Grey Lady

by Paul Kemprecos

  “I could have done better with Sean Malloy. I made a bunch of calls to Woods Hole. Said I wanted to invest in his company, but I was told that his lab was closed. I found someone who talked to him a few months ago. Malloy said he had new financial backing that would allow him to devote more time to pure research rather than business.”

  “They tell you what kind of research he was doing at the lab?”

  “Only that he’s a robotics genius. Cutting edge stuff.”

  “That’s very helpful, Alex. Give me a call when you have more. Thanks.”

  “Heck, no cousin. Thank you! And please be careful, Soc.”

  I told him I would. I went out onto the deck and blended the information Alex had uncovered in with what I already learned. What I came up with was an image of me drowning in a mind stew filled with all sorts of objects and people. It was my brain telling me that I was in over my head, I guess. As I promised Lisa, I went back inside and called the number Flagg had given me.

  Flagg must have been busy saving the world. His recorded voice said, “Go ahead,” so I did.

  “Hi, Flagg. I’m calling to apologize and to ask for your help. You were right as usual. I’m out of my league with this thing. Ivan the Terrible is only the tip of a very big and nasty iceberg. Give me a call when you can.”

  I was too keyed up to sleep. As I hung up the phone, my eye fell on the copy of Swain’s journal that I had borrowed from Sutcliffe. What better to lull me to sleep than a tale of murder and cannibalism on the high seas? I picked it up and settled into a wing chair.

  Swain had entitled his journal: A Sailor’s True Tale of Suffering, Sacrifice, and Survival; the Sinking of the Ship Moshup After Being Stove By a Whale and How with Grit and Courage I Prevailed Against the Unforgiving Sea and Got Redemption.

  It didn’t take a detective to see that Swain was a master of the run-on sentence and that he had an ego bigger than the whale that sank his ship. I turned to the first page.

  I have always been a humble man, with faith in the Almighty and the goodness of Mankind, especially those hardy souls who toil in the ships of the Nantucket whale fishery. I write this short history of my travails not to profit from the misfortune of my loyal shipmates, but only as a way to feed my family.

  Sutcliffe had annotated the journal.

  “This is a huge whopper! The men who served with Swain all said he was a profane braggart who was despised by everyone aboard the Moshup. He was practically thrown overboard as a gambling cheat. He is lying about his reason for publishing the journal. He was well-off from his businesses and far from starving to death.”

  I kept reading. The Moshup incident was uncannily similar to the plight of the Essex. A battle-scarred bull sperm whale fights off its attackers, upending the whaleboats and battering their ship until it sinks.

  Swain wrote of the encounter: The harpoon bounced off the side of the whale as if the skin were of cast iron.

  Sutcliffe dashed cold water on this claim with a note: “Swain conveniently omits the fact that he threw the first harpoon at the whale, but it was a bad toss, the barb fell out and only infuriated the whale.”

  With the Moshup foundering, the crewmen salvaged supplies from the sinking ship, then set forth on an attempt to reach the nearest landfall a thousand miles away. The boats are scattered in a storm. Swain’s boat is separated from the flotilla and the navigational instruments. The first men to die are thrown overboard. Then comes the agonizing pact to eat the dead. Eventually, the only ones left in the boat are Swain, Coffin and Daggett.

  Swain describes how Coffin admits that he has developed a fondness for human flesh. Coffin is quoted as describing the texture and taste of various parts of the body, starting with the heart and liver. But the description was so finely detailed that I began to get the creepy feeling that Swain was talking about his own developing appetite rather than that of someone else.

  As their situation grew even more hopeless, it became evident that the crewmen are not dying fast enough to supply the others with meals. Swain says that Daggett suggested that one man make the ultimate sacrifice to save the others. He says that he opposed the idea, but Daggett and Coffin out-voted him. They draw straws and Daggett loses. Daggett can’t bring himself to commit suicide and asks for someone else to kill him. Coffin and Swain draw straws to choose the executioner. Swain picks the short straw, and is handed the knife to do the job. But he hesitates:

  I could not bring myself, under the eye of all-seeing God, with respect for human life and for my good friend Daggett, to do the deed. I would rather die of starvation, as horrible as the prospect seemed. Coffin had no hesitation.

  “If you’ll not do your job, I’ll do it for you,” he said, and with that he snatched the knife from my trembling hand and plunged it into Daggett’s chest. Then we both ate him, and his bones and marrow sustained us until we were rescued, poor wretches that we were.

  I put the journal aside and stared off into space. A murder had been committed long ago on that drifting boat with its skeletal occupants. Swain said that Coffin was the killer. But Coffin was no longer around to defend himself. So Swain’s account was the story that passed as the truth for decades. The descendants of Obed Coffin were forever stained by the supposed actions of their ancestor.

  Sutcliffe had said Swain went on to exploit his misadventure, using his celebrity status for financial gain, but Coffin never got over the horror of the awful voyage. I imagined him sitting in the back of his narrow shop, lonely and despised, hiding from the world, ridden with guilt, carving beauty into ivory that had been pulled from the jaws of a whale like the one that had destroyed his ship and his life.

  I put the journal aside and crawled into bed. I couldn’t sleep and lay in the dark with my eyes wide open, thinking back over the horror of the events in the open boat. All the men involved were dead, their lips sealed by the grave. But the more I thought about it, the more I became convinced that if I listened, the ghost of Obediah Coffin would tell me the truth.

  CHAPTER 24

  Lisa left a note of apology taped to the refrigerator at the Daggett house. She said she had forgotten about a breakfast meeting at the airport restaurant with a potential donor who had deep pockets. He was flying back to New York and she wanted to put the squeeze on him while he was basking in the island afterglow.

  I scrambled some eggs, slathered my oatmeal toast with butter and read The Boston Globe sports pages with a heavy heart. The Sox had lost the latest game.

  After breakfast, I ripped a flap off a cardboard carton I found in the pantry. Then I used a black Sharpie to print the name WARNER on the cardboard square. I carried it out to the MG. Rosen’s car was in front of his cottage, but there was no sign of its owner. Which was why it was surprising to glance in the rearview mirror minutes later and see the Miata behind me on Polpis Road.

  At the outskirts of town, he turned off onto a side street. I parked at my usual spot and was waiting when the high-speed ferry made the turn at Brant Point lighthouse and tied up at the dock. As passengers streamed down the gangway, I lifted the cardboard square above my head like a hotel valet welcoming guests. A slim, well-dressed passenger separated from the crowd and came over to where I was standing.

  “That’s me,” he said, pointing to the sign.

  I lowered the cardboard. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Warner.”

  I introduced myself and we shook hands. I suggested we grab a cup of coffee at the dockside restaurant.

  Mandel’s description had led me to picture his rival dealer as an unshaven, shifty-eyed thief. Warner actually looked quite respectable. He wore neatly-pressed beige slacks, and a navy linen sports jacket. His steel-gray hair and mustache were trimmed short. His thin face was tanned. He carried an attaché case, which he set on the table.

  I said, “Thanks for agreeing to meet me on such short no
tice, Mr. Warner.”

  “It was no problem, Mr. Socarides. I’ve been asked to come to the island to do an estate appraisal and tweaked my schedule slightly.” He spoke in a crisp, boarding school accent. Warner slipped the aviator sunglasses off his face, revealing shrewd gray eyes under frosty brows. “I’m curious about how you got my name.”

  “From Mr. Mandel in New Bedford. He mentioned that you had been talking to Ab Coffin about a unique scrimshaw collection.”

  “Ah, yes,” he said. “Mandel. And what scurrilous things did the dean of Johnnycake Hill have to say about me?”

  “Sure you want to hear them?”

  He let out a long sigh. “I’m sure it’s no worse than anything he’s said previous to this.”

  “You’ll have to be the judge of that, Mr. Warner. He said you were thoroughly dishonest and conniving, and if you weren’t so clever you’d have been arrested long ago.”

  His mouth turned up on one side and his mustache twitched. “I suppose I should take the clever part as a compliment. Apparently, you didn’t believe what he said, Mr. Socarides, because you’re not afraid to do business with me.”

  “I like to make up my own mind about people. I’m curious, though. Why doesn’t Mandel like you?”

  He sipped his coffee, then set the cup down in exactly the same place and leaned across the table.

  “Mandel spreads those stories because he’s jealous. I’ve snatched a few choice collections out from under his big fat nose. He should know better than to get his knickers in a knot. This is a competitive business.”

  “What’s the secret of your success?”

  “In part, I use an extensive network of paid informants and I have a list of high-paying clients.”

  “And Mandel doesn’t?”

  “Yes, of course. We use the same informants in some cases, but Mandel is at an immediate disadvantage. He regards scrimshaw with a romantic eye. He falls in love with his acquisitions.”

  I remembered the almost sensuous manner with which Mandel had caressed a piece of scrimshaw.

  “How is that a problem?”

  “When you’re emotionally attached to an object, you’re slow to part with it. I’m known for fast turnover. I look at the pieces I handle as commercial art. Things to be bought and sold. Ingenious contrivances, curiously carved, as Melville described them. Carved in some instances by untrained artists of immense talent, but still things.”

  “How does the Coffin collection stack up?”

  “Coffin was a master of his art. The workmanship is exquisite. The themes he carved into the ivory came from his heart as well as his hand. The collection is one of a kind.”

  “I think I’m missing something. If it’s such a great collection, why haven’t you done your usual quick sales turnover?”

  “Because of slandering idiots like Mandel.” Anger blazed in the cool gray eyes. “I’ll admit to a sharp deal now and then, but everything I do is within the boundaries of the law. Unfortunately, aggressive business practices can provide fodder for malicious gossips like Mandel to build on. The reputation for shady deals scares away institutional buyers for the bigger and more expensive collections. They don’t like making acquisitions that later turn out to be stolen goods.”

  I drummed my fingers on the table and gazed off across the harbor. My wandering eye lit on Rosen, who was standing on the other side of the marina, looking in my direction. He sensed that I had seen him and disappeared around the corner of a shop. I turned back to Warner.

  “You’ve been honest with me, Mr. Warner, so I’ll come clean before we get deeper into our discussion. I don’t have the money to buy the collection. And I’m not a collector.”

  His silvery eyebrows dipped into a V. “I don’t—”

  “I lured you here on a pretense. I’m a private investigator and I’m helping the legal team defending Henry Daggett, the man charged with killing Coffin.”

  “Well, well,” Warner said. “I appreciate your honesty, but if you’re not interested in the Coffin collection, what do you want?”

  “Information. And your expertise. In return for your help I might be able to help you move the collection to a real buyer.”

  There was a glint of interest in the flinty eyes. “And how would you do that?”

  “By clearing up the Daggett case. I have serious doubts that Daggett was the murderer.”

  “I have no reason to help Daggett.”

  “Actually, you do have a reason. If the police suspect that the collection was the motive for the killing, they might want to confiscate the scrimshaw until the case is resolved. There will be appeals and challenges. The collection could be out of your hands for months, maybe years.”

  “Wouldn’t Mandel just love to see that happen,” Warner said, his voice dropping an octave. “Okay, then. What do you want to know?”

  “It’s no secret that Coffin wanted the scrimshaw. And that Daggett said the provenance was a sticking point, which is why he didn’t want the museum to buy it. Coffin called the meeting at the museum, saying he had information that might change Daggett’s mind. Any idea what he was talking about?”

  “Not a clue. But Daggett had a point. There was a slight shade of doubt as to the collection’s provenance.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “The history of a scrimshaw collection can usually be well documented because the pieces were passed down to the whaler-artist’s family. Even with no paper documentation, there is frequently family memory to rely on. The Coffin collection was different.”

  “In what way?”

  “The major portion of Coffin’s known work wasn’t created on shipboard. It was done in his Nantucket workshop. He had a brother, the sibling whom Ab Coffin is directly descended from, but he predeceased him. Coffin died intestate. No will. The collection was auctioned off after Coffin’s death to pay off debts. The successful buyer was a Boston businessman. Upon the buyer’s death, the collection went to his wife. It traveled an interesting path after that.”

  “How so?”

  “The widow was a former showgirl who had been shunned by Boston society. When she died, the collection was passed on to her child, a playboy, who sold it to buy wine, women and song.”

  “That’s not a bad trade-off.”

  “I don’t disagree. The next owner of record owned a saloon. When he died in a bar brawl, the collection was stored in the bar’s basement. It sat there for years, still in the same family. In time, the building was being refurbished for apartments. The owner found the ivory and assumed that the collection might be valuable. He came to me for an appraisal.”

  “All these ownerships are verifiable?”

  “Every step of the way. Bills of sale. Affidavits. I have diagrammed the travels of the scrimshaw to the present day.”

  “Coffin was mainly interested in one item from the collection. What can you tell me about that?”

  “He wanted a panorama bone plaque made from a sperm whale’s jaw bone. I told him that the owner would only sell the collection as a whole. Coffin said he would try to get the Nantucket museum to buy it. The museum’s trustees said they had more than enough scrimshaw, but it was only an excuse. The main reason for the rejection, thanks to Mandel, was my sordid reputation.”

  “Why didn’t the owner find another dealer to represent the sale? Mandel, for example?”

  “He was thinking about it, but I offered to buy the collection and take it off their hands. The owner had no sentimental family attachment to the work. I got the price down, but it was still a considerable amount of change.”

  “Did your ownership change the terms of sale you’d discussed with Coffin?”

  “Would I sell it piece-meal? I’d sell it whatever way that would bring the most money. My ownership allowed me the opportunity to make
a deal with Coffin. I’d let him borrow the piece to show to the museum along with verification of its rightful ownership showing that it was not stolen property.”

  “I understand you demanded a substantial insurance fee.”

  Warner shrugged. “The arrangement suited him, but I was the loser. The piece is missing.”

  “Can you describe it to me?”

  “I can do better than that.” He unsnapped his attaché case and removed an envelope. Inside was a stack of eight-by-ten color photos. He shuffled through the packet and set one photo in front of me. It showed a long, somewhat rectangular, flat piece of ivory. Several separate whaling scenes were carved into the surface. Warner took a magnifying glass from the case and handed it over.

  The scenes were laid out like a comic strip, showing the progression of a whale hunt and its aftermath. He passed over photo enlargements of each scene. The series included the standard image of whaleboats closing in on their prey. In the panels that followed, the whale upends the boats, smashes head-on into the ship, sinking it, and the boats set out in a flotilla. They are separated in a storm and the action concentrates on a single boat. The images were vividly photographic in their detail and the lines flowed with action.

  “This is pretty incredible stuff,” I said.

  “Oh, it gets better. Here’s the reverse side of the piece.”

  He handed me a second set of glossy photos showing the backside of the bone carved with multiple panels, then individual scenes. They looked like something out of a graphic horror novel. The first image showed the men cutting up a dead body and handing the parts around. Then only three men were left in the boat. The names of the men were carved under the scene. They seemed to be gambling. In the next panel, one has a knife and he is stabbing another crewman. The last panel shows two men gnawing on bones like the animals they resemble. There is a ship on the horizon.