“How many millions this time?”
“Oh, just a few — The British frigate Lexington went down out there in the late eighteenth century carrying 4000 kegs of fine silver plate, half a ton of gold, and half a million Mexican dollars looted from Vera Cruz. The better-known Hussar contains specie estimated, according to different accounts, at anywhere from $1,000,000 to $8,000,000, with most authorities plumping for a figure of $4,800,000. And that’s the ship someone hereabouts would seem to be interested in. Her commanding officer was one Captain Charles M. Pole.”
“How do you get that 8,000,000 figure?” Merlini asked. “£960,000 times five doesn’t do it?”
“There was more gold in a guinea in those days. You can get about $8.50 apiece from a dealer, and at retail he’ll charge about $12.”
I groaned inwardly. The contents of that blasted suitcase were increasing in value by the minute.
“Do you think,” asked Merlini, “that you could give us a simple, condensed synopsis of the tragedy without making noises like an adding machine?”
The Doctor poured himself another cup of coffee. “I’ll try,” he grinned. “H.M.S. Hussar was a full-rigged frigate carrying 28 guns. She sailed from England with money to pay the long-overdue wages of the Hessian troops and anchored on September 13, 1780, in New York Harbor. She took on more specie from the British paymaster’s office in Cherry Street as the slate message states, although that transfer from the Mercury, another pay ship, is disputed by the authorities who stick to the 4,000,000 figure. The papers of the period say that there were 70 American prisoners of war chained in her hold, so that the money, however much there is, is well guarded by the traditional dead men.… The Hussar cleared a few days after her arrival for a destination somewhere along the Connecticut coast or possibly Newport, Rhode Island. She sailed without a pilot and was guided by a Negro slave named Swan. She struck Pot Rock, a reef near Randall’s Island that has since been blown up. Swan became frightened, leaped overboard, and swam for shore. Captain Pole carried on and tried to make the mouth of a small river that flowed into Hell Gate where 134th Street is now. But she began to sink rapidly, and he didn’t quite make it. He did manage to get a hawser fastened to a tree on shore, but the ship sank in about 70 feet of water and pulled the tree up by the roots.”
“Salvage attempts were made weren’t they?” Merlini asked.
Gail nodded. “A good many. The first attempts while her masts were still above water. But the diving equipment available at that time was no match for the tides. A diving-bell attempt in 1824 reached the wreck but salvaged nothing of importance. About 50 years afterward, an English expedition tried it — an interesting attempt because it contradicts the British Admiralty’s denial during the War of 1812 that the Hussar contained any treasure whatsoever. That statement has, of course, always been suspect, since the Admiralty had obvious motives for such a denial at that time. The location of the hulk was buoyed until 1850 and there were several other attempts. Pratt and Bancroft retrieved some cannon, clothing, and 35 guineas; Captain George Thomas, in 1880, got a concession from the Treasury Department to salvage, and sold stock in Treasure Trove, Inc.; and in 1900 some divers after a sunken yacht found the Hussar’s anchor.”
“Didn’t Simon Lake go after it a few years ago?” I put in. “I seem to remember some news stories.”
“Yes. He tried it most recently. He worked at it through the summers of 1934-36 and recovered exactly 86 cents in modern coins. By now, of course, the ship is pretty well silted over. Lake found three possible hulks in about the right spot, all covered with silt and a strata of tar which was pumped into the river by gas works in the years before they realized it was a valuable by-product. It may yet be salvaged, but that silt and tar along with the difficult currents will make it an expensive job — as I said, it’s the world’s most expensive hobby.”
“You said Thomas had a concession from the Government. Lake have one?” Merlini inquired.
“He was given one in 1933, and, as far as I know it still gives him first chance. The Federal Government controls all dredging and salvaging operations in rivers and harbors, and, in addition, in this instance, claims the Hussar as an enemy ship sunk during wartime in American waters. Lake’s contract agrees to give the Treasury 10 percent.”
“That,” Merlini said slowly, “is that. No wonder that crowd down there won’t open up and talk. They’re nosing about after the Hussar and they don’t have a permit. Eight million dollars — the spirits appear to accept the larger figure — is the darky in the woodpile. There should be a motive for murder in that. I think we’re going to be able to supply Gavigan with a nice, interesting set of questions for tomorrow. Why, if the treasure is the motive, was Linda the one to get the ax? I should think—” His voice trailed off thoughtfully.
“Wish you’d find out for me,” Gail said, “why the cross on that slate map is where it is. Will you?”
“Yes. It doesn’t check with your story, does it?”
“Not by about 300 yards. The Hussar has always been supposed to lie on the other shore, about 100 yards off 134th Street. Divining rods have been used to locate treasures, and, lately a radio device has proved very successful, but there aren’t many instances of treasure hunters using advice from the Beyond. One or two that I know of, but—”
“It sounds like a pretty good method to me,” I said.
Both poker faces relaxed long enough to let some surprise show through. Almost together, they both jumped me. “Why?”
“Because,” I observed, “a whole suitcase brimming over with genuine gold guineas looks just a wee bit as if someone may have been hunting about in the right place. That map on the slate could be a blind, you know.”
I started to light a cigarette as they thought that over, and stopped, with the match burning in my hand. The deep-throated roar of an airplane motor came from overhead, low at first, then quickly, nearer and louder.
“That’s the plane,” Merlini said, jumping’ to his feet. “And Gavigan’s not here yet! Let’s go!”
“Plane?” Dr. Gail said. “What plane?’
But he got no answer from us. Merlini and I were on our way out, running as if Lucifer and all his winged hosts were close at our heels.
Chapter Eleven:
MESSRS. X, Y, AND Z
Out beyond Long Island where the ocean lay, the new sun pushed up and splashed a fireman’s red across the sky. The early morning air was fresh, washed clean by the storm.
Merlini and I, running across the beach, saw the circling plane coast down in a slow glide and vanish behind the old house. Dr. Gail, who had stopped to exchange slippers for shoes, hurried after us, some distance behind, still in dressing gown and pajamas. Just as we neared the house, the plane’s dying motor picked up suddenly with an angry roar, and the plane came into view again, taxiing out across the water in the channel between North and South, Brother Islands. Red flame spurted from its exhaust as it lifted, skimmed above the dark water, and climbed. Revolver shots came from behind the house.
We rounded the corner together and saw a police cutter racing toward us. One man, gun still raised, looked after the retreating plane. The boat bumped heavily against the stone landing, and several grim-faced men tumbled out to surround another who stood at the water’s edge. We saw his hands go up as one of the men from the boat slapped at his pockets. He saw us first as we ran in.