Mueller's Marbles

By Rick Lawin

In the 1930s, famous glassblower Ernst Muller perfected a secret technique to create a set of the most valuable marbles in the world. But as time rolled on and the dark clouds of world events prevailed, Ernst Mueller sadly lost his marbles. Flash forward to today. Meet FBI Agent Dana Dillion O’Toole, DD to her friends. DD loves rock and roll, fast cars and catching bad guys. But catching a good guy to love, just isn’t working for DD. She’s too quirky, and maybe too suspicious. One thing for sure, Agent O’Toole is one fiery, go-getter when it comes to solving a case. Problem is, DD runs too hot and fast which causes a few headaches for her nervous boss. It’s time for Agent O’Toole to chill and take a break. So, DD gets assigned to an irrelevant, go-nowhere case. Her boss is convinced Agent O’Toole will stay out of controversy and off the media radar. A frustrated and unhappy DD takes the case only to find herself free falling into a dark rabbit hole filled with zany, crazy people who are all in search of Muller’s Marbles.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Outskirts Press
• Release date: May 18, 2024
• ISBN: 9781977274984

Rick Lawin

Rick Lawin spent over 25 years on the Los Angeles Police Department and was assigned to the Air Support Division as a pilot and instructor in both fixed and rotary wing aircraft. Rick also worked as a charter and news pilot. He is rated in helicopters, multiengine airplanes, seaplanes and gliders. Rick holds a masters’ degree in Aeronautical Science and spent 22 years teaching aviation safety at a major university. He resides in Northern California, close to the High Sierra.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

1930s

LAUSCHA, GERMANY

MUELLER ’S GLASSWORKS SHOP

Vivid yellow and white flowers dotted the moss-covered forest floor. Tall, majestic spruce grew in thick stands intermingled with groves of beech trees. Here, nestled in a steep valley within the highlands near the Thuringia Forest, was the village of Lauscha, famous for handcrafted glassware decor.

Within their small shops, glass smiths, also known as glass blowers, tended their furnaces, transforming sand and silicon into stunning Christmas ornaments, colored baubles, and an assortment of spectacular gossamer-like figurines. But one man, famous for his glass sculptured eagles, was tediously engaged in a project known only to him.

Ernst Mueller stepped away from the ferocious heat of the furnace and laid down his punty, the long metal rod used to hold the soft superheated glass. He wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead, gave a long sigh, and then sat down on a wooden chair. Mueller, in his 60s, was of heavy frame, but not fat. His face showed few wrinkles given his age. Behind the gold-rimmed, smudged glasses were clear blue eyes. Only his thinning silver hair gave evidence to his advancing years.

He rubbed the stubble of whiskers on his chin while staring at the finality of his latest work: a set of twelve marbles. Each marble was just over an inch in diameter, large for the typical marble. But these were not typical marbles—far from it. Mueller was still contemplating the future and destination of his unique collection when he heard the squeak of the rusty hinges on the shop door. He turned and smiled, greeting the visitor who also bore a grin.

Hugo Eckener was about the same age as Ernst Mueller. He had a tan, leathery face, accented by a blondish goatee. He wore his hair short but with an unruly blonde tuff just above his forehead. The crow’s feet around his eyes seemed suggestive of an old sea captain who spent his life searching the horizon and sky. And, like Mueller, he was a veteran of the Great War where they had met. Eckener was an engineer and now company manager of the LZ Corporation. Mueller had forsaken his job as a draftsman and turned his talents to the craft of glass blowing.

The men vigorously shook hands. They spoke in German. Hugo, my friend, are you lost? What brings a man of your esteem and busy schedule to our little village of Lauscha? Mueller pointed to a set of chairs and small wooden table sequestered in the corner of the crowded workshop. Here, sit. May I offer you some schappes?

Only in a clean glass. And not the rot gut stuff we shared in our foxhole during the war. Eckener looked around at the cluttered shop and the various glass making tools. I see our country’s famous glassblower continues with his craft, impressing the world well beyond Germany.

Mueller smiled as he brought two clean glasses and a bottle. Hugo, this is fine drink, and it resides in a special glass decanter casted by me. Ernst poured from the decanter then raised his glass. Prost, my good friend.

And to you. The men touched glasses and were silent, sharing a moment of memories between old friends.

Mueller set his glass on the table. Did you come from Frankfurt just to see me?

No, not exactly. And I’m now working in Friedrichshafen, but I had business in Berlin and decided to make a detour and see my old friend.

Such a long journey from the south all the way to Berlin and now back. What is in Berlin, besides the idiots that now run the new government. Mueller and Eckener held a distaste for the changing German political climate.

Indeed, Ernst, an abundance of arrogant and ignorant buffoons stroll the halls of the Chancellery. I have a foreboding gloom about the future of our country and God knows what else. But yes, I was compelled to meet with them—to argue my case.

Mueller took another sip of his schnapps. And what case might that be?

They insist I paint their flag on our machines. And if I refuse to do so, they will nationalize my company.

Mueller shook his head in disgust as he refreshed his friend’s glass. What swine. Well, I will tell you a story Hugo. My set of glass eagles were on display at the Berlin art festival. But then I heard the slob Herr Herman Goring proclaimed that my glass art shall only be exhibited in the Chancellery as examples of pure blood German craftmanship. Bah, the fat fool and his conceited arrogance, Ernst said, taking another sip of schappes.

Hugo grinned. Ah, you are calling Germany’s former flying ace a fat slob?

Goring’s ass could never fit into a cockpit. He was never like the flying Red Baron, Manfred von Richthofen. Goring is an obese marionette to that mouthy beer sot Adolf.

Ernst, we speak freely between friends but trust me, things are changing. Our words must never leave your shop. There are people who have consumed the new government’s hypnotic elixir and will report any speech contrary to the establishment. We must be careful. These are becoming dangerous times.

Mueller nodded his agreement and then continued. Upon hearing this absurd order, I brought my glass work back here. Then, by fortune, I received a letter from America, the Smithsonian Museum. They wanted to put my eagles on exhibition at their art museum. Quite an honor, I must say. And so, I had them shipped to America where they will be displayed and then stored until I request them back.

And what of the rest of your various collections?

To Switzerland. Mueller gave a cagy smile. I met a woman at an art festival, a fine woman who can cook but also understands art—and me. I shipped my wares to her cottage in the Alps. And soon, if all goes well, I shall join her. Germany is not going in the direction I want.

Ah yes, many talented people are leaving or forced to flee. Did you hear Einstein is now living in America?

Yes, to Germany’s loss and America’s gain. Einstein, like many other intellectuals, is wanted and welcomed there. He is a brilliant physicist. I, however, am only a glass blower of limited fame. I could not get a visa to stay forever in America under these changing political clouds. He chuckled. But, at my age, I prefer to have a good woman waiting for me in the Alps and a small shop where I shall continue my craft, perhaps learn clock making, eat fresh sausage and cheese and drink schappes by the fire.

All good plans, Ernst, but what about those? Hugo pointed at the dozen marbles in a box. Are they what I think they are? he said with raised eyebrows.

Yes, marbles.

Ernst, when did you start making glass baubles for children, said Hugo, only half joking.

My friend, these are not to play with. Mueller reached down and handed a marble to Hugo.

Hugo stared at the glass bead that radiated a brilliant red sparkle that flowed from the marble, enhancing a kaleidscope of other colors that swirled through the glass. Hugo brought the marble close to his eyes while holding it with thumb and index finger as he studied it. The deep red light emanated from a stone centered in the marble. The color was so intense that Hugo placed the marble in his palm as if expecting it to be warm.

It is a ruby—a rare beryl ruby to be exact, said Ernst, watching his friend’s expression of amazement.

But how did you cast this incredible stone into the marble? Eckener asked, curious about the process.

Ah, a special technique that I perfected over years. It was trial and error, mostly error as many of the marbles cracked or became cloudy when I attempted to embed the ruby. But now I have learned the secret relationship between glass and nature’s stone.

Yes, so it appears my friend. Truly amazing. And a ruby is precious and rare. Can I inquire as to where you came upon these beautiful stones?

Mueller gave a sly grin as the men shared another schnapps. From Goring—in a roundabout way.

Hugo cocked his head. Goring? You make no sense, or I misheard you.

Mueller leaned back in the old rickety chair. I have an old friend, Klaus Gerhart, who is, or was, a geologist. He travels the world looking for minerals and precious stones. By some happenstance, he got hired by Goring to follow a rumor about beryl rubies in the Ecuador jungle. Goring wanted a walking stick made with the rare stones. So, he hired Klaus. Klaus said no at first but then decided the money and adventure would offset his dislike for Goring and his goon friends. Of course, Goring sent along his personal assistant—an arrogant and loyal drum beater of the new regime to ensure Klaus didn’t go astray if such rubies were ever located. His name was Herr Albert Schmidt.

I know Schmidt, said Hugo. A greasy, rude little man with an oversized ego who flutters around those with power.

Ernst smiled. Ha, I believe the Americans have a name for that, ‘bootlicker.’

Hugo was now intrigued. Continue, Ernst. This is indeed interesting.

The expedition was finally assembled. According to Klaus, it was a brutal trip through horrible bug and snake-infested Ecuadorian jungles. After weeks, and nearly half starved, they stumbled into the Jivaro villages. Klaus said these natives were warriors, savages, one might say, if you didn’t know their culture. Mueller raised his index finger. But Klaus did and got along fine with them. He gave them small gifts, some of my Christmas glass ornaments. In return, they offered him the daughter of the tribal leader. Klaus respectfully declined and then pointed to the ruby neckless one warrior was wearing and asked where such stones could be found. The chief offered to have his warriors take Klaus, only Klaus, to a distant cave where the red stones lay. Schmidt was not invited on the trek as he had irritated the tribal members when he slapped a chief who was eyeing his watch. Then, plagued with fever, Schmidt was forced to stay at the Jivaro village. Mueller leaned further back in his chair. Apparently after Klaus departed, things went a bit awry for Schmidt.

Hugo held a slight grin. Indeed, do tell.

Mueller continued. Klaus and his guides returned to the village within a fortnight—with the rubies. The chief told Klaus that Schmidt had been invited for a ceremonial dinner with another tribe just a few kilometers downstream. The chief then took the rubies, and a short time later, returned them to Klaus in a small, thatched box. He added that it was best that Klaus and Schmidt depart.

And then? asked Hugo, glancing at Mueller’s marbles. I suspect I’m looking at the rubies once destined for Goring’s cane. How did Schmidt and Klaus explain the loss of the stones, especially since Schmidt was Goring’s lackey?

Mueller cocked his head in the direction of a thatched box sitting on the nearby shelf. Klaus brought that by and then left for Sweden. It was necessary that he pursue his geological endeavors far out of the country.

Hugo wondered about the gaps in Ernst’s narrative as he walked over and opened the box. Uh, what the hell?

Mueller walked over and peeked over his friend’s shoulder. Yes, a shrunken head—Schmidt’s head to be exact, he said causally.

Hugo held up the shrunken head and examined it with the emotionless objectivity of a scientist. Very interesting and looks just like Schmidt, only in a reduced scale. Excellent miniaturization on his Nazi cap—fits perfectly. Quite the craftsmen, these Jivaro people. And obviously a good judge of character, given their disdain for Schmidt. Did they shrink the rest of him? he inquired, tossing Schmidt’s head back in the box.

No, according to Klaus, the only other word mentioned by the chief was the word ‘tasty.’ By then, Klaus was motivated to leave and get back to civilization.

Ah, yes, I can see the reason for an expedient departure. But what of the rubies, and why did Klaus bring them here, along with Schmidt’s head?

For several reasons. Klaus knew that Goring would blame him for Schmidt’s miniaturization and assume he then stole the rubies. Also, Klaus felt that such rare stones did not belong on a walking staff of some pompous Nazi party member. So, he left them here hoping that I could create a proper glass art piece using these rare stones. Mueller chuckled. Klaus wasn’t a total philanthropist or lover of art. He gave me a few rubies but kept several for himself. One might say, insurance, should geology not pay the bills.

And you say he’s in Sweden?

I now recall it was Iceland. He wanted to climb down into a sleeping volcano and study it, said Ernst.

Icelandic volcanos rarely sleep for long. Let us hope Klaus didn’t find one with insomnia.

Yes, a definite risk. In the meantime, I have perfected my intrusion process. He pointed to the box. And there you see a set of marbles filled with rare, priceless rubies. And therein lies a problem.

Ernst, I see several problems. Sooner or later the squealing rats of the new government will report to Goring that you and Klaus were friends, and he came here. Other stooges in the Post Office will inform on you. This will cause speculation concerning the whereabouts of Goring’s puppet, Schmidt, and the missing rubies. And the problem is further complicated as you have been ordered to display all works of art in the Chancellery. They will come, making inquiries which will become interrogations. Getting these marbles out of the country may prove difficult. And getting you out of the country may present an even greater challenge.

Mueller rubbed the back of neck. I have made secure travel plans for myself. However, I wanted these marbles displayed in the Smithsonian with my other art. I am proud of my work and Americans will give it honor. The director there will know the value. Klaus was friends with him and sent a letter regarding the background information and assessment of these rare rubies now a part of my unique glass artwork. Mueller gave a long sigh. But unfortunately, they were to be displayed with my eagle glassware in a week or so. Alas, there is no ship sailing that would reach America before the exhibit opens. It would have been nice to receive a final recognition for the sum of my work in perfecting Natures’ creation into glass. Now, I will attempt to smuggle these marbles across the border to Switzerland.

Hugo lifted the small box of marbles and felt the weight. He looked at Mueller. Ernst, they will get there before the exhibit opens. I will see to that, my friend. And no one will know they left the country.

Ernst Mueller grinned. Ah, I had forgotten about your business. Hugo, if that can be done without crossing paths with those officious pinhead bureaucrats, then I would be forever grateful.

Hugo Eckener gathered up the box. It shall be accomplished, my good friend. Do not worry. He looked at that box on the shelf. Any plans for Schmidt?

Just before I depart for Switzerland, I shall mail the box to Berlin. Our new government is run by small brains. Schmidt will fit right in. Both men gave a hearty laugh.

Hugo said his farewells and took the marbles and Mueller’s documents regarding the secret glass blowing process of the rare ruby marbles.

Several weeks later, Ernst Mueller received a post from the Smithsonian. The letter was brief. They had received his marbles. But, due to the political issues within Germany, his exhibit of glass eagles and marbles would be stowed and secured until the radical climate surrounding the country had changed. Unfortunately, the letter added, his marble collection had been separated from his eagles and misplaced.

Ernst Mueller cursed and tossed the letter in the furnace. The next day, Mueller set fire to his house and left for Switzerland to be with the woman who could cook and comfort him. On his way through Germany, he stopped and mailed Schmidt’s diminished head: Attention to Herr Herman Goring.

Months later, Ernst was in Switzerland and engaged in the art of clock making. Often, in the evening while sitting by the roaring fireplace sipping a glass of schappes and staring out over the Alps, Herr Ernst Mueller wondered about losing his marbles.

CHAPTER 2

1941

ALEXANDRIA, VA.

GARBER GOVERNMENT WAREHOUSE.

Eddie Hoslet, age 19, (with a fake ID that said 21) was a tall, lanky, quick-witted kid, who carried a shag of black wavy hair. His bright brown eyes and a perpetual grin seemed indicative of an optimistic attitude—a rare persona for a young draftable man during these beginning dark days of war.

Eddie stacked another wooden box on a hand cart and pushed it to the loading dock. There were hundreds of boxes in the small warehouse, all stenciled Property of Smithsonian. The Army had taken over the warehouse for logistics and this museum crap, according to his boss, had to be moved out and sent elsewhere. Eddie’s boss, Harvey Bean was a dour, cranky man with the personality of 50-grit sandpaper. Probably because his wife was in love with a trumpet player from the Glen Miller Band, thought Eddie, while leaning against the hand cart daydreaming. So, Bean hated all musicians, including Eddie, who played the piano.

Eddie’s job was to schlep boxes upon boxes to the loading dock. Eddie wasn’t into schlepping. Never was and never would be. There were other ways to make a living. Manual labor wasn’t one of them. But he needed money to pay the rent for the small room at Mrs. Miller’s house, an old spinster who was unsympathetic on late payments. His true love, playing the piano at the Senator’s Night Club, wasn’t netting him a roll of bucks, but it was an enjoyable gig tickling the ivory until the draft board caught up with him.

Eddie Hoslet wasn’t a draft dodger but wanted more time to assess his position in life before getting swallowed up in the uniforms of war. He was a damn good piano player, had an occasional work ethic, and was in love with Rae Anne, the cute singer who sat on top of his piano at the club. She would sing as he tried not to miss a beat while staring at her long legs. She was about Eddie’s age and friendly, but she rebuffed his various slick attempts to get her to sleep with him. Eddie leaned against the cart, hand on his chin, thinking about his future, which included bedding Ray Anne. His wistful thoughts were interrupted by a loud obnoxious voice.

Hoslet, that’s a hand cart—not a chair, said Harvey Bean. Get your ass working or get your ass out. And why haven’t you been drafted yet? Goddamn draft dodger.

What a crotchety jerk, thought Eddie. No, Mr. Bean, as I said before, I’m waiting to be called. I signed up for pilot training. I’m gonna be a fighter pilot. Well, that wasn’t quite the truth—far from it. But Eddie knew how to spin a story with quick fabrications and convincing looks. They said I could have a bit more time in order to help you finish this important job for the US Army, getting this critical warehouse ready for the war effort.

Bean folded his arms and raised his eyebrows, casting a dubious look. His suspicious frown turned neutral hearing his name and the importance of his job. Eddie smiled inside, knowing his gifted art of prevarication had scored.

So, Hoslet, you’re gonna be a pilot, huh? Bean pointed down the aisle. Well, then get that busted up crate over there and ‘pile-it’ to the loading dock. I’m goin’ to lunch. Have it done before I get back. Bean walked away, chuckling at his own joke.

Asshole, said Eddie under his breath, walking over to the stack of tilting, unstable crates. He saw that the bottom crates were crumpled, causing the smaller box on top to precariously hang on the edge. Just great, he mumbled, climbing up the rickety wooden crates to reach the smaller one and bring it down. He balanced on one foot and then reached for the top box when everything gave way.

Ooooh shit. Eddie fell backwards as the small wooden box came tumbling down, whacking him in the head. Ooof! The air blew out of his lungs as he flopped to the cold concrete floor.

After a moment, Eddie rolled over and got himself up on one elbow and shook his head several times to stop his brain bell from ringing. He glanced over at the small box now split open. Just then, a small marble rolled out and stopped at his hand. He grabbed it. He stared at it. He stared at it again, bringing it closer to his eye. It seemed to radiate a fiery, deep red glow from the center, the red rays swirling about the other canes of color in the glass. Eddie shook his head, blinked his eyes, and refocused on the small, perfectly smooth, round piece of glass.

For a second, Eddie figured he had suffered a concussion and was seeing things. How could a small marble, maybe an inch or so in diameter, burst with so much vibrant color. He looked inside the box. To his surprise, there were eleven more marbles along with a brown envelope. Now curious, he opened the envelope; a packing slip of some sort he figured. The first faded page was stamped 1930-something. He squinted trying to read more of the barely visible handwriting. There was something about arrival by LZ 127. Valuable: Secure in museum vault with artist’s documents. Eddie flipped the page and read the description of the marbles. Holy smokes, he said aloud, reading about the rare ruby Mueller Marble Collection and the listed value of a whopping 250,000.00 US dollars. Jesus, and that was in 1930! Eddie looked at the stencil on top of the broken box. RARE MEXICAN IGUANA EGGS. It became obvious somebody had misplaced Mueller’s Marbles. And after all these years, nobody realized that within this government warehouse packed with hundreds of crates and boxes were a dozen valuable dazzling little marbles.

The brain fog cleared, and