Read The Tavernier Stones Online
Authors: Stephen Parrish
The Tavernier Stones (24 page)
Turning to a fresh page in his notebook, he arranged the ciphertext in stacks eight characters wide:
Then he did a frequency analysis of the first column:
a: /
b:
c: /
d:
e:
f: /
g: ///////
h: /////
i: ///
j: ////
k: /
l:
m:
n:
o:
p: /
q: ///
r: /
s:
t: //
u:
v: //
w:
x:
y:
z:
And he knew at a glance the hard part was over. The distribution was just clumpy enough to be an ordinary plaintext in an ordinary Western European language, disguised by having been slid across the alphabet in an increment equal to the modular value of the first key letter.
He guessed
e
, the most common letter in Western languages, was represented in the first column by
g
, two places away on the alphabet. That would make the first letter in the keyword
c
. He erased the first column in his stack and replaced it with the presumed plaintext letters;
g
went back two places to
e
,
a
went back two places to
y
, and so on:
e
, the most common letter in Western languages, was represented in the first column by
g
, two places away on the alphabet. That would make the first letter in the keyword
c
. He erased the first column in his stack and replaced it with the presumed plaintext letters;
g
went back two places to
e
,
a
went back two places to
y
, and so on:
Only one-eighth of the text was deciphered, but most of the work was done. Pfeffer looked at his watch; he needed to go to the bathroom but elected instead to stay on the job; the higher the pressure built in his bladder, the faster he would work toward a solution.
He had no time to waste. People had been searching for the lost Tavernier stones for
three weeks
. And some of those people, he knew from his long career as a homicide detective, were brilliant.
three weeks
. And some of those people, he knew from his long career as a homicide detective, were brilliant.
He started a fresh pot of coffee and stretched, waiting for the water to percolate. Then he returned to his desk, sharpened his pencil, and went back to work.
The second column was interesting, because frequency analysis suggested the modular value of the second key letter was zero—that is, the letter was
a
.
a
.
a: //
b:
c:
d: /
e: ////////
f: /
g:
h: //
i: /
j:
k:
l: ////
m: /
n: ///
o: /////
p:
q:
r: /
s:
t: //
u:
v:
w:
x: /
y:
z:
This was obvious because only
e
could be acting as
e
. In other words, in the second column there was no transposition, no disguise. The keyword therefore began with the letters
ca
. He updated his cipher stack:
e
could be acting as
e
. In other words, in the second column there was no transposition, no disguise. The keyword therefore began with the letters
ca
. He updated his cipher stack:
So far, no two-letter combinations had appeared that were impossible in a Western language, especially considering that the first letter could represent the end of a word and the second the beginning of another. The combinations felt sound to Pfeffer, as though they were leading him in the right direction.
He had always warmed up that way to a case. Somewhere lurking behind all the curtains were clues to the truth. In this case, the curtains were substitutions and transpositions concealing a message. The cryptology was merely a disguise, layers of shade drawn over the message, and the job of the cryptologist was to bring the message to light. No matter how frustrating things got, no matter how distant a possible solution seemed, the plaintext message was always there, always giving away hints, always flirting with the analyst.
Pfeffer was sure the modular value of the third keyword was seventeen, and the word therefore began with
car
. He was intrigued when
the
appeared at the beginning of the second row, but knew better than to bank on it; he still had no idea what language Cellarius used in the plaintext. Even the
yl
in the last group, which had grown to
yle
, had possibilities.
car
. He was intrigued when
the
appeared at the beginning of the second row, but knew better than to bank on it; he still had no idea what language Cellarius used in the plaintext. Even the
yl
in the last group, which had grown to
yle
, had possibilities.
The anticipated problem following the repeated string had not occurred: the modular integrity of the text had been preserved when the string was removed. This obviously meant the number of letters used in the replacement string exactly equaled the number of letters missing from the original. He wasn’t surprised: the number of cells fitted into a remodeled prison might well turn out to be the same number the prison had to begin with.
He swallowed the rest of his coffee and picked up the pace. If the job took too much longer, he was going to pee in his pants. After four columns—the halfway point—the plaintext began to shine through:
A substitution of s for
f
made sense of several of the quads. The sudden appearance of
from
added to the intrigue
the
had previously caused. Pfeffer now suspected the plaintext was written in English. But wouldn’t that prove the cipher was a hoax?
f
made sense of several of the quads. The sudden appearance of
from
added to the intrigue
the
had previously caused. Pfeffer now suspected the plaintext was written in English. But wouldn’t that prove the cipher was a hoax?
Chasing clues and solving puzzles had ruled Pfeffer’s passions all his life, passions that had served him well during a twenty-five year career as a detective. He had often pulled all-nighters, working himself into exhaustion to solve a problem.
All that changed when he found out his wife was having an affair.
He still hadn’t decided what to do about it. The frequency of his wife’s meetings with “Mr. Dick” had escalated to three times a week, each rendezvous resulting in yet another bottle of wine missing from his cellar. Apparently the two had become secure in their presumed invisibility. Mr. Dick was even parking his Saab in front of the house.
Pfeffer had finally given in to the urge to track down the man’s license plate number. Turned out he was an old classmate of his wife’s; he had graduated from their Gymnasium one year ahead of her. Pfeffer put a private detective on the case and learned how the two became reacquainted all these years later.
It was touching, he thought, and good grist for the movies, but damn them for drinking his wine. Once he came up with a plan to punish them, one that wouldn’t implicate him, he’d implement it with no remorse at all. Damn her for her dishonesty, for her disloyalty, and for causing so much distraction in his life.
Like now.
After six columns, the stack began to speak:
It was English after all. There was no mistaking words like
extend
and
light
. Even strings like
pofiti
made sense after Latin back-substitutions were made; indeed, “position” was a useful word to encounter when deciphering the presumed instructions to a treasure map.
extend
and
light
. Even strings like
pofiti
made sense after Latin back-substitutions were made; indeed, “position” was a useful word to encounter when deciphering the presumed instructions to a treasure map.
But was it a hoax? Probably no one would know until the shovels went to work, and either they hit something or they didn’t. The solution had been easy, even for amateurs. Pfeffer figured many people had already passed this point and were closing in on the target. That the newspapers hadn’t gotten there—or weren’t saying—didn’t necessarily mean anything; journalists might have preferred to cash in on treasure rather than payment for an article about treasure.
Cellarius’s instructions, once deciphered, didn’t make much sense at first glance. But Pfeffer would worry about that later. Right now, he needed to take a piss.
TWENTY-TWO
JOHN PEERED OUT HIS front window and watched Sarah arrive for a visit after what must have been, for her, a harrowing drive through the country. She parked David’s VW Beetle in the only remaining place it would fit on Nouveau Street. Then she stepped daintily out of the car, as if merely brushing against the air of the neighborhood would soil her. Her apprehension about leaving Philadelphia for “the sticks” was obvious.
To be fair, Lancaster contained more than just crickets and red-necks. But John had heard city girls say it before: there were two kinds of flying insects in central Pennsylvania, those small enough to penetrate the screen and those big enough to open the door.
Sarah stretched her skirt down as far as she could toward her knees and took short, choppy steps on the sidewalk in her high heels. The city girls had a point: nothing about “Nouveau” Street was the least bit new. The row houses were some of the city’s oldest. And none was complete without a rickety porch furnished with a lawn chair occupied by a fat person. The fat person’s grungy tank top stretched torturously across his distended belly, and its low, U-shaped neckline granted canopy space to his sprouting chest hairs. The fat person didn’t do anything—he didn’t even read. He sat in his lawn chair and watched pedestrians, the blank expression on his face a symptom of intellectual paralysis.
Sarah shuddered visibly and hurried out of range of their hollow stares. John was glad he kept his interior tidy, and relieved he wouldn’t be serving Hamburger Helper again.
“Nice neighborhood,” Sarah said, when he greeted her at the door.
“I like it.”
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