Raise the Titanic! (Dirk Pitt 4)

"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.