Medusa

“Only because the young man had an experience that was quite memorable in the annals of whaling. Caleb was not the captain. He was the ship’s green hand, the designation given the newest crew member. He claimed to have been swallowed by a sperm whale. The story enjoyed wide circulation in his day.”

“Is that even possible?” Paul asked.

Perlmutter nibbled thoughtfully on a croissant, then said, “That question has been debated going back to Jonah. Nye wasn’t the only one who claimed that a sperm whale had swallowed him. In 1891, some years after Nye’s adventure, a whaler named James Bartley, serving aboard the Star of the East off the Falkland Islands in the South Atlantic, reportedly disappeared after a sperm whale overturned his whaleboat. When the crew was carving the whale up later for blubber, they found Bartley alive doubled up inside. His skin and hair were bleached white, supposedly from the mammal’s gastric juices. He went back to work after a few weeks of rest. Or so the story goes . . .”

“I detect a note of skepticism in your voice,” Paul said.

“With sound reason. Bartley’s story is one of those tales that never die, like Bigfoot or the Loch Ness Monster. Occasionally, a writer who’s resurrecting that old chestnut will contact me. I refer such inquiries to the findings of Edward B. Davis, who thoroughly investigated the story.”

“His conclusions?” Paul asked.

“Davis scoured every document he could find on Bartley’s story. There really was a ship named the Star of the East, but nothing to substantiate the report that Bartley had been checked out at a London hospital for damage to his skin from a whale’s gastric juices. Moreover, the wife of the ship’s captain said the story was made out of whole cloth. The Star was not a whaler, and the British did not go whaling off the Falklands at that time. Despite these disclaimers, stories about Bartley’s supposed ordeal have persisted through the years.”

Paul turned to Gamay.

“You’re the marine biologist in the family. Would it be possible for a sperm whale to swallow a man?”

“Sperm whales have been found with giant squids in their stomachs, so, physiologically, it might be possible.”

Perlmutter popped a forkful of salmon in his mouth, dabbed his lips, pronouncing the food fit for human consumption.

“Davis theorized that Bartley capitalized on his naturally pale complexion,” he said. “He used the name of a real ship, got some stories in the local press, and even may have persuaded a friend to pose as the captain. He eventually joined a circus, billing himself as ‘Jonah of the Twentieth Century.’ ”

Gamay frowned in thought.

“Fascinating,” she said, “but what does this have to do with Caleb Nye and the Princess?”

Perlmutter pushed his empty plate aside and rose from the table. He knew where every item in his extensive collection could be found. He opened a tall metal storage container, explaining that the box was moistureproof and temperature controlled to preserve his papers, and pulled out a poster two by three feet in size. It announced, in huge circus typeface, that CALEB NYE, A LIVING JONAH, would be giving an ILLUSTRATED PRESENTATION at the FIRST PARISH METHODIST CHURCH in WORCESTER, MASS. The engraving, colored by hand, showed a sperm whale attacking a whaleboat.

“My guess is, Bartley heard about Caleb’s show and decided to put one together himself,” he said. “After I received yet another query from a tabloid scrivener, I decided to go beyond the Davis research. That’s when I discovered that some fifty years before Bartley surfaced, Nye had been the star of a traveling show that featured him as a modern-day Jonah.”

Gamay said, “Was Caleb’s story simply an earlier version of the scam?”

Perlmutter tugged at his beard.

“I think not. In contrast to Bartley, Caleb Nye did serve aboard a whaling ship in the Pacific Ocean, and witnesses said he was swallowed by a whale. He produced affidavits from the master of the ship, Captain Horatio Dobbs, and fellow crew members saying that the story was true. I think Bartley used Nye’s story. Unfortunately, the skepticism over Bartley’s claim tainted Nye’s claim. You said that you were looking for the 1848 log of the Princess?”

“That’s right,” Paul said. “We’re hoping you can help us find it.”

“A profoundly wise decision on your part. I suggest that you start with Rachael Dobbs.”

“Is Rachael related to the good captain?” Gamay asked.

“A great-great-great-granddaughter. She lives in New Bedford, and is the curator of the Dobbs Museum. I spoke to her when I was researching the subject.”

Paul said, “We could be there in a couple of hours.”

“Splendid. I’ll give her a call.”

Perlmutter consulted a Rolodex and dialed the number. He chatted amiably with someone, then hung up and said, “She’ll see you at three o’clock, but she had some good news and some bad news. The good news is that the logbook of the 1848 voyage was given to Caleb Nye. The bad news is that a fire destroyed Nye’s library.”

“I guess we won’t be traveling to New Bedford,” Paul said with a slow shake of his head.

“Why are you New Englanders such pessimists?” Gamay said.

“Because we’re realists,” he said. “Without the ship’s log, we don’t know where the Princess stopped after it left Pohnpei.”

“True,” she said. “But maybe we don’t need the log if we concentrate on Caleb Nye.”

“Of course,” Paul said with a snap of his fingers. “Caleb was an eyewitness to the voyage. He told hundreds of people about his experience. We might find something somewhere with the details of his trip.”

“It’s worth a talk with Ms. Dobbs,” Perlmutter said. “By the way, you never said why you were interested in the log.”

Paul said, “It’s a long story, St. Julien. We can tell you over dinner when we get back. Your choice. Our treat.”

The suggestion got Perlmutter off the subject of the logbook, which was what Paul intended.

“There’s a new French restaurant near the Watergate I’ve been meaning to try,” Perlmutter said. “But back to business.”

He brushed his fingers over a section of shelves and began pulling out books. Minutes later, the Trouts left the carriage house, their arms loaded down with volumes cherry-picked from Perlmutter’s whaling collection. The Trouts stacked them in the back of the Mini Cooper Clubman that they used as their in-town car.

On the short drive back to their town house, Paul said, “I hate to be a pessimist again, but Kurt and Joe have set themselves a formidable task. Finding the missing lab may be impossible. We could be doing something more substantial than chasing down a nineteenth-century whaler whose adventures may or may not have a bearing on the case.”

Gamay nodded.

“I understand that this trip may turn out to be a waste of valuable time,” she said, “but one fact is inescapable.”

“What’s that?”

“Caleb Nye is all we have.”

CHAPTER 32

AS THE CITATION X STREAKED WEST OVER THE NORTH American continent at six hundred miles an hour, all was quiet in the cabin, where the passengers slept soundly with forty-three thousand feet of air beneath their pillows.

Song Lee had been the first to turn in, followed by Joe Zavala, who was stretched out on a thickly padded chair. Kurt Austin had read for a short while, then he had set Casey’s file aside and glanced at Song, who was sleeping on