Peter Benchley - The Deep

Gail found the ampule and handed it to Tupper. He held it to the light. “A nice piece,” he said.

“Not outstanding, but a nice piece.”

“It’s an ampule,” said Sanders. “You see them all over the place.”

“True, but there is a tiny bubble at one end of the glass. That was Reinhardt’s signature.”

“What’s in it? “Gail asked.

“I have no idea. It could be anything. That’s not my concern.”

Gail smiled. “For someone who doesn’t care what’s inside, you’re studying it awfully carefully.”

“I am studying the container, not the contents. The liquid looks yellow, but it might be quite clear.

Reinhardt glass often imparts its own hue to liquids.” Tupper returned the ampule to Gail. “Very nice. I’m prepared to offer you twenty dollars for it.”

“Twenty dollars!” said Sanders. “But it’s-was “I know, that sounds like a lot. But as I said, in our little coterie there is a certain rivalry. I’d like very much to be the first to have a piece of Reinhardt’s work. Frankly, the piece isn’t worth more than ten dollars, but by offering you twenty I know I’m offering more than most of the others could pay.

Someone like your acquaintance, Slake, couldn’t possibly go higher than ten dollars. I am making what could be called a pre-emptive bid.”

“Would you mind if we draw off some of the liquid?”

Gail said. “We’re interested in knowing what’s inside, even if you’re not.”

“No,” Tupper said. “That’s quite impossible.

To draw off the liquid, you would have to break an end of the piece. That would ruin its value.”

“Then I’m afraid there’s no sale,” Sanders said.

“Thirty dollars,” Tupper said, abandoning his deferential charm.

“No,” said Sanders. “Not even for fifty.”

“You’re making a mistake, you know. No one else will offer you anywhere near that much.”

“Then I guess we’ll just have to keep the piece ourselves,” Sanders said. “After all, you said yourself that it’s quite a coup to have a piece of Reinhardt glass.”

Tupper glared at him, then nodded to Gail, said good night and backed off the porch. A few yards down the path he parted some bushes, stepped into the underbrush, and was gone.

“What the hell do you make of that?” Sanders said.

Gail stood up. “Let’s go inside. If he could hang around in the bushes without our hearing him, God knows what else is creeping around out there.”

They went into the cottage, and Sanders locked the door. “You believe him?”

“No. Do you?”

“Who knows from Reinhardt glass?”

“If there’s such competition between glass nuts,” Gail said, “why would Slake have told him about the ampule? He’d have offered to buy it himself. No. I bet he isn’t interested in the glass. He’s after what’s inside.”

“I wonder why he didn’t say so.”

“I don’t know. I guess it’s pretty hard to pass yourself off as a liquid-collector.”

“Have you got the rest of the stuff we found?”

“Sure,” Gail said. “Why?”

“Tomorrow, let’s see if we can find someone who knows something about the wreck. Maybe there’s an old manifest; at least that’d tell us what Goliath was carrying.”

“There were no survivors?” Gail said.

“One,” replied the bell captain, a corpulent, middle-aged Briton, “but he’s about gone by these days.”

“Gone by?”

The bell captain touched his head. “Dotty. He’d tell you volumes, but two thirds of it would be fancy. There is one man who might be able to help you, Romer Treece. He’s been on every wreck off Bermuda; found half of them himself. If anyone knows these waters, he does.”

“Is he in the phone book?” Sanders asked.

“He has no telephone. The only way to contact him is to go out to his home, on St. David’s Island.”

“Okay. I saw some motorbikes out front.

Are they for rent?”

“The little ones—the mobilettes—yes.” The bell captain paused. “Mr. Sanders… do you know about St. David’s?”

“What’s to know? I’ve seen it on the map.”

“They’re not exactly… hospitable… out there. They don’t consider themselves Bermudians; they’re St. David’s Islanders.

There’s a bridge, the Severn Bridge, connecting the island to the rest of Bermuda. They’d as soon it fell down and was never rebuilt.”

Sanders laughed. “What are they, hermits?”

“No, but they’re a proud people, and a bit bitter, too. They make their own rules, and the Bermuda Government looks the other way. There’s a mutual agreement, I guess you could say a recompense for slavery.”

“Slavery?”

“The ancestors of St. David’s Islanders were slaves. Half of them were Mahican Indians, troublemakers sent down by the American colonists.

The other half were unruly Irish, shipped over by the British. Over the years they intermarried, and they created as hard a bloodline as you’d care to see.”

“They sound fascinating,” Gail said.

“In daylight, ma’am. Don’t linger in St. David’s after dark.”

Sanders said, “Thanks for the advice. I left our air tanks down in the equipment shed. Can we get them filled again?”

The bell captain didn’t answer. He looked uneasy. “I… I meant to ask you, Mr. Sanders.” He held up two wallet cards. “The cards you gave me. Forgive my ignorance, but I’m not familiar with NIDA.”

“Oh sure,” Sanders said smoothly. “National Independent Divers Association. There are so many divers these days, NAUI and the y can’t handle them all. NIDA’S a new group.”

“Of course.” The bell captain made a note on a pad. “It’s regulations. I hope you understand.”

“No problem.”

Gail and David went outside and ordered motorbikes from the Orange Grove cycle shop.

While the clerk was filling out forms, Gail whispered, “What was that business with the cards?”

Sanders said, “I thought that might happen. They’re getting tighter every year. You can’t get air without a certification card.”

“But we’ve never been certified.”

“I know. I had the cards made in New York.”

“What’s NIDA? Is there such a thing?”

“Not that I know of. Don’t worry. They never check. They just have to have something to put on file.”

“We probably should have taken the y course,” Gail said. “Yesterday was the first time I’ve dived in a year.”

“Who’s got fourteen Tuesday nights to waste in a swimming pool?” Sanders put his arm around her waist. “You’ll be fine.”

“It’s not just me I’m worried about.”

They listened to instructions about how to operate the motorbikes. The clerk pointed to a row of helmets and said, “What are your hat sizes?”

“Forget it,” Sanders said. “I hate those things.”

“It’s the law. You have no choice. The police can confiscate the bikes.”

“It seems to me,” Sanders said irritably, “that I should be able to decide for myself…” He stopped, feeling Gail’s hand on his arm. “Oh, all right.”

Gail put the towel full of artifacts from Goliath in the basket on the rear fender of her bike and patted her shirt pocket to make sure the ampule was there.

They set off, heading northeast on South Road.

The wind had gone around to the southeast, and as they putted along the road overlooking the south shore, Sanders pointed to the reefs: what yesterday had been a calm anchorage for the Whaler was now a churning boil of foam. Waves crashed on the rocks. Even shoreward of the reefs, the wind-whipped water gathered enough force to make surf on the beach.

The road was crowded with small slow taxicabs, whose drivers-though they had known each other all their lives and saw each other every day-impulsively waved and honked their high-pitched, bleating horns at each other.