The Simeon Chamber (5 page)

glasses, cleaning the lenses with a handkerchief from his coat pocket.

“There’s nothing to discover.” He held the frame of his glasses to the sky and studied them for smudges. “Adoption records can’t tell her a thing. Besides, they were sealed years ago. Her old man is dead, at least as far as she’s concerned. You worry too much, my friend. It’s going to kill you someday.”

“In case you’ve forgotten, there’s no statute of limitations on murder.” The man with the cane used his trump card.

“I had nothing to do with the Frenchman or his woman—that was all your doing.”

“I think after thirty years of silence they’re going to have some difficulty accepting the argument that you weren’t an accessory. You have heard of misprision of felony.” A brazen smile formed on the taller man’s face.

“Sounds as if the girl is not the only one who’s been talking to lawyers.”

“Precisely.” He raised the handle of the cane to his lips as if to smooth a nonexistent mustache. “Think about it.” He’d made his point, then quickly turned the conversation toward a more conciliatory note. “Why would she have to see another lawyer? Tell me that.”

“Maybe it was business. Maybe she needed some help on a case. I don’t know. Don’t worry about it. If there’s a problem, I’ll take care of it.”

The taller man’s eyes narrowed and engaged the face of his companion squarely. “I’m giving you fair warning. If you don’t, I will.”

The shorter man looked up, adjusted his glasses and fixed his companion with an icy stare. “No, you won’t.” His tone was calm but final.

The two glared at each other for several seconds. Then the man with the cane broke off and headed at a brisk pace toward the parking lot.

The man in the sheepskin jacket leaned on the railing and watched as the taller man moved with an uneven gait along the wooden walkway. a long black stretch limousine pulled up to the curb to collect its passenger. A smartly dressed chauffeur exited from the driver’s seat and opened the rear door. The man with the brooding eyes stopped, turned and raised the cane in his right hand in an ominous gesture of farewell. The sun glinted off the solid brass shaft of the 33

cane as he disappeared into the sleek limousine and the door closed behind him. Seconds later the vehicle pulled away from the wooden platform toward the parking lot exit and the Great Highway.

It was nearly one o’clock in the afternoon when Sam finally found a parking space off the estuary in Oakland. He jogged along the waterfront toting a light leather briefcase. He could see the small log building at the end of the square in the distance. The log cabin was reputed to have been hauled from Alaska and reassembled stick by stick on the estuary, a faithful replica of the quarters shared by London near Dawson City during his escapade in the Yukon. It was overshadowed by upscale boutiques and glitzy restaurants.

He could see Nick’s rotund form from a block away. As he drew closer his friend’s warm and familiar smile was followed by a loud belly laugh. “My God, it’s good to see you, Sam. You did bring your credit card?” Nick slapped his thick arm around Sam’s shoulder and chuckled, tugging him in the direction of the restaurants farther down the estuary.

Nick Jorgensen was a classic example of the axiom that looks are deceptive. He wore a full beard cropped close to his face. Gentle brown eyes sparkled from under a broad forehead. But it was his portly build and exuberant personality that were his most endearing features. His thick brown hair had a natural wave that curled up at the back of his neck. Nick always looked like he needed a haircut. In tennis shoes and with his shirt pulled halfway out of his pants in the front, Jorgensen more closely resembled an amiable bear than a tenured university professor. But he was a brilliant scholar. His lectures on European history, often punctuated with ribald humor, captivated college jocks whose attention span was normally measured by the sweep hand of a stopwatch.

The two men passed the time in small talk as they walked toward the second story restaurant overlooking the estuary. The waterway was dotted with pleasure boats sailing down the narrow channel toward the open bay. A young blond in a short print skirt showed them to a table at the window.

“So what brings you over here in the middle of the week?” asked Nick.

“The delight of feasting my eyes on your chubby face.” There was a genuine twinkle in Sam’s eye, for he was only half joking. “After all, it’s not every day that I have the chance to contribute to your gluttony.”

“Come on, Bogardus, I get suspicious when you come all the way over here—but when you actually turn the combination dial on that rusty wallet of yours and offer to spring for lunch I know you want something.”

“Well, actually I could use your help.” Sam fumbled with his briefcase, placing it on the table.

“Oh God, here it comes,” said Nick, a grin spreading across his face. “Let me guess, you got nailed on a paternity rap and you want to borrow some of my blood for the test.”

“No, not this time,” said Sam. “Actually, the girl fingered you and I want to give you a chance to establish your impotency before the thing gets too serious.” Nick let out a raucous laugh and heads in the crowded restaurant began to turn in their direction. Sam looked about sheepishly. Nick was not fazed by the attention. He had grown immune to the stares and disapproval that were the result of his loud laughter. Otherwise he would have died of embarrassment long before.

Sam removed the Davies papers from his briefcase and spread them across the table, using two ashtrays and the salt and pepper shakers to hold the corners of the parchment.

The pages immediately got Nick’s full attention.

“These papers were delivered to me in my office less than two hours ago by a woman who says she received them in the mail with this unsigned note.” Sam pointed to the paper clipped to the corner of the parchments.

He told Nick of Jennifer Davies, about the mystery of the Ghost Blimp and of the woman’s search for her father. Nick looked at the typewritten note and turned the papers on the table so that he could see them upright on his side.

He fingered the pages.

“Hmm. Real vellum. Not the cardboard stuff made to pass for parchment in curio shops and tourist traps.”

He studied the writing, paying particular attention to notations in the outer margins.

“Does the woman have any idea where 37

these came from?”

“She says she doesn’t.”

“It looks like a list of some kind.” Nick turned the first page over and scanned the second. “I can’t be sure, it would take some careful study. The script is clearly English. i would guess fifteenth, maybe sixteenth century.”

Nick fingered the torn holes on the left-hand margins and turned over the second and third pages. “Looks like it was torn from some kind of binding—there are traces of glue and small thread holes here.” Nick ran his fingers along the margin.

Then his eye was caught by some lettering at the bottom of the last page. It was a broad script, mostly in what appeared to be uppercase letters set off by smaller print. He could discern the words “The Generalle” followed by what was clearly a signature. It was faded and part of the lettering had long since been rubbed from the page, but enough of the name remained for Nick to make it out: FRANCIS DRAKe

“I’ll be damned,” said Nick. “Did you see this?”

Sam nodded. “I thought you’d be interested.”

“If these parchments are authentic, I mean if they’re the original of a document signed by Drake, they could be worth a small fortune to collectors.”

“I had a stinking suspicion that they were something special,” said Sam. “I don’t want to dash your thrill of discovery, but I think they might be stolen.”

Nick looked up. “What makes you say that?”

Sam shuffled the pages and found the one with the ink stamp on the back. “Unless I miss my guess, the Jade House on Old Chinatown Lane was not in business when Drake last visited the city.”

“What do you make of it?”

“Beats the hell out of me. The woman who delivered them to me doesn’t fit the profile of your common thief—too much class. Besides, if she took them what would she gain by delivering them to me—and why would she trust them to my

safekeeping? No, if they’re stolen I’d bet my ticket to practice that Jennifer Davies knows nothing about it.”

“What would you like me to do?” asked Nick.

“Well, I thought maybe you could take the papers for now and see if you can decipher the writing. If you can’t, maybe some of your friends on the campus could provide some answers. If we knew what the documents were it might give some clue as to where they came from, and maybe some lead on Jennifer Davies’s father. In the meantime I’ll see if I can get some information on the adoption records and a lead on the Jade House.”

The waitress approached the table to take their orders and Nick quickly scooped up the papers to make room for two water glasses. He held the parchments away from his body like some ancient tabloid as he continued to struggle with the script.

“This stuff is difficult to fathom, but it’s more the context and usage than the language itself. Many of the words are the same as the English used in any American newspaper today, but the order in which they appear makes Sanskrit of the whole thing,” said Nick. “There’s no sense in you and I struggling with it. There is a man I know, a Shakespearean scholar, who will have no difficulty with it at all. If he’s not tied up he should be able to untangle the four pages in a couple of hours and give us a clear translation in writing.” Nick took a deep breath. “God, to think I may be holding parchment that `The General` himself set his scrawl to four hundred years ago!”

Jorgensen’s eyes suddenly took on the gaze of a man whose thoughts were several centuries in the past. “You know, to most Catholics, even today, Drake was nothing but a common pirate. The Spaniards referred to him as `El Draque.` He had a special flourish for sacking Catholic churches and parting the Pope from the riches of this world. Just the vision of the red-bearded little runt put shivers up the backs of most of the captains sailing for Hispaniola. He ravaged Spanish ships off the Florida Keys and sacked a number of Spanish settlements in the late sixteenth century.”

Sam studied his friend’s face. Nick’s eyes sparkled in the bright reflection of the sun off the waters of the estuary.

Nick fingered the pages and wrestled with the text. “To the uneducated, Drake was simply a pirate. Actually he was a privateer. His ship was chartered by the British Crown and financed by a group of investors, not unlike a joint venture or limited partnership of today. The only difference was that instead of dabbling in pork bellies or grain futures, Drake plundered foreign-flag vessels, mostly Spanish, and returned a handsome profit to his investors from the booty he took.”

The waitress returned with two beers. With obvious reluctance Nick handed the parchments back to Sam, who placed them in the briefcase for safekeeping. Nick took a sip of beer.

“Drake’s most famous exploit was his voyage around the world that started in the late fourteenth century. Unlike Magellan, who ended up on the business end of a Philippine spear, Drake actually finished the trip.” He took another sip of beer and wiped some foam from his beard.

“When you talk about treasure galleons most people think of Cuba or the Gold Coast of Florida. It’s true that most of the Spanish sea traffic of the day was concentrated there. What most people don’t know is that Spain’s Manila galleons, the largest sailing ships ever built, sailed from the Philippines to the area around Alaska and then south along the Pacific coast of North America. For more than two hundred years they passed within sight of the Golden Gate, hauling gems, china, silk from the Orient—carting it all south to ports near Acapulco in Mexico.

“From there the cargo was carried overland by mules for transatlantic shipping. But many of those galleons never made it down the coast. They were swallowed up by storms, lost on the rocks in the fog—or just disappeared with no record.”

“Are you telling me that treasure ships piled up on the rocks off the coast and nobody ever found a hint of treasure?” asked Sam.

“You have to remember this isn’t the soft sand of the Caribbean. And the ships weren’t carrying precious metals that would wash up on the beach in heavy storms.” Nick raised his half-empty glass for another drink.

“It’s a fact. While scholars and local historians continue to argue whether

Drake ever landed at the bay that bears his name near Point Reyes, documents on file in the Archive of the Indies at Seville confirm conclusively that for more than two centuries the Manila galleons put in at that very spot to careen and provision their ships before heading south.

In fact there have been plans in the works to dive on one of the wrecks for years—the San
Augustine. Marine archaeologists believe it went down in less than fifty feet of water a quarter of a mile off Drake’s Beach in 1595. The only thing stopping them is the capital for the venture.”

Lunch arrived and Nick hovered over the large broiled hamburger on a sourdough roll. It was easily four inches thick but he had no difficulty crushing it down to mouth-size.

Sam took delight in watching Nick eat. He couldn’t help but envy anyone who could gain so much satisfaction and obvious pleasure from the single act of consuming food.

“This is good,” said Nick. “I was getting pretty hungry.”

“Is there ever a time when you aren’t hungry?”

Nick winked and ignored him.

“As I was saying, those papers could be quite valuable. Assuming they’re the authentic originals.”

“If they are—authentic, I mean—what do you think they’re worth?”

“I couldn’t put a price on them. Only a cash buyer at an auction can do that. But I know Drake men, scholars who have spent the better part of their lives studying Drake’s life, his exploits at court and his various voyages.

These guys would kill for a five-minute glance at newly discovered parchments, especially if they shed any light on Drake’s holdover in `Nova Albion.`”

“You know,” said Nick, “the blue bloods in Cape Cod have to live with the fact that they play second fiddle to the real `New England,` which actually sits out there”—Nick waved his arm out toward the bay—”probably in Marin County, according to all of the records that are available. That’s the area that Drake called his `Nova Albion` —`New England`—thirty years before Jamestown and forty years before the Mayflower.”