Clive Cussler - Inca Gold

"Quaint place. Hermetically sealed within the Twilight Zone."

"Atmosphere is half the enjoyment," said Gaskill resignedly.

"Why is it when I pay, we eat in a class establishment, but when it's your turn we wind up in a geriatric beanery?"

"It's knowing I always get a good table."

"What about the food?"

Gaskill smiled. "Best place I know to eat good chicken."

Ragsdale gave him a look just shy of nausea and ignored the menu, mimeographed entrees between sheets of plastic. "I'll throw caution to the winds and risk botulism with a bowl of soup and a cup of coffee."

"Congratulations on solving the Fairchild Museum theft in Scarsdale. I hear you recovered twenty missing Sung dynasty jade carvings."

"Twenty-two. I've got to admit I passed over the least obvious suspect until I drew blanks on all the probables. The seventy-two-year-old director of security. Who would have figured him? He worked at the museum for close to thirty-two years. A record as clean as a surgeon's scrubbed hands. The curator refused to believe it until the old guy broke down and confessed. He had removed the carved figurines one at a time over a period of four years, returning after closing hours, shutting down the alarm system, picking the locks on the cases and lowering the carvings into the bushes beside the building from a bathroom window. He replaced the stolen carvings in the cases with less valuable pieces stored in a basement vault. The catalogue labels were also altered. He even managed to reset the raised stands in their exact positions without leaving telltale dust-free spots on the floor of the cases. Museum officials were more than impressed with his display technique."

The waitress, the archetype of all those who wait on counters and tables in small-town cafes or truck stop restaurants, pencil in funny little cap, jaws furiously grinding gum, and surgical stockings hiding varicose veins, came over, pencil stub poised above a small green pad.

"Dare I ask what your soup of the day is?" inquired Ragsdale loftily.

"Curried lentil with ham and apple."

Ragsdale did a double take. "Did I hear you correctly?"

"Want me to repeat it?"

"No, no, the curried lentil soup will be fine."

The waitress wagged her pencil at Gaskill. "I know what you want." She yelled their orders to an unseen chef in the kitchen in a voice mixed with ground glass and river gravel.

"After thirty-two years," asked Gaskill, continuing the conversation, "what triggered the museum's security chief to go on a burglary binge?"

"A passion for exotic art," answered Ragsdale. "The old guy loved to touch and fondle the figurines when no one was around, but then a new curator made him take a cut in pay as an austerity measure just when he expected a raise. This made him mad and triggered his desire to possess the jade from the exhibits. It seemed from the first the theft could only have been pulled off by a first-rate team of professionals or someone from the inside. I narrowed it down to the senior security director and obtained a warrant to search his house. It was all there on his fireplace mantel, every missing piece, as if they were bowling trophies." '

"Working on a new case?" asked Gaskill.

"Just had one laid in my lap."

"Another museum theft?"

Ragsdale shook his head. "Private collection. The owner went to Europe for nine months. When he returned home, his walls were bare. Eight watercolors by Diego Rivera, the Mexican painter and muralist."

"I've seen the murals he did for the Detroit Institute of Art."

"Insurance company adjusters are foaming at the mouth. It seems the watercolors were insured for forty million dollars."

"We may have to exchange notes on this one."

Ragsdale looked at him. "You think Customs might be interested?"

"A thin possibility we have a connecting case."

"Always glad to have a helping hand."

"I saw photos of what may be your Rivera watercolors in an old box of Stolen Art Bulletins my sister cleaned out of an old house she bought. I'll know when I compare them with your list. If there is a connection, four of your watercolors were reported missing from the University of Mexico in 1923. If they were smuggled into the United States, that makes it a Customs case."

"That's ancient history."

"Not for stolen art," Gaskill corrected him. "Eight months later, six Renoirs and four Gauguins vanished from the Louvre in Paris during an exhibition."

"I gather you're alluding to that old master art thief, what was his name?"

"The Specter," replied Gaskill.

"Our illustrious predecessors in the Justice Department never caught him, did they?"

"Never even made an I. D."

"You think he had a hand in the original theft of the Riveras?"

"Why not? The Specter was to art theft what Raffles was to diamond thefts. And just as melodramatic. He pulled off at least ten of the greatest art heists in history. A vain guy, he always left his trademark behind."

"I seem to recall reading about a white glove," said Ragsdale.

"That was Raffles. The Specter left a small calendar at the scene of his crimes, with the date of his next theft circled."

"Give the man credit. He was a cocky bastard."

A large, oval plate of what looked like chicken on a bed of rice arrived. Gaskill was also served an appetizing salad on the side. Ragsdale somberly examined the contents of his bowl and looked up at the waitress.

"I don't suppose this greasy spoon serves anything but beer in cans."

The grizzled waitress looked down at him and smiled like an old prostitute. "Honey, we got beer in bottles and we got wine. What'll it be?"

"A bottle of your best burgundy."

"I'll check with the wine steward." She winked through one heavily mascaraed eye before waddling back to the kitchen.

"I forgot to mention the friendly service." Gaskill smiled.

Ragsdale warily dipped a spoon into his soup, suspicion lining his face. He slowly sipped the contents of his spoon as if judging a wine tasting. Then he looked across the booth with widening eyes. "Good heavens. Sherry and pearl onions, garlic cloves, rosemary, and three different kinds of mushrooms. This is delicious." He peered at Gaskill's plate. "What did you order, chicken?"

Gaskill tilted his plate so Ragsdale could see it. "You're close. The house specialty. Broiled marinated quail on a bed of bulgur with currants, scallions, puree of roasted carrots, and leeks with ginger."

Ragsdale looked as if his wife had presented him with triplets. "You conned me."

Gaskill appeared hurt. "I thought you wanted a good place to eat."

"This is fantastic. But where are the crowds? They should be lined up outside."

"The owner and chef, who by the way used to be at the Ritz in London, closes his kitchen on Mondays."

"But why did he open just for us?" Ragsdale asked in awe.

"I recovered his collection of medieval cooking utensils after they were stolen from his former house in England and smuggled into Miami."

The waitress returned and thrust a bottle in front of Ragsdale's face so he could read the label. "Here you go, honey, Chateau Chantilly 1878. You got good taste, but are you man enough to pay eight thousand bucks for the bottle?"

Ragsdale stared at the dusty bottle and faded label and went absolutely numb with surprise. "No, no, a good California cabernet will be fine," he choked out.

"Tell you what, honey. How about a nice medium weight Bordeaux, a 1988 vintage. Say around thirty bucks."

Ragsdale nodded in dumb assent. "I don't believe this."

"I think what really appeals to me about the place," said Gaskill, pausing to savor a bit of quail, "is its incongruity. Who would ever expect to find gourmet food and wine like this in a diner?"

"It's a world apart all right."