier than now.

They were even more surprised at the strange question which Gyuri, in spite of the solemnity of the occasion, put to the dying man.

"And was the hole big, sir?"

"What hole?" asked the mayor, who had already forgotten the subject.

"The hole in the handle of the umbrella."

"I really don't know, I never asked Gregorics."

He closed his eyes, and in a weak voice added, with that phlegma which only a Hungarian displays on his deathbed:

"But if you wait a bit, I'll ask him."

And he probably kept his promise, for half an hour later a black flag was flying from the roof of the Town Hall, and the bell of the Roman Catholic church was tolling.

Gyuri Wibra had hurried home, nervous and excited, and was now marching up and down his office, his heart beating wildly with joy.

"I have the treasure at last!" he kept on repeating to himself, "at least, I should have it if I had the umbrella. But where is it?" He could neither eat, nor drink, nor sleep till he had settled it. He questioned his mother on the subject, and she did her best to answer him, but could only repeat:

"How am I to remember that, my dear boy, after so long a time? And what do you want that ragged umbrella for?"

Gyuri sighed.

"If I have to dig it out of the ground with my ten fingers, I will do it."

"Perhaps Matyko will remember something about it?"

Matyko was soon found; he sat smoking his pipe in the anteroom of the office, for he was now Gyuri's servant. But he also said he had forgotten far more important things than that in all these years; but this much he did remember, that the dead man had kept the umbrella near him till the hour of his death.

"Heaven only knows," he added, "why he took such care of the ragged old thing."

(Not only heaven knew the reason now, but Gyuri too!)

He got more information from the old woman who kept the grocer's shop in old Gregorics's house; she had been in the house when he died, and had helped to lay him out. She swore by heaven and earth that the umbrella had been tightly clutched in the dead man's hand, and they had had the greatest difficulty in freeing it from his grasp.

"Yes," said the old woman, "the umbrella was certainly in his hand, may I never move from this spot if it is not true."

"It is all the same," muttered Gyuri; "we want to know where it is now."

"I suppose it was sold with the rest of the things."

That seemed very likely, so Gyuri went and looked up the list of things that had been sold at the auction. All sorts of things were mentioned--tables, chairs, cupboards, coats, etc.--but there was no mention of an umbrella. He read it over ten times, but it was of no use, he could find no mention of it, unless the following could be considered as such.

"Various useless objects, bought for two florins by the white Jew."

Perhaps the umbrella was one of those useless objects, and had been bought by the "white Jew." Well, the first thing was to find the "white Jew." But who was he? For in those good old days there were not as many Jews in Hungary as there are now; there were perhaps one or two in the town, so it was easy to find them; for one was called "red," another "gray," another "white," a fourth "black," according to the color of their hair; and by means of these four colors the townsfolk were able to distinguish any Jew who lived in their town. But now there were some hundred Jewish families, and heaven had not increased the shades of their hair to such an extent that each family could be distinguished in the old way.

It was not difficult to find out about the old Jew, and Gyuri soon knew that he was called Jonas Muncz, and it was very likely he had bought the things, for all the coats and vests found their way into his tiny shop in Wheat Street, before starting on the second chapter of their existence.

Many people remember the little shop in which top-boots, cloaks, and dresses hung on nails, and the following announcement was written with chalk on the door:

"Only the lilies of the field can dress themselves cheaper than you can in this shop!"

(That was quite true, only with this difference, that the lilies of the field were more becomingly dressed than Muncz's customers.)

In spite of all this information Gyuri was by no means satisfied, so he walked across the road to his old guardian's to see if he could find out anything more on the subject from him, for he had been the first lawyer in the town for many years, and must know every one.

The young man told Sztolarik the whole story, openly and frankly, adding that the receipt for the money, which was probably deposited in some foreign bank, was all but found, for it was most certainly in the handle of the red umbrella, and that had in all probability been bought by an old Jew of the name of Jonas Muncz. All of this Gyuri poured out quickly and breathlessly into the ears of his old guardian.

"That much I know. Now, what am I to do next?"

"It is a great deal, much more than I ever hoped for. You must continue the search."

"But where am I to search? We don't yet know where Muncz is, and even if we had him, who knows on which dust-heap the umbrella has rotted since then?"

"All the same, you must not lose the thread."

"Did you know the 'white Jew'?"

"Oh, yes; he was a very honest Jew, that is why he never got very rich.

He often came to me; I can see him now, with his head bald at the back, and a fringe of white hair round it. 'Pon my word! (and here the lawyer skipped like a young lamb) the last time I saw him he had Pal Gregorics's umbrella in his hand; I can swear to it, and I remember I joked him about it. 'It seems to me, Jonas,' I said, 'that you wander about the next world, too, to buy "ole clo'," and bought that umbrella there of Pal Gregorics.' At which he smiled, and said he had not gone as far as that yet, for he only kept to the two counties of Zolyom and Hont, and had divided the neighboring counties among his sons; Moricz had Trencsin and Nyitra, Szami had Szepes and Lipto, and the youngest, Kobi, had only last week been given Bars, but they none of them intended to go into the next world until they were obliged to."