Inca Gold - Cussler Clive (читать онлайн полную книгу .TXT) 📗

    "The Specter," replied Gaskill.

    "Our illustrious predecessors in the Justice Department never caught him, did they?"

    "Never even made an I. D."

    "You think he had a hand in the original theft of the Riveras?"

    "Why not? The Specter was to art theft what Raffles was to diamond thefts. And just as melodramatic. He pulled off at least ten of the greatest art heists in history. A vain guy, he always left his trademark behind."

    "I seem to recall reading about a white glove," said Ragsdale.

    "That was Raffles. The Specter left a small calendar at the scene of his crimes, with the date of his next theft circled."

    "Give the man credit. He was a cocky bastard."

    A large, oval plate of what looked like chicken on a bed of rice arrived. Gaskill was also served an appetizing salad on the side. Ragsdale somberly examined the contents of his bowl and looked up at the waitress.

    "I don't suppose this greasy spoon serves anything but beer in cans."

    The grizzled waitress looked down at him and smiled like an old prostitute. "Honey, we got beer in bottles and we got wine. What'll it be?"

    "A bottle of your best burgundy."

    "I'll check with the wine steward." She winked through one heavily mascaraed eye before waddling back to the kitchen.

    "I forgot to mention the friendly service." Gaskill smiled.

    Ragsdale warily dipped a spoon into his soup, suspicion lining his face. He slowly sipped the contents of his spoon as if judging a wine tasting. Then he looked across the booth with widening eyes. "Good heavens. Sherry and pearl onions, garlic cloves, rosemary, and three different kinds of mushrooms. This is delicious." He peered at Gaskill's plate. "What did you order, chicken?"

    Gaskill tilted his plate so Ragsdale could see it. "You're close. The house specialty. Broiled marinated quail on a bed of bulgur with currants, scallions, puree of roasted carrots, and leeks with ginger."

    Ragsdale looked as if his wife had presented him with triplets. "You conned me."

    Gaskill appeared hurt. "I thought you wanted a good place to eat."

    "This is fantastic. But where are the crowds? They should be lined up outside."

    "The owner and chef, who by the way used to be at the Ritz in London, closes his kitchen on Mondays."

    "But why did he open just for us?" Ragsdale asked in awe.

    "I recovered his collection of medieval cooking utensils after they were stolen from his former house in England and smuggled into Miami."

    The waitress returned and thrust a bottle in front of Ragsdale's face so he could read the label. "Here you go, honey, Chateau Chantilly 1878. You got good taste, but are you man enough to pay eight thousand bucks for the bottle?"

    Ragsdale stared at the dusty bottle and faded label and went absolutely numb with surprise. "No, no, a good California cabernet will be fine," he choked out.

    "Tell you what, honey. How about a nice medium weight Bordeaux, a 1988 vintage. Say around thirty bucks."

    Ragsdale nodded in dumb assent. "I don't believe this."

    "I think what really appeals to me about the place," said Gaskill, pausing to savor a bit of quail, "is its incongruity. Who would ever expect to find gourmet food and wine like this in a diner?"

    "It's a world apart all right."

    "To get back to our conversation," said Gaskill, daintily removing a bone from the quail with his massive hands. "I almost laid my hands on another of the Specter's acquisitions."

    "Yes, I heard about your blown stakeout," Ragsdale muttered, having a difficult time bringing his mind back on track. "A Peruvian mummy covered in gold, wasn't it?"

    "The Golden Body Suit of Tiapollo."

    "Where did you go wrong?"

    "Bad timing more than anything. While we were keeping an eye on the owner's penthouse, a gang of thieves acting as furniture movers snatched the mummy from an apartment on a lower floor where it was hidden along with a huge cache of other art and artifacts, all with shady histories."

    "This soup is outstanding," Ragsdale said, trying to get the waitress's attention. "I'd better take another look at the menu and order an entree. Have you made up a catalogue yet?"

    "End of the week. I suspect there may be between thirty and forty items on your FBI wish list of stolen art in my suspect's underground collection."

    The waitress wandered over with the wine and Ragsdale ordered seared salmon with sweet corn, shiitake mushrooms, and spinach. "Good choice, honey," she drawled as she opened the bottle.

    Ragsdale shook his head in wonderment before turning his attention back to Gaskill. "What's the name of the collector who squirreled away the hot art?"

    "His name is Adolphus Rummel, a wealthy scrap dealer out of Chicago. His name ring a bell?"

    "No, but then I've never met a big-time underground buyer and collector who held open house. Any chance Rummel will talk?"

    "No way," said Gaskill regretfully. "He's already hired Jacob Morganthaler and is suing to get his confiscated art objects back."

    "Jury-rig Jake," Ragsdale said disgustedly. "Friend and champion of indicted black market art dealers and collectors."

    "With his acquittal record, we should consider ourselves lucky he doesn't defend murderers and drug dealers."

    "Any leads on who stole the golden body suit?"

    "None. A clean job. If I didn't know better, I'd say the Specter did it."

    Not unless he came back from the dead. He'd have to be well over ninety years old."

    Gaskill held up his glass, and Ragsdale poured the wine. "Suppose he had a son, or established a dynasty who carried on the family tradition?"

    "That's a thought. Except that no calendars with circled dates have been left at art robberies for over fifty years."

    "They could have branched out into smuggling and forgeries and dropped the cornball theatrics. Today's professionals know that modern investigative technology could easily comb enough evidence out of those hokey calendars to put a collar on them."

    "Maybe." Ragsdale paused as the waitress brought his salmon. He sniffed the aroma and gazed in delight at the presentation. "I hope it tastes as good as it looks."

    "Guaranteed, honey," the old waitress cackled, "or your money back."

    Ragsdale drained his wine and poured another glass. "I can hear your mind clicking from here. Where are you headed?"

    "Whoever committed the robbery didn't do it to gain a higher price from another black market collector," Gaskill replied. "I did some research on the golden body suit encasing the mummy. Reportedly, it was covered with engraved hieroglyphs, illustrating a long voyage by a fleet of Inca ships carrying a vast treasure, including a huge golden chain. I believe the thieves took it so they can trace a path to the mother lode."

    "Does the suit tell what happened to the treasure?"

    "Legend says it was buried on an island of an inland sea. How's your salmon?"

    "The best I've ever eaten," said Ragsdale happily. "And believe you me, that's a compliment. So where do you go from here?"