The Glendower Legacy Read Online Free

was almost beyond simple monetary value … but one would be required to set a figure. But even its very existence would create a storm of interest and debate. And even more than that there was the satisfaction to be derived, the opportunity to place a capstone on his career. That was beyond valuation of any kind. He would now become a footnote in the history books—no, considerably more than that. He smiled. Puffing a pipe, smoke swirling around his head, he arranged for his flight to Basel and the train accommodations thereafter, as well as the reservation at the Athénée-Palace in Bucharest.
    Nat had debated when to unveil his spectacular find: he wanted it to be cast in the proper setting, a climax to the week. Europeans were not easy to impress when it came to historical documents, their own histories being so much lengthier and therefore richer than Nat Underhill’s. But they were knowledgeable, they knew American history, and the photocopy of the document he had in his possession would astound them, even if it wasn’t a thousand years old. It was the sort of thing men in their profession dreamed about, more often than not went a lifetime without ever once finding—the document he was thinking of himself as agent for wasn’t simply a nice, bold reinforcement of history … this one changed history!
    The final night of his stay in Bucharest was obviously the time. He arranged for a group of his old friends to dine as his guests at a warm, dark, odiferous cellar restaurant he remembered unchanged from the thirties. There were six of them, as well as a young Romanian called Grigorescu who had ingratiated himself with the older men during the weeks, acting as an informal guide to the new Bucharest. Grigorescu was not yet thirty, full-faced, pale, always seeming somewhat overheated in his sweater and a suitcoat straining its seams. His complexion tended to pastiness with deep-set, cavernously shadowed eyes: he reminded Nat Underhill of certain blind men. But he was quiet, helpful, nervous, anxious to please and gather in the wisdom of the elderly westerners.
    Crowded around a large corner table, shoulder to shoulder and made especially convivial by the heat and the rich Romanian red wines, they smoked and relived the past and ate plates of mamaliga and the tiny skewered meatballs called mititei and sausage and steak and the sour soup and devastatingly heavy casserole, leaned back exhausted with fruit and cheese and tzuica. They toasted Nat Underhill, teasing him about his advanced age though three of them were past seventy themselves. Grigorescu smiled shyly, perspired, wiped his forehead, listened, interpreted specifics with the waiter. Finally they lit their pipes and cigars and Nat Underhill looked around at their faces. Then he withdrew a plain envelope from his pocket and tapped it on the wine-stained tablecloth. The candles had burned low, wax melting in ornate patterns, dripping.
    “Gentlemen,” Nat Underhill said, “I have a story to tell you … An example of the sort of wonders lurking around each corner in our line of work. You never know, Grigorescu, what may happen tomorrow. You are just beginning … and I am nearing the end, but Fate can take any one of us by the hand at any time.” The fat young man nodded solemnly. “Less than a month ago Fate brought me the most remarkable document of my life …” He waved the envelope slowly before him, like a conjurer about to produce a rabbit from someone’s ear. “It came out of the blue … and it will force a rewriting of the history of the American revolutionary war! Nothing less … and you know me, I have never been given to hyperbole. Let me explain …”
    When he was done with the story he passed the photocopy around the table. He recognized true admiration in their faces: such men didn’t show it often and when they did there wasn’t a doubt. He smiled watching them. This was the payoff, the closest any antiquarian could come to a Nobel: the