Murder at the Library of Congress - Margaret Truman [95]
“I believe,” Driscoll said, “that if a man isn’t willing to take a chance, to put himself on the line, he isn’t much of a man. Agree?”
“I suppose it depends upon the cause.”
“Ah hah, exactly. What greater cause can there be than the quest for perfect knowledge, Cale? ‘And this gray spirit yearning in desire to follow knowledge like a sinking star, beyond the utmost bound of human thought.’ Tennyson.”
“Yes, Tennyson.”
Driscoll straightened and became more animated.
“Do you realize, Cale, what possession of the Las Casas diaries would mean to the elevating of man’s knowledge?” He didn’t wait for a response. “It could rewrite the history books if Las Casas’s diaries contradict Columbus’s writings about his voyages. Was Columbus really Spanish rather than Italian? A Spanish Jew? What were his ideas of geography? Was he as benevolent to the natives he encountered on his voyages as his writings would have us believe, or was he a cruel conquerer? What did Las Casas say about these things, and more, Cale? And the map. My God, think of it. Did Columbus plunder those natives and stash millions in gold for himself instead of enriching his benefactors in Spain as he was expected to do? If Las Casas’s writings are ever unearthed, Cale, how we view who we are and how we came to be here could forever be changed.”
What about the payments to Michele Paul, David? Why did you give him money? Did you have anything to do with his murder?
There would be time later to ask those questions. For now, yes, let us talk about Bartolomé de Las Casas, he mused.
“Are you closer to obtaining the diaries, David?”
“The most daunting quest in a lifetime of questing for the truth.”
It took Broadhurst a moment to realize Driscoll was referring to himself.
“Cale, let me be blunt with you. I took unusually daring steps to try and obtain the diaries and map for you.” Broadhurst started to say something but Driscoll held up his hand. “No, no need to thank me, at least not at this juncture. I do not believe a map ever existed.”
Have I been summoned here to be informed of his failure? Broadhurst quietly wondered.
Driscoll went on: “But as you’ve known all along, the map was the least likely to surface. I followed, at great personal sacrifice, the most promising route in search of the map. I was informed by a very reliable source that it existed behind a painting created in Seville that was brought to this country. It turned out not to be true.”
Was that “very reliable source” Michele Paul?
“Was our Dr. Paul your source, David?”
“There you go, Cale, believing what you read in the papers.”
And from the police.
And on the discs.
“David, I certainly don’t wish to be argumentative, but are you telling me there is no truth to the allegation that you’d been paying large sums to Michele Paul in return for … his research?”
Driscoll’s smile dismissed the question as not being worthy of a reply.
“It’s important that I know,” Broadhurst said, displeased with the pleading tone that had crept into his voice. “It isn’t just the press reports, David. The police traced Michele’s financial records.”
“So I’ve heard—on television.”
“If it’s not true,” Broadhurst said, injecting optimism into his tone, “if there’s been some mistake, some misinterpretation of the information, I assure you that I, and the library, will stand with you to correct this erroneous report. But if—”
“Yes? But if what?”
Broadhurst, uncomfortable with the palpable tension in the space between them, stood and went to the rolling bar, on which he placed his half-empty glass.
“Cale,” Driscoll called from where he continued to sit.
Broadhurst faced him.
“Yes, David?”
“It is irrelevant whether I helped support Michele’s work. He was a brilliant researcher. People like that need all the financial