The Deep

“Sir? I arrived this very moment.”

“From the bushes?”

The man smiled. “That is the shortest way.

The path is very roundabout.” His accent was crisp, establishment British.

“What can we do for you?”

“I would like a word with you, if I may.”

“Okay. But come up into the light.”

The man, who looked about fifty, stepped onto the porch. His blue-black skin was wrinkled, and there were flecks of gray in his black hair. “My name is Tupper. Basil Tupper. I am the manager of a jewelry store in Hamilton. Drake’s. Perhaps you’ve heard of it. No matter. My hobby is antique glass.”

Sanders looked at Gail. “Lot of glass freaks in Bermuda.”

Tupper said, “I understand you recently acquired a small item of glass from the wreck of the Goliath. I would like very much to see it.”

“Why?”

“What’s all the curiosity about?” Gail said, reaching for the purse beside her chair. “It’s just a medicine bottle.”

“No curiosity, really,” said Tupper, “except to those of us interested in fine glass. A chap named Reinhardt worked with glass in Norfolk in the mid-1940’s. His work is relatively scarce. It’s not worth much in the open market, but in our small circle it’s quite a coup to have a piece of Reinhardt glass.”

Gail found the ampule and handed it to Tupper. He held it to the light. “A nice piece,” he said.

“Not outstanding, but a nice piece.”

“It’s an ampule,” said Sanders. “You see them all over the place.”

“True, but there is a tiny bubble at one end of the glass. That was Reinhardt’s signature.”

“What’s in it? “Gail asked.

“I have no idea. It could be anything. That’s not my concern.”

Gail smiled. “For someone who doesn’t care what’s inside, you’re studying it awfully carefully.”

“I am studying the container, not the contents. The liquid looks yellow, but it might be quite clear.

Reinhardt glass often imparts its own hue to liquids.” Tupper returned the ampule to Gail. “Very nice. I’m prepared to offer you twenty dollars for it.”

“Twenty dollars!” said Sanders. “But it’s-was “I know, that sounds like a lot. But as I said, in our little coterie there is a certain rivalry. I’d like very much to be the first to have a piece of Reinhardt’s work. Frankly, the piece isn’t worth more than ten dollars, but by offering you twenty I know I’m offering more than most of the others could pay.

Someone like your acquaintance, Slake, couldn’t possibly go higher than ten dollars. I am making what could be called a pre-emptive bid.”

“Would you mind if we draw off some of the liquid?”

Gail said. “We’re interested in knowing what’s inside, even if you’re not.”

“No,” Tupper said. “That’s quite impossible.

To draw off the liquid, you would have to break an end of the piece. That would ruin its value.”

“Then I’m afraid there’s no sale,” Sanders said.

“Thirty dollars,” Tupper said, abandoning his deferential charm.

“No,” said Sanders. “Not even for fifty.”

“You’re making a mistake, you know. No one else will offer you anywhere near that much.”

“Then I guess we’ll just have to keep the piece ourselves,” Sanders said. “After all, you said yourself that it’s quite a coup to have a piece of Reinhardt glass.”

Tupper glared at him, then nodded to Gail, said good night and backed off the porch. A few yards down the path he parted some bushes, stepped into the underbrush, and was gone.

“What the hell do you make of that?” Sanders said.

Gail stood up. “Let’s go inside. If he could hang around in the bushes without our hearing him, God knows what else is creeping around out there.”

They went into the cottage, and Sanders locked the door. “You believe him?”

“No. Do you?”

“Who knows from Reinhardt glass?”

“If there’s such competition between glass nuts,” Gail said, “why would Slake have told him about the ampule? He’d have offered to buy it himself. No. I bet he isn’t interested in the glass. He’s after what’s inside.”

“I wonder why he didn’t say so.”

“I don’t know. I guess it’s pretty hard to pass yourself off as a liquid-collector.”

“Have you got the rest of the stuff we found?”

“Sure,” Gail said. “Why?”

“Tomorrow, let’s see if we can find someone who knows something about the wreck. Maybe there’s an old manifest; at least that’d tell us what Goliath was carrying.”

“There were no survivors?” Gail said.

“One,” replied the bell captain, a corpulent, middle-aged Briton, “but he’s about gone by these days.”

“Gone by?”

The bell captain touched his head. “Dotty. He’d tell you volumes, but two thirds of it would be fancy. There is one man who might be able to help you, Romer Treece. He’s been on every wreck off Bermuda; found half of them himself. If anyone knows these waters, he does.”

“Is he in the phone book?” Sanders asked.

“He has no telephone. The only way to contact him is to go out to his home, on St. David’s Island.”

“Okay. I saw some motorbikes out front.

Are they for rent?”

“The little ones—the mobilettes—yes.” The bell captain paused. “Mr. Sanders… do you know about St. David’s?”

“What’s to know? I’ve seen it on the map.”