Medusa

CHAPTER 33

THE TROUTS HAD TO WAIT UNTIL THE AFTERNOON FOR AN available NUMA executive jet, but New Bedford Regional Airport was only about an hour’s flight from Washington. With Gamay navigating, Paul drove their rented SUV past the stately old houses that bordered County Street and swung in to a horseshoe-shaped driveway. A sign in front of the butternut-and-mustard Greek Revival mansion identified the house as the CAPTAIN HORATIO DOBBS MUSEUM AND GARDENS.

The Trouts climbed to the porch, passing between tall Doric columns, and rang the bell. A middle-aged woman opened the door.

“Oh, dear,” she said, her smile vanishing. “I thought you were the electrician.”

Gamay said, “I’m afraid not. We’re from the National Underwater and Marine Agency. We called you earlier today from Washington.”

The smile returned.

“Oh, yes, Mr. Perlmutter’s friends. St. Julien is a lovely man. Come in. I’m Rachael Dobbs. Excuse me for being a bit flustered. The Dobbs Foundation rented a patio tent for a jazz concert tonight, and there’s a problem with the sound system.”

The Trouts stepped into a high-ceilinged vestibule and followed Rachael along a long hallway. The parquet floor had been buffed to a mirror finish. She stopped in front of side-by-side oil paintings. The bearded man in one portrait held a sextant in his big hands. Flinty gray eyes looked out over an eagle nose. The woman in the other portrait wore a dark velvet dress, with a simple lace collar encircling her graceful neck. Large hazel eyes looked out with a steady gaze. There was a slight smile on her thin lips, as if amused by a secret joke.

“These are my great-great-great-grandparents. Captain Horatio and Hepsa Dobbs,” Rachael said.

Hepsa and Rachael shared the same carrot-colored hair.

“The resemblance is striking,” Paul said.

“I’m pleased with Hepsa’s gift of her red hair, but I would have preferred less of a proboscis from the captain,” she said. “As you can see, he had plenty to go around.”

Rachael Dobbs gave the Trouts a tour of the mansion, introducing the family members in the portraits that covered every wall. The men wore wide-brimmed, Quaker-style hats, the women demure caps.

She pointed to a display case that held a battered top hat.

“That was the captain’s lucky chapeau. He wore it on every whaling expedition.”

They went out onto a broad deck overlooking a formal English garden bordered with rosebushes. She seated the Trouts at an umbrellaed table on the patio and brought out glasses of iced tea.

“Thank you for the tour,” Gamay said. “It’s a beautiful house.”

“The captain and his wife moved up here from Johnny Cake Hill. The whaling merchants wanted bigger homes and gardens that reflected their status in the community. Now, how may I help you? St. Julien said on the phone that you were interested in one of the captain’s logbooks.”

“We received a query from a virologist who asked us about an epidemic that struck the Pacific whaling fleet in 1848,” Gamay said. “We’re surveying logbooks from that time to see if we can find any mention of the event.”

Rachael raised an eyebrow.

“The 1848 voyage was the captain’s last whaling expedition,” she said. “He retired from the sea after that voyage.”

“Wasn’t that unusual?” Paul asked. “From what we’ve heard, your ancestor was an extremely successful whaler.”

“He was probably the best of his day. And you’re right about it being odd that he stopped going to sea at the peak of his career. He had brought in a full hold of sperm oil on his ship’s maiden voyage and could have had any command he wanted. He said he wanted to spend more time with Hepsa, whom he had married before he left on that final expedition.”

“I don’t blame him for wanting to stay home,” Paul said. “Your ancestor was a beautiful woman.”

Rachael blushed at the indirect compliment.

“Thank you. The captain went to work for the Rotch family. They invented the vertical-integration model still used by multinational corporations and applied it to the whaling industry.” She paused in thought, then said, “According to the Dobbs family lore, something happened on that last voyage that changed his views.”

“The face in the captain’s portrait didn’t belong to a man who would scare easily,” Paul said.

“No disagreement, Mr. Trout. The captain had been a harpooner before he worked his way up. Anyone who stands in a frail wooden boat and antagonizes a seventy-foot-long sperm whale is not fainthearted.”

Gamay leaned forward.

“Could the Caleb Nye incident have had anything to do with the captain’s decision?” she asked.

Rachael shook her head.

“Caleb’s experience would have been a wonderful story for the captain to tell other ship captains when they got together,” she said.

“I believe you told St. Julien that the logbook for the 1848 voyage was destroyed,” Gamay said.

“Unfortunately, yes,” Rachael said with a sigh. “Caleb’s whaling library went up in flames when his house burned to the ground. He must have been heartbroken at losing his beloved library. There’s now housing for the elderly on the site of the old Nye mansion in Fairhaven.”

“Isn’t it curious that the captain would have given his log to a former crewman?” Gamay said.

“Not really. The captain would have known about Caleb’s book collection. Also, there was a peculiar bond between the two men. It was said that the captain felt personally responsible for the young man’s unfortunate condition. He wrote an affidavit saying that the Jonah story was true. It was read at the traveling show and helped make Caleb a rich man.”

“Did Caleb ever write a book about his adventure?”

“Not that I know of. He made the lecture circuit for years under the guidance of a P. T. Barnum type, a promoter named Strater, and they sold pamphlets at the shows, so maybe that was more lucrative than a book would have been. There must have been a great deal written about Caleb. You could dig into old newspaper files, for a start.”

Rachael excused herself to answer the doorbell and came back a moment later.

“The electrician is here. We could talk later, if you don’t mind waiting.”

“We’re on a tight schedule,” Gamay said. “Do you have any suggestions on how we might find out more about Caleb Nye?”

“You could start in our basement. We have a section of the diorama Nye used in his presentations. He gave it to a library, but they ran out of room and shipped it over here. We didn’t have room for it, either. Perhaps I can show it to you when I’m not so busy.

“In the meantime, there is the New Bedford Whaling Museum. And the various local historical societies. But since you’re short on time, there is one other avenue, although I hesitate to suggest it.”

“We’re grasping at straws,” Paul said. “Give it a try.”

“Well, then,” she said with a shrug, “you might want to talk to Harvey Brimmer. He deals in antique documents from a shop near the Seamen’s Bethel on Johnny Cake Hill. He unearths some amazing old documents from time to time.”

“Why do you hesitate to recommend Mr. Brimmer?” Paul asked.

“Harvey has a reputation for collecting upfront fees, then not locating the documents he was hired to find. There have been rumors of forgeries and dealing in stolen documents, but either the rumors are false or he’s too slick to get caught. I believe the latter.”

“Thank you for the warning,” Paul said. “We’ll watch ourselves if we talk to Mr. Brimmer.”

“Please don’t tell Harvey I mentioned him. He would take that as a license to use the Dobbs name in an advertisement.”

The Trouts gave Rachael a sizable contribution to put in the museum’s donation box. On the way out, she stopped in front of a print that showed a huge textile mill complex.

“That’s the Dobbs mill. The captain became even wealthier when he invested in the textile business. He was apparently robust and would have lived a long life if he hadn’t been killed when a loom fell on him. Good luck with your research,” she said in parting, then scurried off to meet with the electrician.

“Wasn’t Brimmer the guy Song Lee contacted when she was looking for the logbook?” Paul asked.

“I’m sure that was his name,” Gamay said. “Maybe we’ll have more success than she did.”

After leaving the Dobbs mansion, the Trouts drove toward the waterfront. The former heart of the world’s whaling industry had dwindled through the centuries to several blocks of historic buildings. Connected by cobblestone streets, the old banks and ship’s chandleries that had serviced the sperm-oil industry now overlooked the fishing fleet and processing buildings that lined the Acushnet River.

Brimmer’s shop was on the ground floor of a three-story clap-board building. The peeling red paint revealed the gray primer underneath, and the black wooden sign over the door was so faded it was almost impossible to make out H. BRIMMER ANTIQUE BOOKS, MAPS, AND DOCUMENTS.

The Trouts stepped into the shop and adjusted their eyes to the dim light. Several filing cabinets lined walls that were covered with paintings showing various aspects of the whaling trade. At the center of the room were a large wooden table and a couple of green-shaded banker’s lamps. Dozens of maps of all sizes covered the top of the table.

A door at the back of the shop opened in response to the jingling of the bell hanging on the front door, and a thinly built man stepped out. He stared at the Trouts from behind thick glasses.

These visitors didn’t fit the mold of the scholarly collectors or occasional tourists who were his usual patrons. At six foot eight, Paul was taller than most men, and Gamay had a magnetic presence more striking than beautiful.

“Good afternoon,” the man said with a smile. “I’m Harvey Brimmer. May I be of some assistance?”

Brimmer could have played a country druggist in a Frank Capra film. He was of less than average height, and he stooped slightly at the shoulders, as if he spent a long time bending over a desk. His thinning pepper-and-salt hair was parted slightly off the middle. He was dressed conservatively in gray suit pants and a white dress shirt. He wore a whale-motif blue tie knotted in a Windsor.

“I’m Paul Trout, and this is my wife, Gamay. We’re looking for any material you might have on Caleb Nye.”

Brimmer’s watery blue eyes widened behind his wire-rimmed bifocals.

“Caleb Nye! Now, that’s a name you don’t hear very often. How did you come to know about our local Jonah?”

“My wife and I are whaling-history buffs. We came across Caleb’s name in connection with Captain Horatio Dobbs. We were on our way to the Whaling Museum and saw your sign.”

“Well, you are in luck. I can put my hands on some brochures from his traveling show. They’re in storage at my workshop.”

“We wondered if there were any logbooks available for the Princess that may have survived the Nye mansion fire,” Gamay said.

Brimmer frowned.

“The fire was a tragedy. As an antiquarian, I can only guess at the rare volumes he had in his library. But all is not lost. I may be able to get my hands on a Princess logbook. She sailed for many years before she became part of the Stone Fleet, sunk off Charleston Harbor during the Civil War. The logbooks were dispersed to museums and private collectors. I’d need a finder’s fee up front.”

“Of course,” Gamay said. “Would you be able to find the logbook for 1848?”

Brimmer’s eyes narrowed behind his bifocals.

“Why that particular log?”

“It was Captain Dobbs’s last whaling voyage,” she replied. “We’d be prepared to pay whatever it takes.”

Brimmer pinched his chin between his forefinger and thumb.

“I believe I may be able to help you,” he said.

“Then the log wasn’t destroyed?” Paul asked.

“Possibly not. There’s a little-known story about Caleb Nye. He married a Fairhaven girl, but the family was not pleased at her betrothal to someone considered a freak, rich as he was, and they kept the matter quiet. The Nyes even had a daughter who was given some of the books from the library as a dowry. I have contacts I can check with, but I’d need a few hours. Can I call you?”

Paul handed Brimmer a business card with his cell-phone number on it.

Brimmer saw the logo.

“NUMA? Splendid. A query from your renowned agency might open doors.”

“Please let us know as soon as you hear something,” Paul said.

Gamay signed an agreement and wrote out a check for the large finder’s fee. They shook hands all around.

HARVEY BRIMMER WATCHED through the window of his shop until the Trouts were out of sight, then he hung a CLOSED sign on the door and went to his office behind the showroom. The documents and maps in his shop were actually overpriced prints of originals or low-end antiques for the tourist trade.

Brimmer picked up the phone and dialed a number from his Rolodex.

“Harvey Brimmer,” he said to the person at the other end of the line. “We talked a few days ago about a rare book. I’ve got some buyers interested in the same property. The price may go up. Yes, I can wait for your call. Don’t be too long.”

He hung up and sat back in his chair, a smug expression on his face. He remembered the first time someone had asked about the Princess logbook of 1848. The call had come in years before from a young woman at Harvard. He told her he would put out the word, but she said she would have to wait because she was going home to China. He hadn’t thought about the inquiry again until a few weeks ago when an Asian man dropped by the shop looking for the same item. The man was an unlikely customer, young and tough-looking, and he didn’t hide his irritation when he was told the book was not available.

Brimmer could not have known that the visit from the young man had been instigated when Song Lee called Dr. Huang from Bonefish Key and mentioned the story of the New Bedford anomaly. She told her mentor that she was convinced that the medical curiosity had a bearing on her work and she was thinking of going to New Bedford to see an antique book dealer named Brimmer when she had time.

As instructed, Dr. Huang had passed along the details of every conversation he had with the young epidemiologist. Within minutes, a call had gone out to a social club in Boston’s Chinatown with orders to visit Brimmer’s shop. Soon after that, the leader of the local Ghost Dragons chapter walked into Brimmer’s shop and said he was looking for the 1848 logbook of the Princess.

Now the couple from NUMA.

Brimmer didn’t know what was going on, but there was nothing a dealer liked better than to have collectors bidding against one another. He would go through the motions and make a few calls. He would keep the finder’s fees from all three parties and offer them something else. He was a master of bait and switch. Business had been off lately, and this promised to be a profitable day.

What he didn’t know was that it would be his last day.

THE TROUTS STEPPED FROM the dim shop into the afternoon sunshine and walked up Johnny Cake Hill to the Seamen’s Bethel. They tossed a few bills in the donation box and went inside the old whaling men’s church. The pulpit had been rebuilt in recent years to resemble a ship’s prow, as it had in Herman Melville’s time.

Paul waited for a couple of tourists to leave and then turned to Gamay.

“What did you think of Brimmer?” he asked.

“I think he’s a slippery old eel,” she said. “My advice is not to hold our breath waiting for him to come through. He’ll dig out the first logbook he can get his hands on, forge a new date, and try to sell it to us.”

“Did you see his expression change when we mentioned Captain Dobbs’s 1848 logbook?” he said.

“Couldn’t miss it!” she said. “Brimmer forgot his Mr. Friendly impersonation.”

Paul let his eye wander to the marble tablets hung on the wall that were inscribed with the names of captains and crews lost in the far corners of the world.

“Those old whalers were tough as nails,” he said.

“Some were tougher than others,” she said, “if you can believe Song Lee’s story about the New Bedford pod.”

Paul pursed his lips.

“That medical phenomenon is a link between the past and the present. I’d love to read the paper that Lee wrote at Harvard.”

Gamay slipped her BlackBerry out of her handbag. “Do you remember the name of Lee’s professor?”

“How could I forget?” Paul said with a smile. “His name was Codman.”

“Trout . . . Cod . . . Why are practically all you New Englanders named after fish?”

“Because we didn’t have wine connoisseurs for fathers.”

“Touche,” she said.

She called up the Harvard Medical School on her BlackBerry, thumb-typed Codman’s name into a person finder, and called the number shown on the screen. A man who identified himself as Lysander Codman answered the call.

“Hello, Dr. Codman? My name is Dr. Gamay Morgan-Trout. I’m a friend of Dr. Song Lee. I’m hoping that you remember her.”

“Dr. Lee? How could I forget that brilliant young woman? How is she these days?”

“We saw her yesterday, and she’s fine. She’s working with some NUMA colleagues of mine, but she mentioned a paper she had done at Harvard and submitted to you. It has something to do with a medical phenomenon called the New Bedford anomaly.”

“Oh, yes,” Codman said. Gamay could hear him chuckling. “It was an unusual subject.”

“We told Song Lee we’d be in the neighborhood, and she asked if my husband and I could swing by and pick up a copy for her. She’s lost the original.”

The professor had no reason to have kept a paper from one of hundreds of students who had passed through his classroom, but he said, “Normally, I wouldn’t hold on to a student’s paper, but the subject was so bizarre I kept it in what I call the Book of the Dead, as Charles Fort termed subjects that can be neither proven nor disproven. I’m sure I can put my hands on it.”

Gamy gave Paul a thumbs-up.

“Thank you very much, Professor. We’ll be there in a little over an hour, if that’s convenient.”

She jotted down directions to Codman’s office in her BlackBerry, and then she and Paul walked from the whaling chapel to the car. Minutes later, they were heading north out of the city.