"I shall do my best, Admiral. Good-by."
"Good luck."
Vogel sat for several minutes staring at the pillowcase in the corner, his hand resting on the telephone. Then he pressed the Executone. "Mary, hold all calls for the rest of the day, and send out for a medium pizza with Canadian bacon and a half gallon of Gallo burgundy."
"You going to lock yourself in that musty old workshop again?" Mary's voice scratched back.
"Yes," Vogel sighed. "It's going to be a long day."
First, Vogel took several photos of the cornet from different angles. Then he noted the dimensions, general condition of the visible parts, and the degree of tarnish and foreign matter that coated the surfaces, recording each observation in a large notebook. He regarded the cornet with an increased level of professional interest. It was a quality instrument; the brass was of good commercial grade, and the small bores of the bell and the valves told him that it was manufactured before 1930. He discovered that what he had thought to be corrosion was only a hard crust of mud that flaked away under light pressure from a rubber spoon.
Next, he soaked the instrument in diluted Calgon water softener, gently agitating the liquid and changing the tank every so often to drain away the dirt. By midnight, he had the cornet completely disassembled. Then he started the tedious job of swabbing the metal surfaces with a mild solution of chromic acid to bring out the shine of the brass. Slowly, after several rinsings, an intricate scroll pattern and several ornately scripted letters began to appear on the bell.
"By God!" Vogel blurted aloud. "A presentation model."
He picked up a magnifying glass and studied the writing. When he set the glass down and reached for a telephone, his hands were trembling.
27
At precisely eight o'clock, John Vogel was ushered into Sandecker's office on the top floor of the ten-story solar-glassed building that housed the national headquarters of NUMA. His eyes were bloodshot and he made no effort to conceal a yawn.
Sandecker came out from behind his desk and shook Vogel's hand. The short, banty admiral had to lean backward and look up to meet the eyes of his visitor. Vogel was six foot five, a kindly faced man with puffs of unbrushed white hair edging a bald head. He gazed through brown Santa Claus eyes, and flashed a warm smile. His coat was neatly pressed, but his pants were rumpled and stained with a myriad of blotches below the knees. He smelled like a wino.
"Well," Sandecker greeted him. "It's a pleasure to meet you."
"The pleasure is mine, Admiral." Vogel set a black trumpet case on the carpet. "I'm sorry I appear so slovenly."
"I was going to say," Sandecker answered, "it seems you've had a difficult night."
"When one loves one's work, time and inconvenience have little meaning."
"True." Sandecker turned and nodded to a little gnomelike man who was standing in one corner of the office. "Mr. John Vogel, may I present Commander Rudi Gunn."
"Of course, Commander Gunn," Vogel said, smiling. "I was one of the many millions who followed your Lorelei Current Expedition every day in the newspapers. You're to be congratulated, Commander. It was a great achievement."
"Thank you," Gunn said.
Sandecker gestured to another man sitting on the couch. "And my Special Projects Director, Dirk Pitt."
Vogel nodded at the swarthy face that crinkled into a smile. "Mr. Pitt."
Pitt rose and nodded back. "Mr. Vogel."
Vogel sat down and pulled out a battered old pipe. "Mind if I smoke?"
"Not at all." Sandecker lifted one of his Churchill cigars out of a humidor and held it up. "I'll join you."
Vogel puffed the bowl into life and then sat back and said, "Tell me, Admiral, was the cornet discovered on the bottom of the North Atlantic?"
"Yes, just south of the Grand Banks off Newfoundland." He stared at Vogel speculatively. "How did you guess that?"
"Elementary deduction."
"What can you tell us about it?"
"A considerable amount, actually. To begin with, it is a high-quality instrument, crafted for a professional musician."
"Then it's not likely it was owned by an amateur player?" Gunn said, remembering Giordino's words on the Sappho I.
"No," Vogel said flatly. "Not likely."
"Could you determine the time and place of manufacture?" Pitt asked.
"The approximate month was either October or November. The exact year was 1911. And it was manufactured by a very reputable and very fine old British firm by the name of Boosey-Hawkes."
There was respect written in Sandecker's eyes. "You've done a remarkable job, Mr. Vogel. Quite frankly, we doubted whether we would ever know the country of origin, much less the actual manufacturer."
"No investigative brilliance on my part, I assure you," Vogel said. "You see, the cornet was a presentation model"
"A presentation model?"
"Yes. Any metal product that takes a high degree of craftsmanship to construct, and is highly prized as a possession, is often engraved to commemorate an unusual event or outstanding service."
"A common practice among gunmakers," Pitt commented.
"And also creators of fine musical instruments. In this instance, it was presented to an employee by his company in recognition of his service. The presentation date, the manufacturer, the employee, and his company are all beautifully engraved on the cornet's bell."
"You can actually tell who owned it?" Gunn asked. "The engraving is readable?"
"Oh my, yes." Vogel bent down and opened the case. "Here, you can read it for yourself."
He set the cornet on Sandecker's desk. The three men stared at it silently for a long time-a gleaming instrument whose golden surface reflected the morning sun that was streaming in the window. The cornet looked brand-new. Every inch was buffed to a high shine and the intricate engraving of sea waves that curled around the tube and bell were as clear as the day they were etched. Sandecker gazed over the cornet at Vogel, his brows lifted in doubt.
"Mr. Vogel, I think you fail to see the seriousness of the situation. I don't care for jokes."
"I admit," Vogel snapped back, "that I fail to see the seriousness of the situation. What I do see is a moment of tremendous excitement. And believe me, Admiral, this is no joke. I have spent the best part of the last twenty-four hours restoring your discovery." He threw a bulky folder on the desk. "Here is my report, complete with photographs and my step-by-step observations during the restoration procedure. There are also envelopes containing the different types of residue and mud that I removed, and also the parts that I replaced. I overlooked nothing."
"I apologize," Sandecker said. "Yet it seems inconceivable that the instrument we sent you yesterday, and the instrument on the desk are one and the same." Sandecker paused and exchanged glances with Pitt. "You see, we . . ."
". . . thought the cornet had rested on the sea bottom for a long time," Vogel finished the sentence. "I'm fully aware of what you're driving at, Admiral. And I confess I'm at a loss as to the instrument's remarkable condition, too. I've worked on any number of musical instruments which have been immersed in salt water for only three to five years that were in far worse shape than this one. I'm not an oceanographer so the solution to the puzzle eludes me. However, I can tell you to the day how long that cornet has been beneath the sea and how it came to be there."
Vogel reached over and picked up the horn. Then he slipped on a pair of rimless glasses and began reading aloud. "Presented to Graham Farley in sincere appreciation for distinguished performance in the entertainment of our passengers by the grateful management of the White Star Line." Vogel removed his glasses and smiled benignly at Sandecker. "When I discovered the words White Star Line, I got a friend out of bed early this morning to do a bit of research at the Naval Archives. He called only a half hour before I left for your office." Vogel paused to remove a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. "It seems Graham Farley was a very popular fellow throughout the White Star Line. He was solo cornetist
for three years on one of their vessels . . . I believe it was called the Oceanic. When the company's newest luxury liner was about to set sail on her maiden voyage, the management selected the outstanding musicians from their other passenger ships and formed what was considered at the time the finest orchestra on the seas. Graham, of course, was one of the first musicians chosen. Yes, gentlemen, this cornet has rested under the Atlantic Ocean for a very long time . . . because Graham Farley was playing it on the morning of April 15, 1912, when the waves closed over him and the Titanic. "
The reactions to Vogel's sudden revelation were mixed. Sandecker's face turned half-somber, half-speculative; Gunn's went rigid; while Pitt's expression was one of casual interest. The silence in the room became intense as Vogel stuffed his glasses back in a breast pocket.
"Titanic." Sandecker repeated the word slowly, like a man savoring a beautiful woman's name. He gazed penetratingly at Vogel, wonder mingled with doubt still mirrored in his eyes. "It's incredible."
"A fact nonetheless," Vogel said casually. "I take it, Commander Gunn, that the cornet was discovered by the Sappho I?"
"Yes, near the end of the voyage."
"It would appear that your undersea expedition stumbled on a bonus. A pity you didn't run onto the ship herself."
"Yes, a pity," Gunn said, avoiding Vogel's eyes.
"I'm still at a loss as to the instrument's condition," Sandecker said. "I hardly expected a relic sunk in the sea for seventy-five years to come up looking little the worse for wear."
"The lack of corrosion does pose an interesting question," Vogel replied. "The brass most certainly would weather well, but, strangely, the parts containing ferrous metals survived in a remarkable virgin state. The original mouthpiece, as you can see, is near-perfect."
Gunn was staring at the cornet as if it was the holy grail. "Will it still play?"
"Yes," Vogel answered. "Quite beautifully, I should think."
"You haven't tried it?"
"No . . . I have not." Vogel ran his fingers reverently over the cornet's valves. "Up to now, I have always tested every brass instrument my assistants and I have restored for its brilliance of tone. This time I cannot."
"I don't understand," Sandecker said.
"This instrument is a reminder of a small, but courageous act performed during the worst sea tragedy in man's history," Vogel replied. "It takes very little imagination to envision Graham Farley and his fellow musicians while they soothed the frightened ship's passengers with music, sacrificing all thought of their own safety, as the Titanic settled into the cold sea. The cornet's last melody came from the lips of a very brave man. I feel it would border on the sacrilegious for anyone else ever to play it again."
Sandecker stared at Vogel, examining every feature of the old man's face as if he were seeing it for the first time.
"'Autumn'," Vogel was murmuring, almost rambling to himself. "'Autumn', an old hymn. That was the last melody Graham Farley played on his cornet."
"Not 'Nearer My God to Thee'?'' Gunn spoke slowly.
"A myth," said Pitt. "'Autumn' was the final tune that was heard from the Titanic's band just before the end."
"You seem to have made a study of the Titanic," Vogel said.
"The ship and her tragic fate is like a contagious disease," Pitt replied. "Once you become interested, the fever is tough to break."
"The ship itself holds little attraction for me. But as a historian of musicians and their instruments, the saga of the Titanic's band has always gripped my imagination." Vogel set the cornet in the case, closed the lid, and passed it across the desk to Sandecker. "Unless you have more questions, Admiral, I'd like to grab a fattening breakfast and fall into bed. It was a difficult night."
Sandecker stood. "We're in your debt, Mr. Vogel."
"I was hoping you might say that," the Santa Claus eyes twinkled slyly. "There is a way you can repay me."
"Which is?"
"Donate the cornet to the Washington Museum. It would be the prize exhibit of our Hall of Music."
"As soon as our lab people have studied the instrument and your report, I'll send it over to you."
"On behalf of the museum's directors, I thank you."
"Not as a gift donation, however."
Vogel stared uncertainly at the Admiral.
"I don't follow."
Sandecker smiled. "Let's call it a permanent loan. That will save hassle in case we ever have to borrow it back temporarily."
"Agreed."
"One more thing," Sandecker said. "Nothing has been mentioned to the press about the discovery. I'd appreciate it if you went along with us for the time being."
"I don't understand your motives, but of course I'll comply."
The towering curator bid his farewells and departed.
"Damn!" Gunn blurted out a second after the door closed. "We must have passed within spitting distance of the Titanic's hulk."
"You were certainly in the ball park," Pitt agreed. "The Sappho's sonar probed a radius of two hundred yards. The Titanic must have rested just outside the fringe of your range."
"If only we'd had more time. If only we'd known what in hell we were looking for."
"You forget," Sandecker said, "that testing the Sappho I and conducting experiments on the Lorelei Current were your primary objectives, and on that you and your crew did one hell of a job. Oceanographers will be sifting the data you brought back on deepwater currents for the next two years. My only regret is that we couldn't let you in on what we were up to, but Gene Seagram and his security people insist that we keep a tight lid on any information regarding the Titanic until we're far along on the salvage operation."
"We won't be able to keep it quiet for long," Pitt said. "All the news media in the world will soon smell a story on the greatest historical find since the opening of King Tut's tomb."
Sandecker rose from behind his desk and walked over to the window. When he spoke, his words came very softly, sounding almost as if they were carried over a great distance by the wind. "Graham Farley's cornet."
"Sir?"
"Graham Farley's cornet," Sandecker repeated wistfully. "If that old horn is any indication, the Titanic may be sitting down there in the black abyss as pretty and preserved as the night she sank."
28
To a chance observer standing on the shore or to anyone out for a leisurely cruise up the Rappahannock River, the three men slouched in a dilapidated old rowboat looked like a trio of ordinary weekend fishermen. They were dressed in faded shirts and dungarees, and sported hats festooned with the usual variety of hooks and flies. It was a typical scene, down to the sixpack of beer trapped in a fishnet dangling in the water beside the boat.
The shortest of the three, a red-haired, pinched-faced man, lay against the stern and seemed to be dozing, his hands loosely gripped around a fishing pole that was attached to a red and white cork bobbing a bare two feet from the boat's waterline. The second man simply slouched over an open magazine, while the third fisherman sat upright and mechanically went through the motions of casting a silver lure. He was large; with a well-fed stomach that blossomed through his open shirt, and he gazed through lazy blue eyes set in a jovial round face. He was the perfect image of everyone's kindly old grandfather.
Admiral Joseph Kemper could afford to look kindly. When you wielded the almost incredible authority that he did, you didn't have to squint through hypnotic eyes or belch fire like a dragon. He looked down and offered a benevolent expression to the man who was dozing.
"It strikes me, Jim, that you're not deeply into the spirit of fishing."
"This has to be the most useless endeavor ever devised by man," Sandecker replied.
"And you, Mr. Seagram? You haven't dropped a hook since we anchored."
Seagram peered at Kemper over the magazine. "If a fish could survive the pollution down there, Admiral, he'd have to look like a mutant out of a low-budget horror movie, and taste twice as bad."
"Since it was you gentlemen
who invited me here," Kemper said, "I'm beginning to suspect a devious motive."
Sandecker neither agreed nor disagreed. "Just relax and enjoy the great outdoors, Joe. Forget for a few hours that you're the Navy's Chief of Staff."
"That's easy when you're around. You're the only one I know who talks down to me."
Sandecker grinned. "You can't go through life with the whole world kissing your ass. Simply look upon me as good therapy."
Kemper sighed. "I had hoped I'd gotten rid of you once and for all when you retired from the service. Now it seems you've come back to haunt me as a goddamned feather merchant."