Clive Cussler - The Thief

With the crew fighting the fire, and his saltwater hose a less effective extinguisher than the low-pressure steam that Archie refused to relinquish, Isaac Bell ran up the companionways looking for Clyde. He could see that the steel hatchway that rose forty feet from the baggage room to the foredeck had directed the flaming force of the explosion straight up like an enormous square cannon, past the cram-packed quarters of seamen and stewards on the upper deck, and past the officers’ mess hall on the shelter deck. He stepped out on the open foredeck. A pillar of flame and smoke pouring skyward from the open hatch lighted the Mauretania ’s mast, vents, and smokestacks bright as day.

He found Clyde Lynds sprawled facedown on the spare anchor, coughing and retching the poison fumes out of his lungs and gulping water from a bucket held by a pair of black and greasy stokers, who pounded him on the back and poured more water into him, shouting, “Good lad. Spit it up, lad. Spit it up. You’ll be right as rain.”

They told Isaac Bell that they had just sneaked out for a breath of fresh air on the dark foredeck when they heard his frantic pounding on the hatch. “Undogged the hatch, he did, but it was too heavy for him to lift. Good luck we was there to help him out. And we opened it just in the nick. The lad’s a bloomin’ hero, he is. Saved the ship. Spit it up, lad! Spit it up.”

Late that night, Isaac Bell interviewed Archie Abbott, Clyde Lynds, the Mauretania ’s chief purser, and finally the bosun’s mate, who had operated the winch that had loaded cargo and luggage down the forward hatch the day they sailed from Liverpool. He reported privately to Captain Turner on the bridge.

“As you know, the entire contents of the forward baggage room were incinerated. Nothing remains but ash, so hot was the fire. But I can tell you with some confidence that the fire was caused by the spontaneous explosion of a large shipment of deteriorating celluloid film stock. I’m sure you’re aware that film-stock smugglers profit by going around the Edison Trust to sell to independent manufacturers who can’t buy direct from Eastman Kodak.”

The mariner was livid. “I will personally hang them from Mauretania ’s foremast if I ever got my hands on them. This has happened time and again in the past year, endangering ships at sea.”

“There were as many as eight wooden crates disguised as a shipment of rare books destined to a bibliophile in Reistertown, Maryland — a gentleman whom I strongly doubt was expecting more than a single crate. The books were a clever device as they’re very heavy, much like film stock.”

“Damned smugglers! Have they no regard for the lives of three thousand souls?”

Captain Turner agreed with the stokers that Clyde Lynds was a hero. In a brisk early-morning ceremony on the flying bridge — while down on the forepeak seamen in a paint party were touching up the blackened hatchway — he pinned a medal on Clyde’s chest. “For quick thinking and brave action that prevented a catastrophic explosion. I’ll lend you one of mine for the moment until the line strikes a proper one for you.”

“The stokers who helped me deserve medals, too.”

“I’ve already presented theirs, not to worry, lad.”

Clyde looked questioningly at Bell, and the detective thought that the normally brash scientist seemed uncharacteristically reluctant to accept the honor. “What do you think, Mr. Bell?”

“I think it is the least you deserve. Hopefully it will make up a little for your losing your crate in the fire.”

Oddly, the mention of the loss caused the young man to break into a broad grin, the first Bell had seen on his face since Professor Beiderbecke had died.

“Wasn’t it important?” Bell asked.

Instead of answering, Lynds said, briskly, “Thank you, Captain Turner. And thank you for the temporary loan of your medal until they strike mine. What did you get yours for?”

“Good day, gentlemen,” Turner dismissed them brusquely. “As I have promised the company a quick turnaround rehearsing for the Christmas voyages, I have to land my ship, disgorge passengers, and load coal and victual for the next lot at breakneck speed.”

Walking down the grand staircase as the luncheon bugle blew, Bell asked again, “Wasn’t your crate important?”

“It sure was. It held the only prototype of the Beiderbecke and Lynds Talking Pictures machine.”

“Then why were you smiling?”

“It’s safe in my head. Give me some time and some dough and I can replicate it even without poor Professor Beiderbecke.”

Isaac Bell stopped in the middle of the grand staircase and took Lynds firmly by the arm. “Clyde, you are a first-rate jackass.”

“You think I’m bragging? Listen, I’m not saying it’ll be a snap, but give me several years with proper financing and a top-notch laboratory, and I can do it. And I’ll build it even better than it was. After we finished, we kept thinking about ways to perfect it. It’s not like I’m starting from scratch. We solved most of the big problems, and the solutions are safe in my head.” He tapped his head with one finger. “Right here. Deep in my skull.”

Isaac Bell said, “If your enemies suspect that, you’re in more danger than ever.”

Hermann Wagner filled out a marconigram blank and gave it to an assistant purser.

The assistant purser, who had been thoroughly briefed on the identity of all important passengers before the Mauretania left Liverpool, was not surprised that a leading Berlin banker would send his marconigrams in cipher, particularly a message addressed to the German consulate in New York City. Bankers had secrets to guard, and you could double that for diplomats.

The assistant purser noticed that Wagner’s hands were shaking, but of course he did not remark upon it. Even stolid German bankers were known to indulge in a few too many schnapps on their last night at sea. A good night’s sleep ashore and the banker would be nose to the grindstone tomorrow morning.

“They’ll send this immediately, Herr Wagner. May we help arrange your lodgings in New York?”

“No, thank you. Everything is planned.”

“‘Colossal’ is the only word to describe the new steamship terminal of the Chelsea Improvement,” said Archie Abbott, who was as tireless a promoter of his beloved New York as a Chamber of Commerce publicity man. To shelter as many as sixteen express liners as big as the Mauretania , he enthused, the terminal’s piers extended six hundred feet into the Hudson River and burrowed two hundred feet inland for three-quarters of a mile from Little West 12th Street all the way to West 23rd.

“There’s even room for Titanic when she goes into service. And wait till you see the portals on West Street — pink granite! An eyesore of a waterfront is transformed.”

“Not entirely transformed,” said Isaac Bell, studying the pier through field glasses. Crowds of people had stepped out of the second-story waiting room onto the pier’s apron to wave handkerchiefs to friends and relatives on the approaching ship.

Earlier, steaming up the harbor, Isaac and Marion Bell and Archie and Lillian Abbott had stood arm in arm admiring the city from the promenade deck railing. It was a beautiful day. The air was crisp. A stiff northeast wind parted the coal smoke that normally blanketed the harbor. Manhattan’s skyscrapers gleamed in a blue sky.

Now, as music from a ragtime band danced on the water and tugboats battled to land thirty-two thousand tons of Mauretania against the wind pushing her lofty superstructure, the detectives were concentrating on getting their prisoner and Clyde Lynds safely ashore, after which they would meet up with their wives at Archie and Lillian’s town house on East 64th, where the newlyweds were invited to stay.