The Bone Hunters (8 page)

“Under the assumption that there was a marine convoy,” said Lexy, “one assumes it was going to the port city because there was a ship waiting for it.”

“Very astute, Dr. Vaughan,” said Choate. “In fact, the last American ship in China at that moment was en route from Manilla and heading for Chinwangtao. It was the S.S.
President Harrison.
Unfortunately, it was attacked by Japanese warships and never made it past the Yangtze River. If the marine convoy did reach Chinwangtao and saw there was no ship there, it stands to reason that they hid the crates. That dock area is now a Chinese manufacturing complex. Ten years ago, I acquired an interest in one of the companies solely because its paved parking lot stands in the same place as the original Swiss warehouse. We have been surreptitiously digging there ever since to no avail.”

“What about the possibility of another ship having been at the port when they got there?” asked Lexy.

“According to all the records, there were no other
ships in Chinwangtao by that time,” said Choate. “Every shipping line reported that they had already put their ships out to sea rather than have them confiscated by the Japanese.”

“Military after-action reports should have been filed by the marine officer commanding the detachment on December eighth,” said Macaulay. “Have you checked the marine records from that time?”

Choate turned to see the sweat dripping down Macaulay's face. “Are you ill, sir? Should I call for medical assistance?”

“It's called the water cure,” said Macaulay. “I'm fine.”

“As you can imagine, those few days at the beginning of the war were incredibly chaotic,” said Choate. “The Japanese were on the move throughout the Pacific. The Americans would soon surrender in the Philippines and the British at Singapore. The remaining marines in China were trapped and had no place to escape. Most were forced to surrender and they disappeared into the Japanese death camps.”

“There must be personnel records of the marines who were there at the time,” insisted Macaulay.

“I retained a retired three-star marine general to try to track down the existing military records along with the names of the marines in that convoy so I could interview any who might still be alive. He sent people to the National Archives in St. Louis and at College Park and the Marine Corps Records Center in Quantico, Virginia. They found no record of any marine convoy leaving Peking on December 8, 1941, and no record of a truck convoy arriving at Camp Holcomb before the base was evacuated. He did provide one interesting note. He said
that many of the activities of our military personnel in China at that time are still classified as top secret.”

“Why would that be?” asked Barnaby.

“He suggested there may have been back channels between the State Department and the Communist Chinese that could have been embarrassing to our government in the ‘who lost China' fiasco,” said Choate.

“That was a long time ago,” said Barnaby.

“Yes,” agreed Choate.

“I noted the security precautions you are taking here,” said Macaulay. “Is there a specific reason?”

“In the last three weeks, there have been two break-ins at my home in Riverdale while I was away. Nothing of value was taken, but my home office and library were both targeted and searched.”

“As you have said, we live in violent times,” said Macaulay. “Perhaps it's only a sign of them.”

The sally nearly brought the little man out of his chair.

“I may be diminutive in stature, sir, but I can assure you I have had many adventures in my time. I have lived on the run in Communist China and other dangerous places. One develops an extra sense about these things. I don't expect you to believe me.”

“Actually, I do believe you,” said Macaulay. “I would strongly urge you to continue your security precautions.”

Barnaby stood up and said, “We would be grateful to have a chance to review those records in the safe.”

“There is a secure room next to my office here,” said Choate. “You can schedule a time with Dongmei. I will have to be here to unlock it.”

They were at the door when the little man chirped once more.

“Please come back for a moment, Dr. Finchem,” he said, “and close the door.”

Barnaby returned to his chair.

“You have probably heard of the new religious cult in China that has come to deify the Peking Man. Millions of peasants now worship him as a god,” said Choate. “I believe there are new forces at work in this drama.”

“You may be right, Professor,” said Barnaby.

“Are you familiar with the paleontological research of Davidson Black?” asked Choate.

“He was the Canadian anatomist who conceived the Asian Hypothesis,” said Barnaby.

“Very good,” said Choate. “Yes, he believed that Asia and not Africa was the cradle of humankind.”

“One of the few,” said Barnaby.

“In 1927, a molar tooth was found at the Peking Man site on Dragon Bone Hill. Black placed the tooth in a small copper case lined with velvet that was attached to his belt. He carried it with him until the day he died suddenly from heart failure in 1934. The tooth was then restored to the Peking Man collection.”

He paused for nearly a minute, as if wrestling with a decision of vital importance. “You are a scientist of the highest repute. I will tell you something I have never shared with another living soul. At the age of ninety-eight, I suppose it is finally time to reveal it to someone. After the initial discovery of the molar, Dr. Finchem, Davidson Black thought it belonged to a new human species. Over the years, he conducted a series of tests on it as the technology slowly improved for dating methods and other scientific tools. He also discovered that a number
of the other bone fossils in the Peking Man collection were also different from the rest. Uniquely different.”

“Are you suggesting . . . ?”

“I am suggesting nothing more than the fact that an acclaimed scientist came to certain conclusions shortly before his death . . . one conclusion being that based on the bone matter itself along with the physiology of the thorax, Peking Man did not conform to the train of human evolution as we know it.”

“Why has his research never been made public?”

“The tests he performed on the tooth and the findings he made as a result of them were recorded in his private journal. The journal was among the things later given to his widow after his untimely heart attack. It came into my hands at great expense in 1945. It is the sole reason I began my lifelong quest to solve the mystery. Call it ego or hubris or whatever you like. I wanted it to be my discovery.”

“Where is Black's journal now?” asked Barnaby.

Choate turned to glance over at his safe.

“Will you allow me to see it?” asked Barnaby.

Choate nodded and said, “It is time.”

“Thank you,” said Barnaby.

“I'm beginning to wonder if this new religious sect in China has somehow independently confirmed Black's conclusions,” said Choate, his wrinkled monkey face wreathed in a grotesque smile. “I have noted that they do not refer to him as the Son of God, but rather as the son of the universe.”

“I share your skepticism about all organized religion,” said Barnaby, getting up to leave.

When they were gone, Dongmei locked the dead bolt
and returned to Choate's inner office to retrieve the tea trolley. The old man was already asleep when she wheeled it across the room and into the small utility kitchen that adjoined it.

After washing and drying the tea service in the slop sink, she reached under the lower shelf of the lacquered walnut tea trolley and removed the voice-activated digital recorder from its magnetized slot near the front wheel.

17 May

Harvard Club

27 West Forty-fourth Street

New York City

“Conclusions?” asked Barnaby, as he, Lexy, and Macaulay sat down at a corner table in the main dining room. It was shortly past two in the afternoon and all but three of the tables were empty. From the wainscoted wall above their heads, a long-dead alumnus gazed down at them with a dyspeptic grimace from a life-size oil painting.

On their way downtown in the chauffeured Lincoln limousine provided to Barnaby by Ira Dusenberry, Barnaby had briefed them on the startling revelations about Davidson Black delivered privately by Sebastian Choate.

“Black was a brilliant paleoanthropologist,” said Lexy. “I've read much of his published work. He was no charlatan, but when he died in 1934, there was no carbon dating technology for him to rely on, much less the ability we have today to test a fossil's DNA. I only wonder what kind of tests he could have conducted that would have led to those conclusions.”

“I assume they were outlined in his journal,” said Barnaby, “along with his notes on the strange composition of the Peking Man's bone matter and the physiology of the fossil's thorax.”

Lexy looked up to see a waitress standing nervously near their table as if uncertain whether to approach.

Macaulay spoke next.

“I would completely ignore the ‘not of this earth' angle,” he said. “Even if there is a semblance of truth to it, there will be no proof unless the fossils are recovered. The best chance we have to find them begins with that small marine convoy. I don't care what Choate's hired three-star general told him. If the convoy existed, there will be a record of it somewhere.”

“I'm glad you are so confident about that,” said Barnaby. “That will be your first task. Where will you start?”

“I have a friend at the Marine Corps Records Center in Quantico,” said Macaulay. “I'll call him to say I'm coming and you can have Dusenberry alert him to the fact that it's top priority. There's an afternoon courier flight from La Guardia to Quantico. I'll be on it.”

“Good,” said Barnaby. “Alexandra and I will focus on what is inside that safe. I'll call Choate after lunch and arrange a time for this afternoon if possible.”

Lexy excused herself to go the ladies' room. As she was crossing the dining room, Macaulay glanced over at the last two remaining diners. They were two middle-aged men in their forties wearing business suits. One of them had fiery red hair. He said something to her as she went by. If Lexy heard him, she ignored it.

The waitress was still standing near Barnaby's table.

“I will have my usual,” he said without looking at the menu. “A crimson cocktail and the native Jonah crabs bonbons.” Turning to Macaulay, he said, “Knowing of your fondness for red meat, General, I would strongly recommend the grilled Thai beef or the liver and bacon
en compote. For Alexandra I'll order the pan-seared scallops.”

“I'm sorry,” said the waitress, “but the steward is coming.”

“Excellent,” said Barnaby. “I always have new ideas for the menu.”

As Macaulay watched, the redheaded man stood up from his table and followed Lexy out of the dining room. He was built like a former football player, a defensive tackle or linebacker.

A short, slender man passed by him at the entrance and strode straight toward Barnaby's table. He looked to be in his thirties and wore a double-breasted charcoal suit, white oxford shirt, and maroon club tie. His tawny blond hair was artfully tousled above his head like a recumbent lion's. He had tried to mask his receding chin with a short goatee.

“My name is Tor Hinchcliff, Dr. Finchem,” he said, arriving at the table. “I am the assistant club steward.”

“I was just telling my guests that I have some excellent ideas for improving the menu,” said Barnaby.

“Thank you, but I must ask you to leave the din – ing room,” said Hinchcliff. “Other members have complained, sir.”

“What other members?” he demanded, looking around the empty dining room.

“I'm not at liberty to tell you, sir,” said Hinchcliff. “We encourage all our members to do their duty and personally enforce the rules of decorum.”

“How have I failed to meet my moral obligations?” asked Barnaby.

“Business attire is always required in the main dining room,” he said, with a churlish smile. “A plumber's boiler suit is not considered business attire. Again, I have to ask you to leave.”

“This is not a boiler suit,” said Barnaby. “It was designed by Churchill during the Second World War. He wore one just like it to the White House.”

“Mr. Churchill—whoever he is—would not be allowed as a guest in this dining room wearing such outlandish attire,” said Hinchcliff. “If you do not leave voluntarily, I will call the police and have you removed as a public nuisance.”

Macaulay glanced at his watch and wondered what had happened to Lexy.

“May I ask where you went to college?” asked Barnaby, barely holding his temper.

“Harvard, sir . . . class of 2004.”

“And your concentration?”

“Women, gender, and sexuality,” said Hinchcliff. “I was also captain of the diving team.”

“And your birth name is Tor Hinchcliff?” asked Barnaby with a smile.

Macaulay stood up and headed for the restrooms. A sign near the entrance led him down a paneled hallway past the men's room and around a corner. Up ahead, the redheaded man was standing in the corridor near the ladies' room with his arms extended to the wall. He appeared to be talking to it.

As Macaulay drew closer, he saw that a phone booth was recessed into the wall, the kind with a single seat and a glass-paneled door. The door was in the open position.
He could see Lexy's knees extending a few inches out from the opening.

“Please let me leave,” he heard her say from the booth.

The redheaded man laughed and said, “I still need your number.”

“I've got her number,” said Macaulay with unreasoned anger. “It's unlisted.”

The man kept his arms positioned against the wall but turned his head to look at Macaulay. He might have been called ruggedly handsome if his eyes weren't set so close together. There was a raw abrasion over his left cheekbone and Steve wondered who might have had the pleasure of putting it there.

“I can handle this, Steve,” said Lexy, standing up and trying to force her way past the man out of the booth.

The redheaded man kept his long arms in place, boxing her in.

“I would leave now, asshole,” said the man.

“Please, Steve,” said Lexy.

“Please, Steve,” mimicked the man in a girlish voice.

Macaulay grabbed his left wrist and pulled it away from the wall. The man outweighed him by thirty pounds and was fast. He stepped toward Macaulay and swung a long right hand at his face. Macaulay ducked the punch and came up hard with his knee into the man's crotch. When he bent over in pain, Macaulay grabbed the seat of his pants and drove his head into the opposite wall. He slid down the side onto his knees and was still.

“If you're finished, General, I know a place named Mulligan's on Ninth Avenue that makes the best lamb stew in New York,” said Barnaby from the end of the corridor.