Fool's Gold

Chapter Twenty-Three: Love is Blindness

Chapter Twenty-Three:

Love is Blindness

Police Chief Edward Woolridge mopes his perspiring brow with his handkerchief before turning around to face his assembled officers. They stand before him on the plush black carpet of the hallway, evenly divided between those who are alert and those who are practically asleep on their feet. Beyond them stand several newspaper reporters, thoroughly outfitted with cameras and notepads, who have personally elected to come along despite the peculiar hour of midnight.

"Right," he says, stuffing the handkerchief back into his pocket. A dozen pairs of eyes snap to attention. "I'm certain as to what it is we're about to go into. That being said, all of you must know that this operation is of high importance and must be treated with utmost delicacy."

A throat is cleared from the fray of the group and Charles Ezzard steps out into the open. Woolridge inclines his head to the other man to give him permission to speak and the curious murmurings between men quickly fall to a hush. The gilded reporter stands alone, a pen poised on his notepad.

"If I may, Chief, do you know the identity of the offender?"

Woolridge sighs. "No, Mr. Ezzard, I do not. I apologize if I have disappointed your ravenous need for information but I suppose that we shall all know in mere minutes."

But to his dismay, Ezzard proves to be relentless. "And the informant?"

"Now that," snaps the Chief, "is classified information. The individual who alerted me of the illegal actions that are taking place behind that door has the right to keep their identity a secret, and rightly so. I will thank you not to ask any further questions until the investigation has reached completion."

"I'm keen enough to wait," Charles drawls, lazily lighting up a Lucky Strike just to prove his point.

Woolridge ignores this and returns to his men. "You all know what to do. Check everything that looks as though it could conceal even a drop of alcohol. If you find anything you're to bring it to me straight away- no exceptions, is that understood?" At the collective nod he squares his shoulders. "It's a go."

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"Do you think," begins Harry as he opens the second bottle of champagne, "that we could ever run away?"

From her perch on the enormous bed, Maude scowls into her crystal champagne flute. "Where?"

"I-I dunno really. Europe, say, or someplace in Africa."

"Africa is for heathens!" she scoffs, hopping down to get more champagne from him. He obliges idly, his eyes drifting around the room as though he is deep in thought.

"Then say we'll go to Paris," he yawns. "Or Rome, maybe."

Maude wrinkles her nose. "But why? I happen to be perfectly happy with Chicago. What more do you want?"

"You know what I want."

"No, I don't," she says frostily. "I'm afraid that you'll have to elaborate."

Leaning forwards, Harry balances his elbows on the tops of his knees and holds her gaze from across the room. "If you won't marry me, then let's run away." He sighs wistfully at the prospect as he continues, "Wouldn't it be grand, just you and I taking the world by storm?"

"It sounds like a terrible waste of money to me."

"I would thank you to think about this in great detail," he snaps, getting to his feet. "Instead of brushing off every word I say. You can be a horribly draining creature at times."