Brian Kelly Irons

It wasn’t quite noon when the doors flew open and three strangers stepped into the luxurious lobby of the Sutherland Hotel. They were well dressed and appeared to be gentlemen; unlike most of the dusty ruffians that would often visit the nearby saloons and taverns. The Sutherland, as it was referred to, at the very least, attempted to keep a positive reputation.
As the gentlemen approached the front desk, the clerk, a young man named James Hoff, greeted them with a nervous smile. His bow tie askew from inexperience. As they paid for their rooms and signed the ledger, a stuffy, slightly older fellow with a much straighter tie stepped in to take over.
“See to their baggage, Hoff.” The man told him.
“Yes, Mr. Martin.”
To the three strangers, Mr. Martin explained, “Gentlemen, you are in rooms 204, 205, and 206 respectively. I am Mr. Ulysses Martin, the hotel manager. Whatever your needs may be, I can assure you, they will be met.”
The tree strangers stepped away from the front desk and followed young Hoff to their rooms. Meanwhile, Mr. Martin surveyed their names on the ledger. Samuel Grady, Eustace Fairbanks, and Jonathan Wilkinson. He had never seen them around town before. Their names were unfamiliar to him. It was no matter, though, they were important gentlemen to be sure. Ulysses closed the ledger and went about his daily routine of being an extremely unlikeable busy-body.
Later that same day, as the sun dipped below the dusty horizon, the three strangers toasted their good fortune while they placed four sheets of writing paper into a locked briefcase and set the case beneath one of the beds for safe keeping. Their good fortune called for more celebration than a simple toast could provide, so they stepped out for a night on the town where they were seen entering the Grand Richmond Theater. The name was a bit misleading. It wasn’t much of a theater. There was a small stage but most of the performances happened behind closed doors. Cards, women, and cheap whiskey was on the bill this night, and every night.
The tallest of the three men lit a cigar and handed one to each of his compatriots. This was to be a night that neither of them would soon forget.
After the three strangers had taken their fill of the delights that the Grand Richmond had to offer, they were last seen strolling west on Broad Street, with the gaslights of Richmond throwing shadows at their backs. They turned onto Main street and were never seen from or heard of again.
History can only speculate who these three men could have possibly been, but without further documentation, there is truly no way to know for certain. While it is highly likely that these men were Confederate holdovers from the war, seeking a bit of southern hospitality, their names have not been recognized.

After a few days had passed, a chamber maid approached Mr. Martin with a curious object. I seems that a small leather briefcase had been left behind in room 206. Ulysses Martin inspected, bewildered at how someone could have left such a marvelous bag behind. It appeared to be foreign in design. It was made from fine leather—dark brown. The handle was of some quality as well, oak or hickory possibly. Two straps held the flap in place while the hasp, polished brass of course, was locked and required a key for entry. There was no name on the front or back of the thing, no identifying marks of any kind. Ulysses shrugged and placed it behind the front desk for safe keeping; in case the owner came around looking for it.

Weeks went by, then months. No one ever came to claim the odd case. As the hotel manager, Ulysses Martin felt that it was his duty to find the owner of the briefcase and return it to him. To do this, he would have to unlock it, fore the only way to identify the owner was to search its contents. Surely there would be a name or perhaps an address inside of it.
Ulysses meddled with the thing for some time, often enlisting the assistance of others, including Reginald Flockhart, the hotel’s chef, who thought it would be wise to slice the thing open with his carving knife. Mr. Martin advised him to keep his cutlery within the confines of the kitchen.
With little success throughout the day, Ulysses decided he would take the case home to work on it. Beatrice, Ulysses’ wife, worried that he would injure himself with all the tools he had amassed, forbade her husband from working on it until after dinner. Ulysses didn’t tell his wife what the bag was for and she never asked. As far as they were both concerned, it was none of her business.
Throughout the evening, well past an honest man’s bed time, Ulysses poked and prodded the mechanism, using all the strength that he had available. The clasp wouldn’t give. It was at this time that he remembered the birthday present that he received from his cousin Martha. Last summer he had complained daily about the terrible heat. He had placed orders for extra ice, but without the proper tool, the blocks sat there in the sun and melted. Until Martha, the smartest woman within the Matin family, bought her portly cousin a very nice, but very reliable ice pick. It was made from steel with a sturdy oak handle that was wrapped quite lovely in fine black leather. Ulysses knew that would do the trick.
He searched the kitchen first, though he rarely entered that room, he was certain it would reside in there.
“And what are you looking for at this hour?” Beatrice scolded.
“Oh drat, woman!” Ulysses jumped. “You scared the dumplings out of me!”
Beatrice Martin suffered from a horrible bout of insomnia. She rarely slept. Even when she was able to, she would wake from the slightest noise. The scurry of a mouse across the floor or the tic of a clock on the other side of the house would have her sit straight up. So, when she heard her husband rummaging through the house, she was curious.
“What are you looking for, Ulysses?”
“Do you recall the where we last put the ice pick, Beatrice?”
Beatrice Martin, with her robe pulled around her just as tight as the bun on her head, stomped graciously through the parlor and into the kitchen, where she opened the large pantry doors. Ulysses chided himself quietly for not looking there. She handed him the tool with as much grace as she presented while finding it for him, and mounted the stairs to return to bed, She was not quite finished with her husband, however.

“If you used your ‘tool’ with half as much enthusiasm in bad as you use with that tool, I’d be a happy woman. Goodnight!”

Ulysses grabbed the tool (the other tool) and went to work on the lock. The idea to use the pick in the first place was because he remembered that the tip was bent in such a way that it might be able to catch one of the tumblers and open this darn thing. He pushed, he pulled, he begged, and pleaded, until finally the clasp opened without fanfare. Ulysses tiptoed around the corner and looked up the stairs for his nosey wife. The coast was clear. Sitting back down, he opened the flap and looked inside. He was baffled, and not the least bit happy to see that the contents of the case that he has spent so many long hours, and mostly likely the demise of his marital happiness, contained only a few pieces of paper.

Exasperated, he sat back in his chair, with frustration plastered across his face. Why in the world would anyone lock a briefcase with nothing in it. He left the papers, along with the case in the parlor and hastened to bed; a good night’s sleep would not come easy.
The next morning, Ulysses woke to the sound of his wife cooking breakfast. He was up with a broad smile across his face and ready to face the day and whatever it might have in store. The intoxicating aroma of rich coffee penetrated his nostrils and came close to causing a scene. He entered the kitchen and viewed the sun blasting its glowing rays upon the breakfast table where his glorious mug sat.
“What’s all this?” he asked, motioning to the writing paper splayed across the table.
“I was going to ask you the same thing” Beatrice pressed. “They were sitting on your chair. This is what was in that case?”
Ulysses nodded and held one of the papers up for closer examination. The writing was little more then scratches. No punctuation, and no signature. At first it appeared to be nonsense; a list of instructions. As Ulysses read on, his eyes widened and his pulse quickened.
“It’s a map!”
“Oh, hush woman!” With that, Beatrice Martin had had enough. Enough bullying, enough ridicule, and enough of him talking down to her. The rage that had been building for 11 years finally exploded and she slapped him across his face.
“Ulysses Faraday Martin!” She stood next to him at the table, her eye bloodshot with anger. Ulysses trembled, not knowing what was happening. “I am your wife! For over a decade I have had to listen to you belittle me! No more, Ulysses! You had better start respecting me or I will leave you, and then where will you be, huh?” Ulysses knew what she was on about. He was the hotel’s manager. He was in charge of everything. From the employees down to the menu. Everything was trusted to his care. The only trouble was that the Sutherland was owned by Meriwether Beeks, Beatrice’s father. If she were to leave him, Meriwether would terminate him quicker than a bull frogs tongue. Beatrice picked up one sheet of the writing paper from the table, threatening to toss it in the trash. When she noticed that there was more directions on each piece of paper. “You’re right, Ulysses. This is a map. But a map to what?”
Believing that he had been given another chance at keeping his job and his livelihood, Ulysses remained calm and searched the papers with his wife. What the found on the back of the fourth and final sheet astonished them both.

Once you find the tree, take seventeen paces due north. Here you will find a weathered stone sitting halfway in the soil. From this point, take thirty-two paces due southwest. Dig five feet down and you will be rich beyond your wildest dreams. Good luck
X

After this last instruction, the Martins were speechless. It didn’t take much convincing to get Beatrice to join him in the woods just north of Richmond. They followed the instructions exactly as they were written. Unfortunately, there was no treasure. No gold or silver. Their wildest dreams would not come true. Upon returning home, Beatrice packed her bags and left, moving back home to live with her mother and father. Thankfully, Ulysses was not fired. However, when he returned to the hotel the very next morning, he collapsed in his office and died, suffering a massive heart attack.
In 1920, almost 50 years after his death, the Martin’s home was named an historical landmark by the Richmond Historical society. As visitors to the house walked through, none of them would even realize or care about the single sheet of yellowed writing paper sitting on the kitchen table as if it were a prop from some forgotten age.