Free Raise the Titanic! by Clive Cussler Page A

T’s. Nothing there either for the Thor Forge and Ironworks of Denver. It was almost too much to expect, he reasoned, for two firms still to be in business after nearly eight decades.
    The fifteen minutes came and went, and the girl hadn’t returned, so he idly leafed through the directory to pass the time. With the exception of Kodak, Martin Marietta, and Gates Rubber, there were very few companies he’d heard of. Then suddenly he stiffened. Under the J listings his eyes picked out a Jensen and Thor Metal Fabricators in Denver. He tore out the page, stuffed it in his pocket, and tossed the booklet back on the counter.
    â€œHere you are, sir,” the girl said. “That’ll be fifty cents.”
    Donner paid and quickly scanned the headline in the upper-right-hand corner of the old newsprint’s reproduction. The article covered a mine disaster.
    â€œIs it what you were looking for?” the girl asked.
    â€œIt will have to do,” he said as he walked away.
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    Jensen and Thor Metal Fabricators was situated between the Burlington-Northern rail yards and the South Platte River; a massive corrugated monstrosity that would have blotted any landscape except the one that surrounded it. Inside the work shed, overhead cranes shuffled enormous lengths of rusty pipe from pile to pile, while stamping machines pounded away with an intolerable clangor that made Donner’s eardrums cringe from the attack. The main office sat off to one side behind soundproofed aggregate concrete walls and tall arched windows.
    An attractive, large-breasted receptionist escorted him down a shag-carpeted hall to a spacious paneled office. Carl Jensen, Jr., came around the desk and shook hands with Donner. He was young, no more than twenty-eight, and wore his hair long. He had a neatly trimmed mustache and wore an expensive plaid suit. He looked for all the world like a UCLA graduate; Donner couldn’t see him as anything else.
    â€œThank you for taking the time to see me, Mr. Jensen.”
    Jensen smiled guardedly. “It sounded important. A big man on the Washington campus and all. How could I refuse?”
    â€œAs I mentioned over the telephone, I’m checking on some old records.”
    Jensen’s smile thinned. “You’re not from the Internal Revenue, I hope.”
    Donner shook his head. “Nothing like that. The government’s interest is purely historical. If you still keep them, I’d like to check over your sales records for July through November of 1911.”
    â€œYou’re putting me on.” Jensen laughed.
    â€œI assure you, it’s a straight request.”
    Jensen stared at him blankly. “Are you sure you’ve got the right company?”
    â€œI am,” Donner said brusquely, “if this is a descendant of the Thor Forge and Ironworks.”
    â€œMy great-grandfather’s old outfit,” Jensen admitted. “My father bought up the outstanding stock and changed the name in 1942.”
    â€œWould you still have any of the old records?”
    Jensen shrugged. “We threw out the ancient history some time ago. If we’d saved every receipt of sale since great-granddaddy opened his doors back in 1897, we’d need a warehouse the size of Bronco Stadium just to store them.”
    Donner pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the beads of sweat from his face. He sagged in his chair.
    â€œHowever,” Jensen continued, “and you can thank the foresight of Carl Jensen, Sr., we have all our past records down on microfilm.”
    â€œMicrofilm?”
    â€œThe only way to fly. After five years, we film everything. Efficiency personified, that’s us.”
    Donner couldn’t believe his luck. “Then you can provide me with sales for the last six months of 1911?”
    Jensen didn’t answer. He leaned over the desk, spoke into his intercom, and then tilted back in his executive chair. “While we wait, can I get you a