Clive Cussler - The Thief

“Mauretania?” asked Bell.

“We love the Maury . Gobbles coal like it’s going out of style, and you could set your watch by her: six thousand tons every two weeks.”

“Is Lampack’s barge going back to the Mauretania ?”

“Nope, she’s full up. Ought to be sailing just about now.”

Bell nudged Eddie Tobin, and the two detectives ran out on the coaling pier, climbed the incline under the shadows of the dumper, and looked down. “I don’t see no trimmer,” said Eddie.

“What’s that in the corner?”

“Just some coal stuck there.”

Bell ran to the steel ladder affixed to the girders

“Look out, you idiot!” yelled the workman who manipulated the levers that tipped the cars and aimed the dumper nozzle.

“Tell him to wait,” Bell shouted.

Eddie jumped to the controller’s shack. “Hold on a sec.”

“I got fifty barges waiting. I’m not stopping for that fool.”

Eddie opened his coat. The operator saw the checkered grip of a Smith & Wesson and said, “Think I’ll go have a smoke.”

Bell slid thirty feet down the ladder and landed on the pier beside the barge. Eddie was right. It was a heap of coal jammed in the corner of the barge. The breeze swooped down and blew grit. Cloth shimmied. Bell dropped into the barge and scattered coal with his hands. The trimmer lay under it, with the red ring of Semmler’s garrote around his throat.

“Mr. Bell!”

Bell looked up. Eddie Tobin had climbed to the top of the dumper, where he could see over the low buildings of Tottenville that blocked their view of the harbor.

“ Mauretania! She’s coming out the Narrows.”

The thunder of the liner’s whistle — a stentorian warning that she would stop for nothing — carried for miles. Isaac Bell heard it as he ran to the dock where Darbee had tied his oyster boat.

Seeing him coming, the old man fired up his engine and cast off his lines.

“Who’s chasing you?”

“Can you catch up with the Mauretania ?”

The oyster boat soared away, trailing white smoke. They rounded the point and there she was, the largest and fastest ship in the world, emerging from the Narrows, six miles away, steaming down the Lower Bay, billowing smoke from the forward three of her four tall red-and-black stacks. Darbee steered a course to intercept the giant at the mouth of the harbor where the channel passed close to Sandy Hook.

“Is little Eddie O.K?” he asked over the roar of his motor.

“He’s fine. No time to wait. Can you catch the ship?”

“I can probably catch her, but what do I do with her when I do?”

“Put me aboard.”

“Can’t. Pilot door’s much higher than you can reach from my deck.”

“I’ll throw a line.”

“They ain’t gonna catch it.”

“Do you have any grappling hooks?”

“Cops took ’em. But even if you threw a grappling hook, they’d just cut the rope and yell down, ‘Next time, buy a ticket.’”

Isaac Bell saw a black steam launch trailing the Cunard liner. Its masts were draped with signal flags. “Is that the pilot boat?”

“If it ain’t, that New York pilot is going to Europe.”

“Can you put me aboard it?”

“I’ll let you do the talking.”

Darbee altered course slightly. After fifteen minutes of pounding across the Lower Bay, they passed under the immense overhanging stern of the Mauretania and veered alongside the pilot boat. There were several pilots on board — some waiting to be put on incoming ships, others just retrieved from outbound vessels — and they eyed Darbee’s oyster boat warily.

“Now,” Bell shouted.

Darbee steered alongside the lowest part of the afterdeck. Even the pilot boat was considerably higher than the oyster boat. Bell jumped, got his arms over the gunnel, and pulled himself in. “Van Dorn!” he shouted. “Boarding Mauretania .”

One hour into his shift in the No. 4 boiler room, Christian Semmler feared that his perspiration would penetrate the oilskin that protected the Talking Pictures plans. He was sweating like a pig. The other stokers had long ago stripped off their shirts.

The stoking gong gave the signal to shut the door of the furnace into which he was scooping coal. He dropped his shovel and looked in the half-dark, clanging madness for a hiding place that was safer than his soaked clothing. Knowing he had only seconds before a gang boss or an engineer officer shouted for him to get back to work, he stumbled into a coal bunker. Parnall Hall and Bill Chambers were shifting coal to the front.

“Stand watch!” he ordered, and when they turned their backs, he stuffed the flat oilskin into a narrow slot between the side of the bunker and a frame where it would be safe until the end of his shift. A stoking gong rang.

“You’re up!” Hall warned, and Semmler darted back to the fire aisle, scooped up a shovelful of coal, and spread it on the flames. The pace was accelerating as the ship forged into the open ocean, gaining speed, and the bells rang faster. A door shut. Another opened. Semmler bent to scoop from the pile the trimmers had dropped at his feet. Someone stepped on his scoop.

He looked up.

“Leaving town, General?” asked Isaac Bell.

Bell feinted a hard right, and when Semmler slipped the phantom punch with his usual speed, Bell was ready to hit his jaw with a left, which tumbled the German across the fire aisle. Semmler crashed into a hot bulkhead and stood swaying, trying to shake off the effect of the heavy blow. He had a long coal-blackened bandage on his cheek.

Bell was already moving in on him. He feinted again, this time with his left, and landed a right to the jaw. Semmler went flying. He skidded along the fire aisle, bounced off a stoker scrambling out of the way, and regained his feet. The blow had knocked the bandage from his face, revealing a long string of finely fashioned sutures. Bell threw another punch. This was not a feint. The Acrobat fell again.

Bell drew his pistol to make the arrest.

Down the aisle, a furnace door opened. In the sudden flash of red coals Bell saw, from the corner of his eye, a ten-foot steel slice bar arcing at his head, and he realized that Semmler was not alone. It was too late to dodge the bar. But if it hit him, it would splinter bone. Bell hurled himself inside the arc, straight into the arms of the coal trimmer swinging it. The bar slammed into the furnace, ringing like a giant chime. The man who had swung it made the mistake of holding on to it, and Bell took full advantage, pounding his torso, doubling him over.

The timing gong sounded. Another door flew open. In the flash of coals Isaac saw a shovel flying at his head, and he realized, even as he ducked, that the trimmer he had doubled over was not alone either. The shovel missed his head, but it knocked the Browning out of his hand. The man who had thrown the shovel charged Bell, swinging his fists and catching the tall detective off balance.

Bell rolled with one punch but caught the next one square in the face.

His feet flew out from under him, and he went down hard, slamming onto the steel deck with an impact that shook him to the core. He was vaguely aware that the rest of the men on the fire aisle were fleeing from the battle. He heard an engineer shout, “Leave ’em to it.”