Medusa

“Now we know why Brimmer didn’t answer the phone,” he said.

Gamay bent over the drafting board, which held a half-finished document written in ornate script. Next to it were some antique calligraphy pens and a bottle of ink. She read aloud a handwritten note on a sheet of paper next to an open book:

“Call me Ishmael . . .”

“The opening sentence from Moby-Dick?” Paul asked.

Gamay nodded.

“It appears our Mr. Brimmer was forging manuscript pages from Melville,” she said.

“Could that type of thing get him killed?” Paul asked.

“Rachael Dobbs would be my first suspect. But it was more likely that someone didn’t want him using the phone.”

Paul slid a piece of paper under Brimmer’s cell and flipped it over so the display screen showed.

“He was calling the police,” he said. “He got as far as 91 . . .”

“I think we can conclude that Brimmer was forced to come here,” she said. “He would never have let anyone into his forgery workshop otherwise. And, judging from the mess on the floor, I’d say they were looking for something.”

“The 1848 logbook?”

“As Holmes would say, eliminate the impossible and you have the possible.”

“His body is still warm, Ms. Holmes. What does that tell you?”

“That we had better be on our toes,” she said. “And the murderer knew we were coming to see Brimmer.”

“Doesn’t that seem far-fetched?” he asked.

Gamay pointed to the corpse.

“Tell Mr. Brimmer that it’s far-fetched.”

“Okay,” Paul said with a tight smile. “You’ve convinced me.”

Paul put his finger to his lips and opened a door opposite the one they had come through. He stepped out onto a landing, edged over to the railing, and looked down the stairs. He saw a tiny orange glow and smelled cigarette smoke rising up the shaft. He backed up into the office, shut the door quietly, and turned the lock.

He picked up Brimmer’s cell phone, punched in the second 1 to complete the emergency call. When the police dispatcher answered, Paul said his name was Brimmer, gave the address, and said somebody was prowling around in the building. He suspected they were armed and dangerous.

Paul hung up and put the phone back in Brimmer’s lifeless fingers.

He and Gamay slipped out of Brimmer’s office and quickly made their way across the wide loom floor. Paul set the two-by-four against the wall, and they stepped out onto the fire escape, only to stop short.

The rickety old fire escape was trembling, and there was the tunk-tunk of ascending footfalls on the cast-iron steps. The Trouts ducked back inside, and Paul picked up the two-by-four he’d just left behind. They plastered themselves flat against a wall on either side of the door. He tightened his grip on the board.

Low male voices could be heard, then a quick exclamation of surprise. The men had found the smashed latch. Then the voices ceased.

The door opened slowly. A figure stepped inside, followed by another. There was a spark, as the lead man flicked on a cigarette lighter. Paul calculated that he would have a second to act and brought the two-by-four down on the head of the second figure. The man with the cigarette lighter turned at the thwack of wood smacking skull. He was holding a revolver in his other hand. Paul jammed him in the midsection with the end of the two-by-four, and followed up with a blow to the head as the man doubled over.

The Trouts dashed through the door, paused briefly to make sure nobody else was climbing the fire escape, then flew down the steps and raced to their vehicle. As they drove away from the mill, they passed two police cruisers speeding toward it, lights blinking but sirens silent.

Gamay caught her breath, and said, “Where’d you learn to swing a bat like Ted Williams?”

“The Woods Hole summer softball league. I played first base for the institution’s oceanography team. Strictly for fun. Didn’t even keep score.”

“Well, I’m going to put you down for 2 to 0, after that neat double play,” Gamay said.

“Thanks. I guess we’ve reached a dead end on the Dobbs logbook. . . . Literally,” Paul said.

Gamay pursed her lips in thought for a moment.

“Captain Dobbs wasn’t the only one who wrote down his memoirs,” she said.

“Caleb Nye?” he said. “All his records went up in flames.”

“Rachael Dobbs mentioned the diorama. Isn’t that a record of sorts?”

Suddenly energized, he said, “It’s worth a try.”

Paul pumped the SUV’s accelerator and headed across town to the Dobbs mansion.

Rachael Dobbs was saying good night to the cleaning crew that had cleared up after the jazz concert and was about to close down the building. She looked less frazzled than when they saw her earlier.

“I’m afraid you missed the concert,” she said. “You found Mr. Brimmer’s shop, I trust?”

“Yes, thank you,” Gamay said. “He couldn’t help us. But then Paul and I remembered the Nye diorama that you mentioned. Do you think it might be possible to see it?”

“If you come by tomorrow, I’d be glad to show it to you,” Rachael said.

“We’ll be back in Washington by then,” Gamay said. “If there is any chance . . .”

“Well, after all, your generous contribution made you members of the Dobbs Society in good standing,” Rachael said. “Let’s go down to the basement.”

The basement of the Dobbs mansion was big and musty. They wove their way through antique odds and ends to a floor-to-ceiling cabinet that Rachael explained was an airtight, temperature-controlled walk-in safe. She opened the safe’s double doors to reveal metal shelves stacked with plastic boxes, each labeled. A cylinder-shaped object around six feet long, wrapped in plastic, filled the lowest shelf.

“This is the Nye diorama,” Rachael said. “I’m afraid that it’s a bit heavy, which is probably why no one has dragged it out to have a look at it.”

Paul squatted down and lifted one end of the cylinder up a couple of inches.

“It’s doable,” he said.

All through college, Paul had helped on his father’s fishing boat, and since then he’d spent hours at the gym keeping in shape for the physical demands of his job. Gamay was even more of a fitness nut, and although her long-legged figure could have come out of the pages of Vogue she was stronger than many men. Working together, the Trouts easily hefted the package and carried it upstairs.

At Rachael’s suggestion, they took the cylinder to the tent, where there was space to unwrap it. The Trouts removed the plastic and undid the ties wrapped around the diorama. It had been tightly coiled, with its blank brownish gray back side facing outward.

Carefully and slowly, they unrolled the diorama.

The first panel became visible. It was an oil painting around five feet high and six feet wide, depicting a whaling ship tied up at a dock. There was a caption under the picture:

JOURNEY’S END.

“We must be looking at the last section of the diorama,” Rachael said. “This shows a ship unloading its catch in New Bedford. See the barrels being rolled down a ramp to the dock?”

The colors of sea and sky were still bright, but the other colors were garish, in the style of a circus poster. The brushstrokes were bold, as if the paint had been applied in a hurry. The perspective was wrong, seen through the eyes of an untrained artist.

“Any idea who painted this?” Gamay asked. “The technique is rough, but the artist had a good eye for detail. You can even see the name of the ship on the hull: Princess.”

“You’re very discerning,” Rachael Dobbs said. “Seth Franklin was self-taught, and he sold paintings of ships to their owners or captains. Before he started painting, he was a ship’s carpenter. As I understand it, Nye stood in