Clive Cussler - Inca Gold

He leaned his great bulk back in the chair and sighed. The diary added little to what he already knew. Drake had sent the Concepcion back to England under the command of the Golden Hind's sailing master, Thomas Cuttill. The galleon was never seen again and was presumed lost at sea with all hands.

Beyond that, the only mention of the fate of the Concepcion was unverified. It came from a book Perlmutter could recall reading on the Amazon River, published in 1939 by journalist/explorer Nicholas Bender, who followed the routes of the early explorers in search of El Dorado. Perlmutter called up the book from the library staff and reexamined it. In the Note section there was a she-t reference to a 1594 Portuguese survey expedition that had come upon an Englishman living with a tribe of local inhabitants beside the river. The Englishman claimed that he had served under the English sea dog, Francis Drake, who placed him in command of a Spanish treasure galleon that was swept into a jungle by an immense tidal wave. The Portuguese thought the man quite mad and continued on their mission, leaving him in the village where they found him.

Perlmutter made a note of the publisher. Then he signed the Drake diary and Bender's book back to the library staff and caught a taxi home. He felt discouraged, but it was not the first time he had failed to run down a clue to a historical puzzle from the twenty-five million books and forty million manuscripts in the library. The key to unlocking the mystery of the Concepcion, if there was one, had to be buried somewhere else.

Perlmutter sat in the backseat of the cab and stared out the window at the passing automobiles and buildings without seeing them. He knew from experience that each research project moved at a pace all its own. Some threw out the key answers with a shower of fireworks. Others entangled themselves in an endless maze of dead ends and slowly died without a solution. The Concepcion enigma was different. It appeared as a shadow that eluded his grip. Did Nicholas Bender quote a genuine source, or did he embellish a myth as so many nonfiction authors were prone to do?

The question was still goading his mind when he walked into the clutter that was his office. A ship's clock on the mantel read three thirty-five in the afternoon. Still plenty of time to make calls before most businesses closed. He settled into a handsome leather swivel chair behind his desk and punched in the number for New York City information. The operator gave him the number of Bender's publishing house almost before he finished asking for it. Then Perlmutter poured a snifter of Napoleon brandy and waited for his call to go through. No doubt one more wasted effort, he thought. Bender was probably dead by now and so was his editor.

"Falkner and Massey," answered a female voice heavy with the city's distinct accent.

"I'd like to talk to the editor of Nicholas Bender, please."

Nicholas Bender?"

"He's one of your authors."

"I'm sorry, sir. I don't know the name."

"Mr. Bender wrote nonfiction adventure books a long time ago. Perhaps someone who has been on your staff for a number of years might recall him?"

"I'll direct you to Mr. Adams, our senior editor. He's been with the company longer than anyone I know."

"Thank you."

There was a good thirty-second pause, and then a man answered. "Frank Adams here."

"Mr. Adams, my name is St. Julien Perlmutter."

"A pleasure, Mr. Perlmutter. I've heard of you. You're down in Washington, I believe."

"Yes, I live in the capital."

"Keep us in mind should you decide to publish a book on maritime history."

"I've yet to finish any book I started." Perlmutter laughed. "We'll both grow old waiting for a completed manuscript from me."

"At seventy-four, I'm already old," said Adams congenially.

"The very reason I rang you," said Perlmutter. "Do you recall a Nicholas Bender?"

"I do indeed. He was somewhat of a soldier of fortune in his youth. We've published quite a few of the books he wrote describing his travels in the days before globetrotting was discovered by the middle class."

"I'm trying to trace the source of a reference he made in a book called On the Trail of El Dorado."

"That's ancient history. We must have published that book back in the early forties."

"Nineteen thirty-nine to be exact."

"How can I help you?"

"I was hoping Bender might have donated his notes and manuscripts to a university archive. I'd like to study them."

"I really don't know what he did with his material," said Adams. "I'll have to ask him."

"He's still alive?" Perlmutter asked in surprise.

"Oh dear me, yes. I had dinner with him not more than three months ago."

"He must be in his nineties."

"Nicholas is eighty-four. I believe he was just twenty-five when he wrote On the Trail of El Dorado. That was only the second of twenty-six books we published for him. The last was in 1978, a book on hiking in the Yukon."

"Does Mr. Bender still have all his mental faculties?"

"He does indeed. Nicholas is as sharp as an icepick despite his poor health."

"May I have a number where I can reach him?"

"I doubt whether he'll take any calls from strangers. Since his wife died, Nicholas has become somewhat of a recluse. He lives on a small farm in Vermont, sadly waiting to die."

"I don't mean to sound heartless," said Perlmutter. "But it is most urgent that I speak to him."

"Since you're a respected authority on maritime lore and a renowned gourmand, I'm sure he wouldn't mind talking to you. But first, let me pave the way just to play safe. What is your number should he wish to call you direct?"

Perlmutter gave Adams the phone number for the line he used only for close friends. "Thank you, Mr. Adams. If I ever do write a manuscript on shipwrecks, you'll be the first editor to read it."

He hung up, ambled into his kitchen, opened the refrigerator, expertly shucked a dozen Gulf oysters, poured a few drops of Tabasco and sherry vinegar into the open shells, and downed them accompanied by a bottle of Anchor Steam beer. His timing was perfect. He had no sooner polished off the oysters and dropped the empty bottle in a trash compactor when the phone rang.

"Julien Perlmutter here."

"Hello," replied a remarkably deep voice. "This is Nicholas Bender. Frank Adams said you wished to speak to me."

"Yes, sir, thank you. I didn't expect you to call me so soon."

"Always delighted to talk to someone who has read my books," said Bender cheerfully. "Not many of you left."

"The book I found of interest was On the Trail of El Dorado."

"Yes, Yes, I nearly died ten times during that trek through hell."

"You made a reference to a Portuguese survey mission that found a crewman of Sir Francis Drake living among the natives along the Amazon River."

"Thomas Cuttill," Bender replied without the slightest hesitation. "I recall including the event in my book, yes."

"I wonder if you could refer me to the source of your information," said Perlmutter, his hopes rising with Bender's quick recollection.

"If I may ask, Mr. Perlmutter, what exactly is it you are pursuing?"

"I'm researching the history of a Spanish treasure galleon captured by Drake. Most reports put the ship lost at sea on its way back to England. But according to your account of Thomas Cuttill, it was carried into a rain forest on the crest of a tidal wave."

"That's quite true," replied Bender. "I'd have looked for her myself if I had thought there was the slightest chance of finding anything. But the jungle where she disappeared is so thick you'd literally have to stumble and fall on the wreck before you'd see it."

"You're that positive the Portuguese account of finding Cuttill is not just a fabrication or a myth?"

"It is historical fact. There is no doubt about that."