Read Benchley, Peter for Free Online Page B

bend in the middle-as if it had been broken and never set. His face seemed triangular, an upside-down pyramid: wide, high cheekbones above hollow cheeks, a thin-lipped mouth above a sharp, jutting chin. His skin was brown and dry, like overdone bacon. The only
    facial feature that betrayed
    the presence of blood other than Indian was the eyes: light powder-blue.
    “We’re not tourists,” Sanders said. “The man at Orange Grove said you might be willing to look at some things we got off a ship.”
    “Whatman?”
    “The bell captain.”
    “Briscoe,” said Treece. “I’m not his bloody handmaiden.”
    “He only said that no one else could help us, and that you might.”
    “What ship?”
    “Goliath.”
    “Nothing worth a damn on that scow. Least if there is, no one’s ever found it.” Treece looked beyond them to the gate. “You rode all the way out here on those things?”
    “Yes.”
    “Well, what’d you find?” Treece unlatched the screen door and stepped out onto the path, closing the door behind him. “Is that the stuff there?” he said, pointing to the bundle in Gail’s hand.
    “Yes.” Gail handed him the bundle.
    Treece squatted down, set the towel on the path, opened it, and looked at the forks and spoons, the pewter cup, the razor, and the butter plate. “That’s
    Goliath
    trash, no question.” He stood up. “You got your answer. Was it worth the ride?”
    Sanders said, “There was one other thing.” He motioned to Gail, and she took the ampule from her shirt pocket and passed it to Treece.
    Treece let the ampule rest in the palm of his hand. He stared at it, saying nothing. Sanders saw the muscles in his jaw move, as if he were gritting his teeth.
    Finally, Treece closed his hand around the ampule.
    He raised his head and looked at the sea. “God bloody damn!” he said. “Thirty-two years, and finally the sonofabitch comes true.”
    “What-was
    Treece spun on Sanders, cutting him off. “Who else has seen this?”
    “Well…” Sanders stammered.
    “I said
    who else!”
    “Last night,” he said, “a man tried to buy it from us. A black man. He said he was
    interested in the glass. And a waiter at the hotel saw it, too.”
    Treece laughed-a laugh of anger and contempt.
    “Glass.” He held his fist under Sanders’ face and opened it, forcing him to look at the ampule. “You know what’s in there? Morphine, pure and sweet, enough to give a man a week’s holiday in the stars.
    It’s no surprise someone tried to buy it from you.
    It’s proof of the legend.”
    “What legend?”
    Treece looked at Sanders, at Gail, then back at Sanders. “I’d as soon not tell you, but now they know you found it, they’ll be letting you know soon enough. Come along.”
    They followed Treece around to the back of the house.
    He led them into the kitchen, a large and airy room with a view of the sea. Bottles and vials of chemicals, Bunson burners and tools-dentist drills, forceps, knives, hammers,
    chisels-were strewn about everywhere, on the counters and on the one round table. He motioned them to chairs at the table.
    Gail’s throat was dry, and she said, “Could I have a glass of water?”
    “If I can find a glass,” Treece
    said, rummaging around in the clutter on a counter.
    Gail saw a half-full glass on the table.
    “This’ll be fine,” she said, and she reached for the glass. “It doesn’t have to be cold.”
    Treece watched her, waiting until the glass was within an inch or two of her mouth. Then he laughed and said, “Jesus, girl, don’t drink that stuff.
    One sip and you’ll be in the history books.”
    Gail was startled. “What is it?”
    “Hydrochloric acid. Clean your pipes out, that’s for certain.” He found a glass, filled it with tap water, and handed it to her. “Here. All this’ll do is rust you.”
    Sanders heard a growl behind him. He turned, not knowing what to expect, and saw a dog sitting on the window sill. It was a terrier of some kind, medium-size,