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The handwriting was obviously from a heavy hand. The postmark on the card was dated Paris, December 1, 1911.
"It was followed in a week by a second card," Adeline said as she handed it to Seagram. It depicted Sacra Coeur but was postmarked Le Havre.
DearAd, We're headin for the arctic. This will be my last message for some time. Be brave. The Frenchies are treating us right. Good food, good ship. You know who.
"You're certain it's Jake's handwriting?" Seagram asked. "Absolutely. I have other papers and old letters of Jake's. You can compare them if you wish."
"That won't be necessary, Ad." She smiled when she heard her nickname. "Was there any further communication?"
She nodded. "The third and last. Jake must have stocked up on picture postcards of Paris. This one shows the Sainte-Chapelle, but it was mailed from Aberdeen, Scotland, on April 4, 1912."
DearAd, This is a frightful place. The cold is fearsome. We don't know if we will survive. If I can somehow get this to you, you will be taken care of. God Bless. Jake.
Along the side, another hand had written in:
Dear Mrs. Hobart. We lost Jake in a storm. We gave him a Christian readin. We're sorry. V.H.
Seagram took out the list of the crew's names that Donner had read him over the phone.
"V.H. must have been Vernon Hall," he said.
"Yes, Vern and Jake were good friends."
"What happened after that? Who swore you to secrecy?"
"About two months later, I think it was early in June, a Colonel Patman or Patmore-I can't remember which came to the house in Boulder and told me it was imperative that I never reveal any contact from Jake after the Little Angel mine affair."
"Did he give any reason?"
She shook her head. "No, he simply said it was in the interest of the government to remain silent, and then he handed me the check for ten thousand dollars and departed."
Seagram sagged in his chair as though a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. It didn't seem possible that this little ninety-three-year-old woman should have the key to a lost billion-dollar ore cache, but she did.
Seagram looked at her and smiled. "That offer of lunch is beginning to sound awfully good about now."
She grinned back and he could see the mischief in her eyes. "As Jake would have said, to hell with lunch. Let's have a beer first."
16
The crimson rays of the sunset were still lingering on the western horizon when the first rumble of distant thunder signaled the approach of a lightning storm. The air was warm and the gentle offshore breeze felt good on Seagram's face as he sat on the terrace of the Balboa Bay Club and sipped his after-dinner cognac.
It was eight o'clock, the hour when the fashionable residents of Newport Beach began their evening socializing. Seagram had taken a dip in the club pool and then eaten early. He sat there listening to the grumbling of the nearing storm. The air became thick and charged with electricity, but there was no sign of rain or wind. In the photographic flash of the lightning he could see pleasure boats cruising up the bay, showing red and green navigation lights, their white paint giving them the appearance of silent gliding ghosts. Lightning stabbed the night air again, a jagged fork splitting the clouded sky. He watched it strike somewhere behind the Balboa Island rooftops, and in almost the same instant, the roar of the thunder thrust against his eardrums like a cannon barrage.
Everyone else had nervously moved inside the dining room, and Seagram soon found the terrace deserted. He stayed, enjoying mother nature's display of fireworks. He finished off the cognac and leaned back in his chair, watching for the next flash of lightning. It soon came and illuminated a figure standing beside his table. In that instant of light, he made out a tall man with black hair and rugged features staring down at him through cool, piercing eyes. Then the stranger blended into the darkness again.
As the thunder rumbled away, a seemingly disembodied voice asked, "Are you Gene Seagram?"
Seagram hesitated, waiting for his eyes to readjust themselves to the dark that followed the flash. "I am."
"I believe you've been looking for me."
"At the moment, you have the advantage."
"My apologies. I'm Dirk Pitt."
The skies lit up again and Seagram was relieved to see a smiling face. "It would seem, Mr. Pitt, that dramatic entrances are a habit with you. Did you also conjure up this electrical storm?"
Pitt's answering laugh came to the accompaniment of a clap of thunder.
