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Coincidentally, I knew him. Name was Hans Kronberg. A diver from the old school. Caught the bends more than anybody I ever knew. Hans was badly crippled, but it never stopped him from diving."
"Do you know what became of him?"
"As I recall, he purchased the equipment for a salvage job somewhere around Cuba. Rumor was the bends finally put him away for good."
"You don't remember who hired him?"
"No, it was too long ago," said Conde. "I think he found himself a partner who had a few bucks.
Hans's regular diving gear was old and worn. His suit must have had fifty patches on it. He worked hand to mouth, barely earned enough to make a decent living. Then one day he walks in here, buys all new equipment, and pays cash."
"I appreciate your help," said Pitt.
"Not at all. Glad you called. Interesting you should call. May I ask where you found his helmet?"
"Inside an old steel wreck near the Bahamas."
Conde got the picture. He was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "So old Hans never surfaced. Well, I guess he would have preferred it to passing away in bed."
"Can you think of anyone else who might remember Hans?"
"Not really. All the hard-hat divers from the old days are gone now. The only lead I can think of is Hans's widow. She still sends me Christmas cards. She lives in a rest home."
"Do you know the name of the rest home or where it's located?"
"I believe it's in Leesburg, Virginia. Haven't a clue to the name. Speaking of names, hers is Hilda."
"Thank you, Mr. Conde. You've been a great help."
"If you're ever in Baltimore, Mr. Farmer, drop in and say hello. Got plenty of time to talk about the old days since my sons aced me out of the company helm."
"I'd like that," said Pitt. "Goodbye."
Pitt cut the connection and rang Jennie Murphy. He asked her to call senior citizen rest homes around the Leesburg area until she hit on the one that housed Hilda Kronberg.
"What are you after?" demanded Alice.
Pitt smiled. "I'm looking for El Dorado."
"Very funny."
"That's the trouble with CIA types," said Pitt. "They can't take a joke."
The ford delivery truck rolled up the driveway of the Winthrop Manor Nursing Home and stopped at the service entrance. The truck was painted a bright blue with illustrations of floral arrangements on the sides. Gold lettering advertised Mother's House of Flowers.
"Please don't dally," said Alice impatiently. "You have to be in San Salvador four hours from now."
"Do my best," Pitt said as he jumped from the truck, wearing a driver's uniform and carrying a bouquet of roses.
"A mystery to me how you talked Mr. Brogan into this private excursion."
Pitt smiled as he closed the door. "A simple matter of extortion."
The Winthrop Manor Nursing Home was an idyllic setting for the sunset years. There was a nine-hole golf course, tropical indoor swimming pool, an elegant dining room, and lush landscaped gardens. The main building was designed more along the lines of a five-star hotel than a drab sanatorium.
No ramshackle home for the aged poor, thought Pitt. Winthrop Manor radiated first-class taste for wealthy senior citizens. He began to wonder how the widow of a diver who struggled to make ends meet could afford to live in such luxury.
