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for debriefing. Captain Chillingsworth reportedly feared a mutiny aboard the
Madagascar. Still no dice. The Madagascar left Nassau on July 9 and was never
seen again. There was a violent storm the night after it left and it wasn't
the hurricane season. And yeah, it was passing through the Bermuda Triangle,
but that's a lot of crap."
Culhane said nothing.
"It was eventually presumed the Madagascar went down with all hands. But since
Ethyl had the Log from her great-uncle, either Henry and maybe some others
survived the wreck, or Captain Chillingsworth did what I would have done and
said to hell with orders and left the kid in Nassau on the sly. No one knew."
Culhane still held the envelope in his hands, not opening it. "You had this
why the hell didn't anybody do anything in the forties, or even right after
the war?"
"Once you look at that manuscript fragment, you'll see why. Sounds like
whoever wrote it was bonkers. And nobody in the OSS, U.S. Naval Intelligence,
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British SIS, or British Naval Intelligence had any access to the files on the
Madagascar, or any knowledge of Henry Chillingsworth or his uncle, the captain
of the Madagascar. There was nothing to connect it to until Jeff started
digging."
Culhane stubbed out his cigarette. "And just what the hell " his voice was
trembling and he didn't know why " and just what the hell did my brother find
out?"
Partridge waved the waitress over. "You got ice cream?"
"Yes, sir." The woman smiled. She was pretty enough, Culhane noticed absently.
"Chocolate, vanilla and butter pecan."
"Gimme three scoops of chocolate." Partridge looked at Culhane. "Want some ice
cream? Good ice cream here."
Culhane shook his head. "No, thanks."
"Would you like more coffee, sir, or care for another drink?"
"No," Culhane said. "Thanks." He smiled back at the waitress.
"And I'll get you some more coffee to have with your ice cream, sir," she said
to Partridge.
Partridge grinned.
The waitress left.
"What the hell did my brother find?" Culhane pressed.
Partridge looked after the waitress, then turned his eyes to Culhane's. "For
the past forty years, Steiglitz has been pursuing Ethyl Chillingsworth. He
finally caught up with her the other night. Presumably to get the Log. He had
feelers out for her everywhere with all the friendly intelligence communities,
other federal agencies, some of the large urban police departments for her
and for anyone related to her. And Jeff checked into that part."
"What part?"
"The relations. She had a father and mother."
"We all did."
"Hers got killed in 1953. A fire consumed their whole house started in their
bedroom under their bed. That was right after Steiglitz got back from Europe.
In 1961, Ethyl's younger brother, who'd been living under an assumed name in
New York, was the victim of a fatal mugging. In 1968, Ethyl's kid sister was
the victim of a rapist murderer in Iowa. The sister was married, but before
that she had lived under an assumed name. And then, of course, Ethyl herself
puts the clincher on it. For years, no record of Ethyl Chillingsworth. Never
turned up after that night in 1943 when Steiglitz tried to kill her. But Jeff
sorted that out, too. It was some kind of reference, maybe a tip I don't know
what but it somehow led him to the name Evelyn Collingwood. And sure enough,
the dame was wearin' Ethyl's fingerprints. Your brother discovered the
granddaddy of all conspiracies all over some damn Gladstone Log."
When the waitress came back, Josh Culhane changed his mind and ordered another
Salty Dog minus the salt.
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Chapter Fourteen
She punched the touch-tone buttons again and listened as the connection was
made. There was no answer at the house on Lake Lanier. She let it ring
twenty-four times, then hung up.
Mulrooney turned her attention back to the television set and to the VCR's
digital clock. The news would be on soon.
She picked up the telephone again, dialing a different number than Culhane's,
squirming her bluejeaned legs under her into a squat on the couch. The number
rang twice before the switchboard operator answered.
"Give me Jeffers at the City Desk."
The phone clicked, clicked again, then there was more ringing. After five
rings, it was picked up. "City Desk, Jeffers."
"Bill M.F. How're ya doin'?"
"Fine, sweetheart, and you?" the whiskey voice cracked back through the
receiver.
"Fine, Billy. Hey, did anything interesting happen in Ventner last night or
around "
He cut her off. "You want a list? Home of the local librarian broken into and
ransacked. The library ransacked maybe eight thousand bucks in books
destroyed, plus an old Bible insured for a thousand dollars. Security guard at
the Civic Center where the library was, was murdered after he'd emptied his
gun into somebody. No other bodies though. Then they find the librarian's body
in a construction site. She impaled herself on something after she did a swan
dive looks like from the top floor or so. "
Mulrooney lit a cigarette and rearranged her legs under her so she was
kneeling. "Anything else exciting happen last night? Sounds like you guys were
busy."
"Two fires in Atlanta, good sized, one of them maybe arson. Up in Elberton,
the GBI busted a bunch of guys in a hearse loaded with cocaine on the way in
from the coast. Chemical spill in a little town near Savannah no injuries,
just a lot of scared people. And a kind of funny-looking automobile accident
near Helen and Cornelia. I can read it off the wire for you if you want any
of this stuff."
Her guts started to churn. She didn't know why. "Tell me about the auto
accident. What's funny about it?"
"Looks like maybe somebody got deliberately run off the road. Holes in what's
left of the car could have been bullet holes. The cops put a lid on the thing
real quick. The driver's name was hey, maybe he's related to your old
boyfriend the paperback writer."
"Culhane?"
"Yeah, name was Jeff Culhane. Worked for what the hell was it some West
Virginia-based computer-software outfit. Don't remember the name."
Mulrooney stared into the telephone receiver, inhaling on her cigarette.
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"Thanks for the info, Billy. Give you a tip if you don't say who gave it to
you."
"I got a pencil. Shoot, sweetheart," the whiskey voice came back.
"Jeff Culhane was an ex-Green Beret, and he worked for the Central
Intelligence Agency. Be good, Billy," she said and hung up.
She inhaled on the Salem again, then tried Josh Culhane's house on Lake Lanier
once more. This time she let the phone ring thirty times.
She stood up.
There was a mirror on the far side of the room, and she looked at herself, at
the old shirt half out of the faded Levi's, the house slippers, her unmadeup
face. She looked at the coffee table, at the Latin dictionary, the yellow
legal pad and the old leather-bound book. The Gladstone Log.
"Can't let him see me like this," she told the mirror. She strode her long
legs into the bedroom.
Chapter Fifteen
They were on their way back to the funeral home, where his car, the white
Trans Am, was still parked unless it had been towed away by now. Culhane sat
beside Partridge in the back seat of the Lincoln Town Car and opened the
envelope. The copy was a Xerox or a Xerox of photographs, but it was legible
when he held it at the right angle to the light coming through the venetian
blind that covered the rear window of the Lincoln.
"We think it's a kind of introduction to the actual log of the H.M.S.
Madagascar, written by Henry Chillingsworth himself," Partridge said. "And
this is Steiglitz's translation into English, very literal no doubt."
Culhane said nothing and began to read. The first few lines were missing.
And so when my uncle, Captain Miles Ridgeway Chillingsworth, my father's
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