Medusa

“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.