Clive Cussler - The Striker

“Stumblebums. They couldn’t find me.”

“That’s what I thought. Besides, they might run straight home to tell Bell.”

“Then how did you find me?”

“I remembered that the old fellows in Bell’s squad told me that those flash men you put in charge of the barges had fled the city. But that didn’t seem likely. Why would they let a couple of Van Dorns chase them out of their hometown? So I went looking for familiar faces.”

“Where?”

“Casinos and concert saloons by the river.”

“My God, Mary, you could have been killed, or worse.”

“Not killed,” she said. “Not even compromised.”

“You were lucky. People in those places would not hesitate to slip chloral powder into an innocent girl’s drink.”

“I would recognize the odor of knockout drops in my tea,” she said drily.

“It is not as easily detected as people think. There are ways of compounding it that mask taste and smell.”

“You would know more about that than I,” she replied pointedly. “But, in actual fact, I met more gentlemanly sorts — including one of your flash men. He directed me to the man I suspected had not fled Pittsburgh. He recommended I look for you in this street of apartment buildings. I smiled at many janitors.”

“But I am not known to the landlord as Claggart.”

“Oh, I didn’t give them your name. I wouldn’t betray you that way. I only described you.”

“How did you unlock my door?”

“I didn’t. I climbed the fire escape.”

Clay holstered the Bisley, greatly relieved. It was one thing for an intelligent girl to make inquiries — particularly with a winsome smile. But the extremely rare ability to pick locks would make her far less innocent than he thought she was. He was still troubled, however, that she had been alone in his apartment. He was vigilant about not leaving evidence behind, but even the most careful man could give himself away with a small mistake.

“How long were you waiting for me?”

“Long enough to look around. You live well. It’s an expensive apartment.”

“Who told you I was a detective? Bell?”

She nodded.

Clay said, “Bell bent the truth. I was a detective once. I’m not any longer.”

“What are you now?”

“I am John Claggart.”

“Isaac called you Clay. Henry Clay.”

“Henry Clay no longer exists.”

“And what are you, John Claggart?”

“I am a revolutionary.”

“I found that easier to swallow when you wore workman’s duds. A smart frock coat and homburg hat make you look like a Morgan or Vanderbilt.”

“If you find it hard to swallow, then hopefully the enemy will, too.”

“Who paid for the barges?”

He was ready for this one. “Bank robberies.”

“The bank robbers were caught.”

“Bell told you that?”

She nodded.

Clay said, “Bell does not know as much as he thinks. They didn’t catch them all. The one who wasn’t caught stole the most money by far. And when he needs more, he can steal more in some other city. He walks into the bank president’s office, wearing his frock coat and his costly hat, remains with the president after hours, and leaves quietly with a full satchel.”

“I want to believe you,” she said.

“It touches me deeply to hear you say that.” It was quite remarkable, he thought, but she did believe him. “You honor me.”

“But nothing we did has amounted to a hill of beans. Our whole plan is destroyed now that the barges are lost.”

“May I ask,” said Clay, “do you hate Isaac Bell for taking the barges?”

“Of course I hate him. He ruined everything.”

“Would you kill him?” Clay asked.

“Never,” she said fiercely.

“Why not? Revenge can be sweet.”

“I would never kill a soul. Not for any reason.”

“Do you want me to kill him?”

She did not answer immediately. He watched her gray eyes rove the room and its costly furniture. They settled back on him. “No. It would be a waste of your energy.”

“What do you want?”

“What I have always wanted. I want to bring down the capitalist class. I want to stop them dead. And I still believe that the way to do that is stop coal.”

“The strike is doing a good job of that already.”

“No. Scab labor is digging more than half a million tons a week. The operators are regaining control of production. And now that the miners have a base at Amalgamated, they will negotiate, and the strike will be settled with a pittance for the miners and no recognition of the union. We must do something to shake all that loose.”

“What?”

“I don’t know. I hope you might.”

Henry Clay said, “I have disruptions in the works. All sorts of turmoil.”

“What turmoil?”

Clay took off his hat and sank into an armchair. “Excuse me,” he said. “I haven’t shut my eyes or changed my clothes in three days. I need to sleep before I can think straight.”

“I’ll come back later.”

“You don’t have to leave. I’ll just close my eyes in this chair.”

“It would be better if I left,” she said primly.

Clay said, “Of course.”

He walked her to the door and shook her hand. Was it trembling? he wondered. Or was his?

A productive first step, thought Mary Higgins.

But she needed more. A search of his apartment, constrained by fear of it being noticed, had produced no clue to the identity of the man Claggart-Clay served, nothing that would bring her even one inch closer to the enemy.

She said, “I hope you understand that I will demand more from someone with whom I join forces.”

“More what?”

“More than vague promises of ‘turmoil.’”

Claggart surprised her. “I need to sleep. When I wake, you will have your ‘more.’”

“Promises?”

“Do you recall Harry O’Hagan’s triple play?”

“Who doesn’t?” Mary nodded impatiently. There was more in the newspapers about the first baseman’s miracle than the strike.

“I’ll give you results,” he said. “A bigger triple play than O’Hagan’s.”

Even after a celebrative bender that went on days too long, Court Held still could not believe his luck in selling the Vulcan King . So it seemed beyond conception when another man dressed in white, though taller and younger, walked into his office to inquire whether he had any large steamboats on the property.

“How large were you considering, sir?”

“Floating palace size.”

“I’ve got one left.”

“I was told you had two.”

“I did. I just sold one.”

“To whom, may I ask?”

“I’m not at liberty to say. I am obliged to respect the buyer’s privacy.”

To Held’s surprise, the tall young fellow, who was about his own age, laughed out loud.

“Well, that proves that.”

“Proves what, sir? I don’t know that I follow you.”

“A certain well-fixed gentleman and I engage in friendly competitions. We started in business, buying outfits out from under each other — factories, railroads, banks — and we’ve since moved into more pleasurable contests. We had a yacht race across the Atlantic Ocean. He won. By a nose. We had a train race from San Francisco to Chicago. I won. By fifty lengths. Now he’s gone and challenged me to a steamboat race. Pittsburgh to New Orleans and back.”

“That sounds like a fine idea.”

“Yes, except he obviously planned ahead and bought the only available boat. So now you say you have one that is as good.”

Court Held winked. “I’ll tell you this, sir, he didn’t buy the fastest.”

“Is that a fact?”