The Thief

1

“Hear that?”

“Hear what?” asked Archie.

“Fast motorboat.”

“You have ears like a bat, Isaac. All I hear is the ship.”

Isaac Bell, a tall, lean man of thirty with a golden head of hair and a thick, impeccably groomed mustache, strode to the boat deck railing and stared intently into the dark. He wore the costume of a sober Hartford, Connecticut, insurance executive: a sailing day suit of Harris tweed, a low-crowned hat with a broad brim, made-to-order boots, and a gold watch chain draped across his narrow waist.

“It’s not the ship.”

They were sailing home to America on the Cunard flyer Mauretania, the fastest liner in the world, bound for New York with twenty-two hundred passengers, eight hundred crew, and six thousand sacks of mail. Down in the fiery darkness of her stokehold, hundreds of men labored, stripped to the waist, shoveling coal to raise steam for a four-and-a-half-day dash across the Atlantic Ocean. But she was still creeping quietly in the channel, crossing the Mersey Bar with mere inches of tide beneath her keel and a black night ahead. Six decks above her furnaces and five hundred feet ahead of the nearest propeller, Isaac Bell heard only the motorboat.

The sound was out of place. It was the crisp rumble of a thirty-knot racer powered by V-8 gasoline engines — an English-built Wolseley-Siddeley, Bell guessed. But such exuberant noise spoke of a Côte d’Azur regatta on a sunny day, not a pitch-dark night in the steamer lanes.

He looked back. No boat showed a light. All he saw was the dying glow of Liverpool, the last of England, eleven miles astern.

Next to the ship, nothing moved in the invisible intersection of inky water and clouded sky.

Ahead, the sea buoy flashed intermittently.

The sound faded. A trick of the wind gusting in from the Irish Sea perhaps, rattling the canvas that covered the lifeboats suspended outside the teak rail.

Archie opened a gold cigar case with a ceremonial flourish. He extracted two La Aroma de Cubas. “How about a victory smoke?” He patted his vest pockets. “Forgot my cutter. Got your knife?”

Bell drew a throwing knife from his boot in a flicker of motion quicker than the eye and cut the Havanas’ heads as cleanly as a guillotine.

Archie — redheaded Archibald Angell Abbott IV, a socially prominent New Yorker — looked like a well-off man-about-town, a gilt-edged disguise he adopted when he traveled with his young wife, Lillian, the daughter of America’s boldest railroad tycoon. Only the ship’s captain and chief purser knew that Archie was a private detective with the Van Dorn Agency and that Isaac Bell was Van Dorn’s chief investigator.

They lighted up, sheltering from the wind in the lee of a web support, to celebrate capturing a Wall Street stock swindler whose depredations had shut mills and thrown thousands out of work. The swindler had fled to a luxurious European exile on the mistaken assumption that the Van Dorn detectives’ motto—“We Never Give Up! Never!”—lost its teeth at the water’s edge. Bell and Abbott had run him to ground in a Nice casino. Locked in the Mauretania’s forward baggage room in a lion cage rented from a circus — the liner’s brig already occupied — he was headed for trial in Manhattan, guarded by a Van Dorn Protective Services operative.

Bell and Abbott, who had been best friends since fighting a legendary intercollegiate boxing match — Bell for Yale, Archie for Princeton — circled the boat deck alone. The hour was late, and the cold wind and fog had driven the Mauretania’s First, Second, and Third Class passengers to their respective staterooms, cabins, and galvanized-iron berths.

“We were discussing,” Archie said, only half in jest, “your not-so-impending marriage to Miss Marion Morgan.”

“We are married in our hearts.”

Isaac Bell’s fiancée was in the moving picture line. She had caught the last boat train from London after photographing King Edward VII’s funeral procession for Picture World News Reels. Cine-negatives from the taking machines she had stationed along the route had been immediately developed, washed, dried, and printed. Tonight — only nine hours after old “King Teddy” had been buried — five hundred and twenty feet of “topical film” was showing in the Piccadilly theaters, and the hardworking director was enjoying a hot bath in her First Class room along the Mauretania’s promenade deck.

“No one doubts the ardor of your courtship,” Archie said with a wink so suggestive it would have earned any other man a fist in the eye. “And who but the blind could fail to notice the colossal emerald on her finger that signifies your engagement? Yet friends observe that it’s been a while since you announced… cold feet?”

“Not mine,” said Bell. “Nor Marion’s,” he added hastily. “We’re both so busy we haven’t time to nail down a date.”

“Now’s your chance. Four and a half days on the high seas. She can’t escape.” Archie gestured with his cigar up at the Mauretania’s darkened bridge and asked casually, as if he and his wife had not conjured up this conversation the day they booked passage, “What do you say we ask the captain to marry you?”

“Miles ahead of you, Archie.”

“What do you mean?”

A big grin lighted Bell’s face with a row of strong, even teeth that practically flashed in the dark. “I’ve already spoken with Captain Turner.”

“We’re on!” Archie grabbed Bell’s hand and shook it vigorously. “I’m best man. Lillian’s matron of honor. And we’ve got a boatload of wedding guests. I snuck a look at the manifest. Mauretania is carrying half the ‘Four Hundred’ and a fair slice of Burke’s Peerage.”

Bell’s grin set in a determined smile. “Now all I have to do is corral Marion.”

Archie, who was recuperating from a gunshot wound, announced abruptly that he was going to bed. Bell could feel him trembling as he helped him through a heavy door that led into a companionway.

“I’ll walk down with you.”

“Waste of good tobacco,” said Archie, holding tight to the banister. “Finish your cigar. I’ll make it under my own steam.”

Bell listened until Archie had safely descended. Then he stepped back out on deck, where he lingered, his ears cocked to the dark sea.

He leaned over the rail. Sixty feet below, the water swirled in the lights of the pilot boat lumbering close, belching smoke and steam. The helmsman pressed his bow skillfully to the moving black cliff of the Mauretania’s riveted hull. The pilot who had guided the mammoth steamer out of the river and over the sandbar descended a rope-and-wood Jacob’s ladder. It was neatly done, and in another minute the two vessels disengaged, the smaller extinguishing her deck lights and disappearing astern, the larger gaining speed.

Bell was still peering speculatively into the night when he heard the crisp V-8 rumble again. This time it sounded nearer. A quarter mile or less, he estimated, and approaching rapidly. The motorboat closed within a hundred yards. Bell still could not see it, but he could hear it running alongside, pacing the steamship, no small job in the steepening seas. He thought it odd, if not plain dangerous, that the vessel showed no lights. Suddenly it did — not running lights but a shielded Aldis signal lamp flashing code.

2

Isaac Bell looked up at the open overhang that extended from the bridge, expecting the Mauretania’s answering flash. But the bridge wing was deserted of officers and seamen, and no one signaled back. He saw no response either from the foremast that towered invisibly two hundred feet into the dark sky. The lookout perched in his crow’s nest watched ahead of the ship, not to the side where the Aldis lamp had aimed its narrow beam.

Suddenly Bell saw the splash of a bow wave. It gleamed white, in sharp contrast to the black water. Then he saw the boat itself veering close. It was a Wolseley-Siddeley, burying its nose in the steep seas, hurling spray, and tearing ahead in the hands of a helmsman who knew his business. It drew alongside directly under him, forty feet long, sharp as a knife, spewing a bright feather of propeller wash.

Bell heard a shout behind him, a frightened cry stifled abruptly. He whirled around and scanned the dark boat deck. Then he heard a grunt of pain and a sudden rush of feet.

From the companionway where he had said good night to Archie burst a tight knot of men in fierce struggle. Their silhouettes lurched past the light spilling from the First Class library windows. Three big men were forcing two smaller fellows to the rail. Bell heard another shout, a cry for help, a hard blow, a muffled groan. A victim doubled over, clutching his stomach, the wind knocked out of him.

Isaac Bell sprinted the distance that separated them.

He moved in utter silence.

So intent were the three that the first they knew of the tall detective’s approach was the crack of a powerful right fist knocking the nearest man to the deck. Bell wheeled on the balls of his feet and launched a left-hand haymaker with all his weight and strength behind it. Had it landed, he would have evened the odds at one to one.

Bell’s target moved with superhuman speed. He slipped the punch so it missed his head and smashed his shoulder. It still connected with sufficient power to drive the man to the deck. But he was carrying a heavy rope looped over his shoulder, and the springy Manila coils absorbed the shock.

A counterpunch exploded from the dark with the concentrated violence of a pile driver. Isaac Bell rolled with it, sloughing off some of the impact, but the momentum pinwheeled him into the railing and so far over it that he found himself gazing down at the motorboat pressed against the hull directly under him. The man who had unleashed the blow that sent Isaac Bell flying dragged his two victims to the rail. At a grunted command, his accomplice jumped over the body of their fallen comrade and charged Bell to finish him off.

Bell saw a knife flash in the light from the library.

He twisted off the rail, regained his feet, and tried to sidestep a vicious thrust. The blade passed an inch from his face. Bell kicked hard. His boot landed solidly. The man hit the railing and tumbled over it. A shriek of pain and fear ended abruptly with the sickening thud of his body smashing on the motor-boat sixty feet below.

The boat sped away with a roar of throttles opened wide.

Isaac Bell whipped a Browning automatic from his coat.

“Elevate!” he commanded the astonishingly quick and powerful man with the rope, whom he could see only as a shadow. “Hands in the air.”

But again the leader of the attack moved like lightning. He threw the coiled rope. Loops of it entangled Bell’s gun hand. In the instant it took to untangle himself, Bell was astonished to see the attacker scoop his unconscious accomplice off the deck and throw him over the railing into the sea. Then he ran.

Bell threw off the rope and leveled his pistol: “Halt!”

The attacker kept running.

Isaac Bell waited coolly for him to reach the light spill from the library in order to get a clear shot to shoot the man’s legs out from under him. His highly accurate Browning No. 2 semi-automatic firing.380 caliber cartridges could not miss. Just before reaching the lights, the running man clapped both hands on the rail, flipped high in the air like a circus acrobat, and tumbled into the dark.

Bell ran to the spot the man had jumped from and looked over the side of the ship.

The water was black, bearded white where the Mauretania’s hull raced through. Bell could not see whether the man was swimming or had sunk beneath the waves. In either event, unless the motorboat returned and its crew was extraordinarily lucky in their search, it was highly unlikely they would pull him out before the bitter-cold Irish Sea sucked the life from his body.

Bell holstered his pistol and buttoned his coat over it. What he had just seen was singular in his experience. What would possess the man to throw his unconscious accomplice overboard to certain death, then hurl himself to the same fate?

“Thank you, sir, thank you so very much,” spoke a voice in the accent and baroque cadence of a cultured Viennese. “Surely we owe our lives to your swift and courageous action.”

Bell peered down at a compact shadow. Another voice, a voice that sounded American, groaned, “Wish you’d saved us before he socked me in the breadbasket. Feels like I got run over by a streetcar.”

“Are you all right, Clyde?” asked the Viennese.

“Nothing a month of nursing by a qualified blonde won’t cure.” Clyde climbed unsteadily to his feet. “Thanks, mister. You saved our bacon.”

Isaac Bell asked, “Were they trying to kill you or kidnap you?”

“Kidnap.”

“Why?”

“That’s a long story.”

“I’ve got all night,” said Isaac Bell in a tone that demanded answers. “Did you know those men?”

“By their actions and their reputation,” said the Viennese. “But thanks to you, sir, we were never formally introduced.”

Gripping each man firmly by the arm, Bell walked them inside the ship and back to the smoking room, sat them in adjoining armchairs, and took a good look at their faces. The American was young, a tousle-headed, mustachioed dandy in his early twenties who was going to wake up with a black eye as well as a sore belly.

The Viennese was middle-aged, a kindly-looking, dignified gentleman with pink-tinted pince-nez eyeglasses that had stayed miraculously clipped to his nose, a high forehead and intelligent eyes. His suit of clothes was of good quality. He wore a dark necktie and a round-collar shirt. In contrast to his sober outfit, he had an elaborate mustache that curled up at the tips. Bell pegged him for an academic, which proved to be not far off. He, too, was going to have a shiner. And blood was oozing from a split lip.

“We should not be here,” the Viennese said, gazing in wonder at the richly carved wood paneling and elaborate plaster ceiling of the enormous lounge, which was decorated in the manner of the Italian Renaissance. “This is the First Class smoking room. We voyage in Second Class.”

“You’re my guests,” Bell said tersely. “What was all that about?”

The smoking room steward appeared, cast a chilly eye on the Second Class passengers, and told Bell as solicitously as such an announcement could be uttered that the bar was closed.

“I want towels and ice for these gentlemen’s bruises,” Isaac Bell said, “an immediate visit from the ship’s surgeon, and stiff scotch whiskeys all around. We’ll start with the whiskeys, please. Bring the bottle.”

“No need, no need.”

The American concurred hastily. “We’re fine, mister. You’ve gone to plenty trouble already. We oughta just go to bed.”

“My name is Bell. Isaac Bell. What are yours?”

“Forgive my ill manners,” said the Viennese, bowing and pawing at his vest with shaking fingers, muttering distractedly, “I appear to have lost my cards in the struggle.” He stopped searching and said, “I am Beiderbecke, Professor Franz Bismark Beiderbecke.”

Beiderbecke offered his hand, and Bell took it.

“May I present my young associate, Clyde Lynds?”

Clyde Lynds threw Bell a mock salute. Bell reached for his hand and looked him in the face, gauging his worth. Lynds stopped clowning and met his gaze, and Bell saw a steadiness not immediately apparent.

“Why did they try to kidnap you?”

The two exchanged wary looks. Beiderbecke spoke first. “We can only presume they were agents of a munitions trust.”

“What munitions trust?”

“A German outfit,” said Lynds. “Krieg Rüstungswerk GmbH.”

Bell took note of Lynds’s fluent pronunciation. “Where did you learn to speak German, Mr. Lynds?”

“My mother was German, but she married a lot. I spent some of my childhood on my Swedish-immigrant father’s North Dakota wheat farm, some in Chicago, and a bunch of time backstage in New York City theaters. ‘Mutter’ finally hooked a Viennese, which she wanted all along only didn’t know it, and I landed in Vienna, where the good Professor here took me in.”

“Fortunate Professor, is the truth of the matter, Mr. Bell. Clyde is a brilliant scientist. My colleagues are still gnashing their teeth that he chose to work in my laboratory.”

“That’s because I came cheap,” Clyde Lynds grinned.

Bell asked, “Why would agents of a munitions company kidnap you?”

“To steal our invention,” said Beiderbecke.

“What sort of invention?” asked Bell.

“Our secret invention,” Lynds answered before the Professor could speak. He turned to the older man and said, “Sir, we did agree that secrecy was all.”

“Yes, of course, of course, but Mr. Bell has so kindly treated us. He saved our lives, at no small risk to his own.”

“Mr. Bell is a handy fellow with his fists. What else do we know about him? I recommend we stick to our deal to keep quiet about it, like we agreed.”

“Of course, of course. You’re right, of course.” Professor Beiderbecke turned embarrassedly to Bell. “Forgive me, sir. Despite my age, I am not a man of the world. My brilliant young protégé has persuaded me that I am too trusting. Obviously, you’re a gentleman. Obviously, you sprang to our defense while never pausing to consider your own safety. On the other hand, it behooves me to remember that we have been sorely used by others who appeared to be gentlemen.”

“And who tried to yank the fillings from our teeth,” grinned Lynds. “Sorry, Mr. Bell. You understand what I’m saying, don’t you? Not that we’re not grateful for you charging to the rescue.”

Isaac Bell returned what could be judged a friendly smile.

“Your gratitude does not have to take the form of giving away an important secret.” His mild answer disguised curiosity that would be best satisfied by biding his time. As Archie had noted, for the next four and half days on the high seas no one was going anywhere. “But I am concerned for your safety,” he added. “These munitions people mounted an audacious campaign with military precision to kidnap you from a British liner putting to sea. What makes you think they won’t try again?”

“Not on a British liner,” Lynds fired back. “On a German ship we’d worry about the crew. That’s why we took a British ship.”

“You mean they tried before?”

“In Bremen.”

“How did you happen to give them the slip?”

“Got lucky,” said Lynds. “We saw them coming, so we made a big show of booking passage on the Prinz Wilhelm. Then we ran like heck the other way, to Rotterdam, and caught a steamer to Hull. By the time they figured out we hadn’t sailed on the Wilhelm, we were on the train to London.”

Bell had many more questions, but they were forestalled by the arrival of the ship’s doctor. When the chief officer bustled in right behind the doctor, Bell emptied his whiskey glass into a spittoon before the officer could see and conspicuously poured another from the bottle.

The chief officer listened with an increasingly skeptical expression as the Professor and Lynds described an attack by three men who subsequently fell overboard. Then, while the doctor examined Beiderbecke’s cut lip and Lynds’s swelling eye, the officer said quietly to Bell, with a significant glance at the whiskey in his hand, “One cannot help but wonder whether those two gentlemen had a falling out and covered it up with a tall tale of, shall we say, ‘piracy in Liverpool Bay’?”

Isaac Bell sipped his whiskey. He intended to get to the bottom of the bizarre attack, as well as the nature of Beiderbecke and Lynds’s self-described secret invention, which had provoked it. But the kidnappers had drowned in the night, miles behind the ship. The Austrian and the American-raised German-Swede were the only sources of information available. And the Mauretania’s officers were even less qualified than a small town police force to investigate the motive for the attack. They would only get in his way.

“I say…” the chief officer went on. He had begun politely, almost diffidently, the model of the smooth company man unfazed by the peccadillos of wealthy passengers. Now he fixed Bell with a flinty eye practiced at terrorizing junior officers: “As no one jumped, fell, or was thrown overboard, I am curious how they induced you, Mr. Bell, to embroider their story.”

“Sympathy,” Isaac Bell smiled. He touched the whiskey to his lips. “Poor chaps were so embarrassed by their behavior… and I had had a drink or two.” He peered into his glass. “Seemed like a good idea at the time…” He looked the officer full in the face and grinned sheepishly. “It felt jolly good to be a hero, even for a moment…”

“I appreciate your candor, Mr. Bell. I am sure that you will agree that as soon as the surgeon has done his work it will be best if we all turn in for the night and let sleeping dogs lie.”

“Krieg Rüstungswerk GMBH?” echoed Archie Abbott, who had traveled regularly back and forth to Europe his whole life. Most recently, in the course of an extended honeymoon, he had laid the groundwork for overseas Van Dorn field offices. “They’re a private munitions outfit with strong Army connections. As you’d expect of a cannon manufacturer gearing up for a European war.”

Isaac Bell had joined him in the dining saloon moments after the breakfast bugle had blown. The Mauretania was steaming past Malin Head on the northern tip of Ireland, and as she left the Irish Sea in her wake, the liner had begun lifting her bow into unusually tall Atlantic swells, churning rumors in the elevators and vestibules of rough weather ahead.

“Why do you ask?”

“Do you recall the motorboat you could not hear last night?”

“If I couldn’t hear it, how could I recall it?”

Bell told him what had happened. Archie was crestfallen. “Of all the darned times to go to bed early. All three overboard?”

“The one who tried to stab me, the one who got tossed by his boss. And the boss under his own steam.”

“You have all the fun, Isaac.”

“What sort of lunatic drowns himself?”

Archie smiled. “Is it possible he was afraid of a fellow who had already floored two of his gang and was suddenly waving a gun?”

Bell shook his head. “A man afraid would not have taken the time to throw his accomplice overboard. No, he made sure there was no one left to confess. Not even himself. Lunacy.”

“Are you sure he didn’t jump into a lifeboat?”

“Positive. I went back and looked later. He was along that open stretch in the middle where there aren’t any boats. Ten yards at least from the nearest one.”

Archie forked down several bites of kippered herring. “I’d say less lunatic than fanatic. Krieg Rüstungswerk operates hand in glove with the Imperial German Army. So if Krieg Rüstungswerk wants the Professor’s ‘secret invention’ it must be some sort of war machine, right?”

“Undoubtedly a war machine.”

“Then Krieg might well recruit German Army officers to snatch it. They’re fanatical on the subject of ‘Der Tag’—‘the Day’—to kick off Kaiser Wilhelm’s ‘Will to deeds.’ And we all know what ‘Will to deeds’ means.”

“Shorthand for ‘Start a war,’” said Bell. “Though I keep hoping that the European war talk is just talk.”

“So do I,” said Archie. “But Great Britain is paranoid about German dreadnoughts, and Imperial Germany is ambitious. The kaiser loves his Army, and the Army rules society — just like in old Prussia. Everyone’s drafted for three years, and the bourgeoisie are so nuts for uniforms they take reserve commissions just so they can dress up like soldiers.”

“Soldiers didn’t build German industry. Civilians did.”

“No doubt millions of hardworking Germans would rather get rich and send their kids to school than fight a war. The question is, can the kaiser stampede them into battle— But enough small talk about war and secret weapons! Dare I ask — has Marion said yes again?”

“Haven’t braced her yet.”

“Too busy tossing miscreants overboard? Hey, where are you going? You haven’t finished your breakfast.”

“I am marconigraphing the Berlin office before we steam out of range. Get Art Curtis cracking on Lynds, Beiderbecke, and Krieg Rüstungswerk.”

“Good luck. Art’s only a one-man office, and he just got there.”

“Art Curtis is quicker than a mongoose and smart as a whip — plus he speaks fluent German. Why do you think Mr. Van Dorn gave him Berlin?”

“I’ll meet you in the smoking room. We have to talk about you taking your beautiful bull by her horns— Say, Isaac? What happened to the rope he threw at you?”

“The rope was gone when I went back to look.”

“A crewman must have scooped it up.”

“Or an accomplice.”

Bell picked up a blank from the purser’s desk and filled out his message. Rather than pass it before inquiring eyes, he carried the form directly to the Marconi house on the top deck of the ship between Funnels 2 and 3.

A window curtain, gray with coal smoke, flapped in the wind as Bell walked into the radio room extending a British pound sterling note — five dollars, two days’ pay — to derail ahead of time any suggestion that he send his message through the purser. Nor did the operator, who was not a member of the Mauretania’s crew but employed by the Marconi Wireless Telegraph Company, remark that Bell’s message looked like gibberish, as it was written out in cipher.

Bell stood by as the operator dispatched his message by Morse code to a shore station at Malin Head. From there it would be relayed overland by telegraph and under the Irish Sea and English Channel by cable and back onto telegraph wires across the continent to the Van Dorn field office in Berlin. Depending how far at sea the Mauretania had preceded, Arthur Curtis’s reply would be transmitted from Ireland or relayed by other ships.

“Just in time for the bloviating,” Archie greeted Isaac Bell when the tall detective joined him in the smoking saloon. Midmorning, the male haven was crowded with gents smoking cigars, pipes, and cigarettes, playing chess and solitaire, and reading the ship’s newspaper. Thin northern daylight, filtered through stained glass and tobacco smoke, shone upon settees, tables, and armchairs grouped on a pale green carpet. Two ruddy-faced middle-aged men were arguing in raised voices. Bell cocked an ear. In smokers and club cars, even the judicious sank to braggadocio, spilling priceless information by the boatload.

“Who’s the large gent in tents of tweed?” he asked Archie.

“Earl of Strone, retired British Army.”

“Who’s that Strone’s squaring off against?”

“Karl Schultz, a Pan-Germanist coal-mining magnate known not so affectionately by the Ruhr Valley laboring classes as the ‘Chimney Baron.’ Before they get any louder, let me imbue you with courage. I implore you, my friend, moor the fair Marion before she drifts off.”

“Midnight tonight,” said Isaac Bell. “Every detail lined up. Champagne and music for the kickoff.”

“You can’t go wrong with champagne. But where will you get an orchestra at midnight? Even the steward who bugles goes to bed after he blows ‘Sunset.’”

“I’m going to surprise her with a gramophone.”

“Won’t a gramophone horn flaring from your dinner jacket spoil the surprise?”

“The horn is made of cardboard. The whole thing folds flat in a little box no bigger than a camera case.”

Archie looked at him with genuine admiration. “You are relentlessly strategic, Isaac.”

“Lillian’s pacing outside the door. You can give her the thumbs-up. It’s in the bag.”

“Is it too early in the morning to drink to your success?”

Bell had already caught the steward’s eye. “Two McEwan’s Exports, please.”

“I’ll be darned,” said Archie, rising to his feet and waving. “That’s Hermann Wagner, the banker. He hosted a dinner for us on our honeymoon in Berlin. Herr Wagner!”

Wagner came over, smiling. Bell noticed the air of the sophisticated Berliner about him, the elegant inverse of his coarse-grained countryman Chimney Baron Karl Schultz. While exchanging passenger chitchat about the rumored rough weather and agreeing that the Mauretania was already pitching heavily for such a long vessel, they were suddenly interrupted by the Earl of Strone heard across the saloon.

“What possible need has Germany for more dreadnoughts?”

“Because now strikes the hour of Germany’s rising power,” replied Schultz, as loudly.

Conversation ceased. Every man in the smoker waited for Lord Strone’s response.

The Briton tugged a watch from his vest. He thumbed it open, peered at the face, and announced to laughter, “The hour, by my timepiece, appears to be half-eleven.”

“I refer to Germany’s achievements,” Karl Schultz replied proudly. “We have surpassed England in the production of coal and steel, and our scientists are dominant in chemicals and electricity. We produce half the world’s electrical equipment. And we have a superior culture of music, poetry, and philosophy.”

Archie’s friend Hermann Wagner interrupted in a gentle voice. “‘Superior’ is perhaps a strong word among shipmates. From strength comes humility.”

“Humility is for fools,” Schultz growled. “We are neither despots like the Russians nor weakling democrats like the French. Our achievements give Germany the right, the duty, the lofty duty, to seek more colonies.”

“Good God, man, you’ve got German East Africa and German South-West Africa. You’ve even got a sliver of Togoland, as I recall. What more do you need?”

“Leopold, king of minuscule Belgium, has the entire Congo. Germany demands her rightful share of Africa. And South America, and the Pacific, and China. England has had too much for too long.”

The earl’s lips tightened, and he started to rise to his feet.

Hermann Wagner intervened, placating him with smiles and pleasantries. Strone settled back down in his chair, harrumphing like an indignant mastiff, “The colonies are already spoken for.”

“Strone’s a darned good actor,” Isaac Bell told Archie.

“Actor? What do you mean?”

“Ten-to-one he’s British Military Intelligence.”

Archie Abbott looked more closely.

“And twenty-to-one,” Bell added, “he’s not retired.”

Archie, who himself would have become an actor if his mother had not forbidden such a leap from society’s bosom, nodded agreement. “No bet.”

The Briton said to the German, “You want war in hopes of grasping the spoils of war.”

“Those powers that try to impede German ascendancy will eventually recover from the weakening we mete out and accept their place in the new order.”

Lord Strone rounded suddenly on Isaac Bell. “You, sir, you look like an American.”

“I have that honor.”

“Will the United States accept the ‘new order’?”

Bell answered diplomatically. “Britain’s navy rules the seas, and the German Army is the largest in the world. We have every hope that you will work out your differences. In fact,” he added sternly, “we expect you to work out your differences.”

“Not likely so long as Germany keeps building dreadnoughts,” said the earl.

Schultz’s cheeks flushed crimson. “I quote Kaiser Wilhelm: ‘Our armor must be without flaw.’”

Hermann Wagner intervened again, smiling polite apologies for his countryman’s florid aggressiveness. “But if — God forbid — Great Britain and the German Empire are on a collision course, on which side will America stand?”

“On the far side of the Atlantic Ocean,” drawled Archie Abbott, sparking laughter around the room.

The Berliner laughed with them and even the Chimney Baron smiled. But Lord Strone replied gravely, “We are sailing in a four-day ship, sir. Mauretania steams to New York at twenty-six knots. The world is closer than Americans think.”

“Not so close we won’t see it coming,” said Isaac Bell.

The men laughed again, sipped their drinks, and drew on cigarettes and cigars.

Hermann Wagner broke the silence, and Isaac Bell wondered why he persisted so. “But if America had to choose, was forced to choose, to whom would you gravitate?”

“Germany,” Schultz answered. “More Germans have emigrated to the United States than from any other nation.”

“Americans and Englishmen share blood and centuries of tradition,” countered the Earl of Strone. “We are brothers.”

“But Americans fought their brothers in the Civil War.”

A grim glance flickered between Isaac Bell and Archie Abbott. It sounded as if the German Empire and the British Empire would fight sooner than later. God knows if France, Russia, Italy, and Austria would pile on. But the two detectives had no doubt that the United States of America should steer clear of Europe’s chaotic politics.

Isaac Bell stood to his full height and looked the certainly not retired military intelligence officer in the eye. The Briton, at least, ought to know that the days of romantic cavalry charges were long dead. Then he widened his commanding gaze to encompass the Germans and said to all, “Before you resort to war, I recommend you observe closely the effects of up-to-date machine guns. If you gents can’t sort out your differences, you’ll turn Europe into a slaughterhouse.”

“Are you in the arms trade, Mr. Bell?” asked Wagner.

“Insurance.”

“Oh, really? May I ask what firm?”

“Dagget, Staples and Hitchcock.”

“Venerable firm,” Lord Strone rumbled. “My solicitors engage them for my American holdings. But tell me, old chap, is it common for insurance men to observe the effects of modern machine guns?”

“We number among our clients Connecticut and Massachusetts arms factories,” Bell answered smoothly. “And by extension, factories with whom they conduct business abroad. Vickers, of course, in England,” he said to Strone, and to Schultz, “Krieg Rüstungswerk in Germany. Are you familiar with Krieg?”

“Only by reputation,” Hermann Wagner answered, as the Chimney Baron glanced aside.

“What is Krieg’s reputation?”

“Innovative,” Hermann Wagner interrupted, again. “Full of get-up-and-go, as Americans would say.”

3

Arthur Curtis, who manned the Van Dorn Detective Agency’s one-room Berlin field office, was a short, rotund Coloradan. With a quick, sunny smile, a friendly glint in his blue eyes, and a potbelly straining his vest, Art Curtis looked less like a first-class private investigator than a prosperous liquor salesman.

He got busy on Beiderbecke and Lynds the instant he received Bell’s marconigram. It was in his nature to get right to it, but in the case of Isaac Bell, he would never forget that when his old partner Glenn Irvine was killed by the Butcher Bandit, it had been Bell, shot twice in that gun battle, who paid from his own pocket to look after the dead detective’s aged mother.

Curtis had operated in Berlin less than a year and was still developing the network of contacts — in government, business, the military, police, and criminals — that he would need to raise the field office to Van Dorn standards. He made swift progress nonetheless, establishing that Professor Franz Bismark Biederbecke held a prestigious chair at Vienna’s Imperial-Royal Polytechnic Institute and that Clyde Lynds’s multiple degrees confirmed that he was the genius his mentor had proclaimed him to be.

But he ran smack into a stone wall when he popped his first question about the munitions trust. A policeman he had cultivated, a middle-ranked detective, fell silent on the telephone. Curtis listened to the wires hiss, wondering why the sudden reticence. Finally, the policeman said, “It could be dangerous.”

“What could be dangerous?”

“When Krieg Rüstungswerk GmbH hears that you are asking questions, it will be very dangerous.”

Threatening Arthur Curtis was a surefire way to get his dander up. “Is that so?”

“That is so, Herr Private Detective,” said the German. “I have kept you far too long on the telephone. Good day, sir.”

Arthur Curtis returned the earpiece to his telephone, took out his favorite pistol, a finely crafted lightweight Browning 1899 that fit his small hand, and broke it down and cleaned it to clear his mind. A sharp knock at the door alerted him to trouble.

“I told you,” he said, without looking up as the door opened, “go away.”

“I am here for your own good,” Pauline Grandzau replied, stepping in uninvited and draping the coat and hat she had already taken off on the clothes tree. “You need me.”

Art Curtis ground his teeth. He had come to think of her as Pauline the Plague.

“For the last time: I do not need a girl in this office. Even if I did, which I don’t, I would not need a girl who is only seventeen years old and is probably lying about her actual age which is plausibly sixteen or less.”

“Every great detective needs an apprentice.”

Curtis looked up, wearily. This had been going on for weeks. She was standing there with that same hopeful smile on her freckled face, a skinny little German student with yellow braids, bright blue eyes, and the moxie of a Berlin street fighter.

“I’m not a great detective,” said Curtis, who could play disguises with the best of them. He wheeled out a favorite: roughhewn Westerner. “I’m not that fancy Sherlock Holmes you’re always reading about. I’m just a working stiff. That lets me off the hook.”

“It is your duty to society to take an apprentice. How else will the young learn?”

“I don’t believe in girl detectives. And I’m not running a charity for society. Go away.”

She had already moved closer, edging up behind him, peering over his shoulder at the papers on his desk. Lots of luck reading Van Dorn cipher, he thought.

“You know you’ll hire me in the end,” she said blithely. “You need me. I speak perfect English. I am studying library and can look up anything. I am even a powerful skier, taught by my grandfather in the Alps.” Curtis put his head in his hands. He knew what was coming next. Sure enough, she quoted the infernal Holmes. “‘When the other fellow has all the trumps, it saves time to throw down your hand.’”

“Out!”

Pauline Grandzau grabbed her coat and hat and waved as she left the office. Art Curtis locked the door. Her English was actually pretty good — not as good as she thought, and not that he needed a German-English translator.

He trolled through his growing list of acquaintances, telephoned a talkative bank manager he had befriended and invited him to a beer garden, where they sat in companionable conversation on bentwood chairs under the shade trees, occasionally clinking their pewter steins and puffing their own contributions to the blue haze of cigar smoke.

The bank manager knew a bit about Krieg Rüstungswerk. The munitions manufacturer was controlled by the ancient Prussian Roth family, known to be secretive, which was hardly surprising in the arms trade. Krieg, as it was known colloquially, was especially well connected with the Army because it was “smiled upon” by the kaiser. Krieg also had a penchant for buying up firms in unrelated businesses. Unlike the policeman on the telephone, the bank manager made no mention of any danger from asking questions. Curtis was just shaking hands good-bye, intending to move on to a working class beer garden where a retired German Army sergeant drank, when the bank manager said casually, “I know a chap who works in their Berlin office.”

“Really? On what level?”

“Rather high up, actually. An executive.”

“I would like to meet him. Would that be possible?”

“It will cost you an expensive meal. He is greedy.”

“Why don’t we all three dine together?” asked Arthur, which was exactly what the bank manager wanted to hear.

Arthur went on to his next beer garden. The retired sergeant was there. Plied with a fresh stein, he spoke admiringly of a highly accurate Krieg Rüstungswerk rifled cannon and repeated what Curtis had heard about the kaiser’s warm feelings for the firm. With another stein down the hatch, the sergeant recalled fondly the time his regiment was reviewed by the kaiser himself dressed in the black uniform of the Death’s Head Hussars.

Arthur Curtis went back to the office to draft a reply to Isaac Bell.

He unlocked his door and stepped inside. Hairs prickled the back of his neck. He slewed sideways, pressed his back to the wall, and slid his pistol from his shoulder holster.

“It is only me,” said the shadow sitting at his desk.

“Pauline, how did you get in here?”

“But if I had been Colonel Moran I could have shot you with my silent air gun. No one in the building would hear.”

“Who the devil is Colonel Moran?”

“He tried to kill Sherlock Holmes. Holmes arrested him.”

“I said, how did you get in here?”

She pointed at the window, accessed by an alley fire ladder, which Curtis occasionally used to leave the office undetected. “As Sherlock told Watson in ‘The Adventure of the Crooked Man’: ‘Elementary.’”

“Elementary? Here’s elementary.” Curtis picked up his telephone. “I’m going to call the cops and have you arrested for breaking and entering if you don’t get lost once and for all.”

“Guess what I found in the library about Clyde Lynds.”

Art Curtis felt his jaw drop. “How do you know that name?”

“It’s in the marconigram you received from the Mauretania. The one about Professor Beiderbecke and Krieg Rüstungswerk.”

“That marconigram was in code.”

Pauline shrugged. “It’s not a hard code.”

4

“You are up to something.”

Marion braced herself against the movement of the ship and regarded Isaac Bell with a dreadnought admiral’s collected gaze. Her coral-sea green eyes, her loveliest feature, Bell thought, if forced to choose only one, shimmered with equal parts warm love and healthy skepticism.

“A picnic,” he answered.

“It’s midnight. We’re the only two passengers not seasick in their cabins. I see no wicker hamper. Though for some reason you’re carrying a camera.”

“It only appears to be a camera. Take my arm so we don’t fall down the stairs.”

The seas were heavy. The broad grand staircase swayed as the ship rose and fell with stately precision, but after twenty-four hours in a North Atlantic gale, they were getting the hang of it. Bell gripped the banister and they climbed together, gauging the pitch, compensating for the roll. At the top of the stairs, Bell led Marion through the vestibule into the First Class music room, a domed lounge with a thick floral carpet and brocaded furniture in hues of pink, blue, red, and yellow. The lights were low and it was empty of people but for a sleepy saloon steward standing by with a bucket of champagne anchored between a couch and a pillar. Bell tipped him, lavishly. “I’ll open it, thank you. Good night.”

The man left, smiling.

Marion said, “Now you’ll try to make me tipsy.”

“Would you dance with me?”

“Delighted. As soon as the orchestra arrives.”

Bell opened his camera case and wedged it in a corner of the couch. Marion leaned in close. Wisps of her golden champagne hair brushed his cheek. “What is that? Oh my gosh, a little gramophone. Where’s the horn?”

Bell unfolded a flat piece of cardboard and formed it into a horn, which he attached to the cylinder player. He turned a tiny crank, winding the mechanism, put on a two-minute cylinder, and started it.

“Remember this? We saw the show on Broadway.”

“‘Heaven Will Protect the Working Girl,’” Marion answered when the first notes emerged thinly from the horn. The latest musical comedy sensation was a satire of the old 1890s romantic ballads.

Isaac Bell sang along in a credible baritone.

Marion sang,

and took up the chorus:

Bell opened the bottle of Mumm and poured two glasses. “To what?” asked Marion.

“Love?”

“Love it is.”

They locked eyes, kissed, and drank. Bell changed cylinders, and strains of another new song, the romantic hit “Let Me Call You Sweetheart,” played through the cardboard horn.

“May I have this dance?”

He took Marion in his arms and wove a waltz through the furniture as if the rolling, carpeted deck were a crowded dance floor. “Do you recall the first time I asked you to marry me?”

She pressed her cheek to his. “Yes. It was during an earthquake.”

“And the second?”

“In the lobby of the St. Francis Hotel. I said I was too old for you. You claimed that I was not.”

“And the third?”

“In New York. When you gave me this lovely emerald, which I thought too bright at first but have grown to love as our lucky charm.”

“And the fourth?”

“Above the Golden Gate. In your flying machine.”

“Will you marry me?”

“Of course.”

“Tomorrow,” said Isaac Bell.

“Tomorrow?”

Marion gave him a curious smile. The music stopped. She stepped back out of his arms, looked searchingly into his eyes, then down at her emerald ring. “Funny you should ask.”

“What is funny about a man asking his fiancée five times to marry him?”

She did not seem to hear him, but marveled, instead, “At the very last minute as I was racing to Euston Station to catch the boat train I made the driver stop at Hanover Square so I could run into Lucile’s to buy a dress. Obviously, there wasn’t time to make one, but a Russian woman I met in London told me that there was such a run on black dresses for mourning King Edward — it turned out he had many more mistresses than rumored — that Lucile’s had scads of not black dresses just hanging about, deeply discounted. I wanted to ask your opinion of it, before I wore it. Now I can’t.”

“Of course you can’t. It’s bad luck to see the bride before the wedding.”

She looked him in the face, and her beautiful eyes filled with tears.

“You’re crying. What’s wrong?”

“I am so happy.”

“But—”

“I love you so much.”

“But—”

“May I have your handkerchief?”

Bell handed Marion a square of snowy linen.

“I’m surprised by how totally happy you’ve made me. I think I got used to the idea of us always being engaged. That was fine, but I love you with all my heart. I know you love me. But I guess I was holding back a little, because I really, really want to marry you — Isaac, are you sure Captain Turner will marry us? I’ve heard he’s very gruff.”

“It was touch and go,” Bell admitted. “He has a low opinion of First Class passengers and asked straight off why would we want a ‘bunch of bloomin’ monkeys’ at our wedding. I assured him that some of our best friends were monkeys. He didn’t crack a smile. Just said that having been divorced, he was not, as he put it, ‘much of a hand in the wedding line.’”

“How did you change his mind? Show him your gun?”

“I was about to. But he caught sight of you running aboard from the boat train and was suddenly all smiles. Practically fell in the drink leaning over the rail to watch your progress. I said, ‘That is my fianceé.’ Captain Turner said, ‘By Jove, I’ll wear my full dress uniform. The whole bloomin’ rig!’”

“I would not call my dress ‘full dress.’ It’s not quite white. It is rather creamy, though more an evening dress than a traditional wedding dress.” She gave her eyes one last dab of his handkerchief and handed it back. “Speaking of tradition, Isaac, isn’t it traditional for a man to kiss the woman he’s asked to marry when she says yes?”

Isaac Bell swept Marion back into his arms. “I couldn’t recall whether it’s bad luck or good luck to kiss the bride before the wedding.”

“It is required,” said Marion.

“The very night before?”

“All night.”

5

“Third class passengers are never admitted to First Class sections of the ship,” Isaac Bell was informed by Mauretania’s chief purser when they met to arrange the wedding. “Not even briefly to celebrate your marriage, I’m sorry to say. Not even ‘moving picture people’ known to your fiancée. You may invite a few from Second Class, provided they come properly attired, but we draw the line at Third mingling with the superior classes for one simple reason.”

“And what is that?” Bell inquired with a dangerous glint in his eye. He could not abide bigotry. That Marion’s acquaintances were traveling on the cheap was no reason to exclude them.

“A reason that even the most ardent ‘democrat’ will sympathize with. Were Third Class to mingle with the superior classes and one of their lot were to arrive in New York exhibiting symptoms of measles or mumps or some other of the infectious diseases spread by immigrants, the entire vessel and all who sail in her would be held at Quarantine. No one — not even you and your fellow First Class passengers — would be permitted ashore until the doctors could guarantee no outbreak of infectious disease, which would take weeks. Weeks! Imagine, Mr. Bell, confined to the ship anchored offshore, staring helplessly at New York City, so near but so far.”

“My fiancée’s acquaintances are not immigrants. They’re artists saving on expenses, trying to make ends meet.”

“Infectious diseases do not distinguish between motives. I am sorry, but surely you understand.”

“What’s tomorrow’s dinner menu in steerage?” asked Bell, using the popular term for Third Class.

“A nourishing soup with bits of beef in it.”

“May I see tomorrow’s First Class dinner menu?”

The purser produced a tall menu card beautifully illustrated with a color print of the immensely tall and narrow four-stack Mauretania framed by pink roses. Bell read it from top to bottom.

“I see nothing here that displeases. For our wedding feast, my bride and I will have prime sirloin and ribs o’ beef, roast turkey poulet, quarters of lamb, smoked ox tongue, and Rouen ducklings sent down to steerage.”

“Excellent! Give me your acquaintances’ names, and I will see—”

“To everyone in steerage.”

“Everyone?”

“Everyone will enjoy our wedding feast.”

“Most generous, sir,” the chief purser said drily. “May I remind you that we have one thousand one hundred and thirty-five passengers in steer — Third Class.”

“What’s for dessert in steerage?”

“On Sunday they’ll get some marmalade.”

Bell referred back to the First Class menu. “We’ll send down apple tart, petits fours, French ice cream, and rum cake.”

The chief purser looked around his office, confirming they were alone and the door was closed. “I don’t presume to ask what a private detective earns, sir, but the cost of feeding First Class fare to over a thousand souls will be considerable.”

“Fortunately,” Isaac Bell smiled, “I had a kindly grandfather. He blessed me with a legacy. Which reminds me, how many children are in steerage?”

“Many.”

“Better lay on extra ice cream.”

“Marconigram for mr. bell,” piped a twelve-year-old call boy in a blue uniform.

“Don’t move, nervous groom,” said Archie. “I’ll get it.”

The normally nimble-fingered Isaac Bell was having trouble knotting his tie, so best man Archibald Angell Abbott IV was attempting to tie it for him. Archie tossed the boy a coin that made his eyes widen and handed Bell the orange Marconi Wireless envelope.

Bell tore it open, unfolded the buff-colored marconigram, noted the date and the notation “Handed in at S.S. Adriatic,” indicating the White Star liner had relayed the radio signal from a shore station, and then began to decipher its handwritten contents while Archie started over again on his tie.

“This is odd.”

“Hold still! What’s odd?”

“Art Curtis says that Professor Beiderbecke is not a munitions inventor.”

“What does he invent?”

“Hang on, I’m still trying to figure…” Ordinarily as quick with figures as he was nimble-fingered, he was having trouble reading the familiar Van Dorn code.

“I have never seen a more jittery groom,” said Archie.

“You were walking into walls at your wedding. Here we go! Professor Beiderbecke is an electro-acoustic scientist at Vienna’s Imperial-Royal Polytechnic Institute.”

“What the heck is an electro-acoustic scientist?”

“Art says he holds patents for recording and amplifying speech and music.”

“Gramophones?”

The two detectives looked at each other. “What does a munitions outfit care about gramophones?”

Archie laughed. “If Krieg Rüstungswerk challenges Mr. Thomas Edison’s phonograph patents they’ll see what war really is.” He saw expressions of puzzlement and intense curiosity cross Isaac Bell’s face. “What else?”

“Clyde Lynds is an honors graduate of the Polytechnic Institute.”

“Like they told you.”

“But they didn’t tell me he’s taken it on the lam.”

“Who’s chasing him?”

“The Imperial German Army issued an arrest warrant for desertion — that makes no sense at all. The kid’s no soldier.”

“Maybe that’s why he deserted.”

Bell nodded. “But he grew up in the United States, and he’s been studying in Austria. You’d think he wasn’t subject to the German draft.”

“Maybe they drafted him anyway and he didn’t show up.”

“Art speaks fluent German, and he always chooses his words precisely. He writes ‘desertion.’ Meaning Clyde Lynds was already in the Army — come on, let’s go.”

“Where?”

“I’m going to ask Beiderbecke why a munitions outfit is trying to steal his gramophone.”

As Bell yanked open the door, a page boy came along banging a Chinese gong.

“There goes the dressing gong. You don’t have time. The captain’s tying your knot in half an hour.”

“And I’m going to keep asking until he gives me an answer.”

“But your wedding—”

Bell was already out the door. “When we get up there, peel Lynds away from Beiderbecke so I can talk to the Professor alone.”

Dozens of guests had arrived early in the First Class saloon lounge, the men in white tie, the ladies in gowns, and all wearing the tentatively relieved expressions of people whose seasickness was fading into memory. As Clyde Lynds put it when Bell and Archie approached him and Beiderbecke, “Getting over seasickness is like being let out of jail.”

Archie took Lynds’s elbow. “You must tell me about your jail experiences.”

Bell steered Beiderbecke into the small bar at the front end of the lounge. “I’ve got a case of groom’s jumps. I hope you’ll join me in a drink?”

“I am not quite over my seasickness.”

“A ‘stabilizer’ for the gentleman,” Bell told the barman. “A dash and a splash for me, please.” “The stabilizer is half brandy, half port,” he explained to Beiderbecke.

Beiderbecke shuddered.

“Trust me, it works.”

“It is gracious of you to invite us to your wedding.” The Viennese professor flourished his invitation, a thick sheet of parchment paper that had been embossed in Mauretania’s print shop, and marveled, “With this document in hand, barriers between Second and First Class tumbled like the walls of Jericho. Young Clyde slept with his under his pillow, lest villains steal it.”

Bell raised his whiskey and soda to the Viennese. “Continued smoother sailing.”

“And to your bride’s happiness.”

Beiderbecke sipped doubtfully and looked surprised. “The effect is immediate.”

“I told you you can trust me,” said Bell. “Now, can you tell me what exactly does an electro-acoustic scientist do?”

Franz Beiderbecke looked guilelessly at the tall detective. “I experiment how sounds might be recorded faithfully by employing electricity instead of mechanical means.”

“Can that be done?”

“That is my hope. In theory, it is a simple matter of amplifying and regenerating weak electrical signals. Though the actual doing of it is not so simple. But wait—” He blinked, perplexedly. “Wait! How do you know that? I did not discuss my field with you.”

“I was curious,” said Bell. “I marconigraphed a colleague in Berlin, who informed me that you are a famous scientist in the field of electro-acoustics.”

“Marconigrams are dear. You went to considerable expense to inquire about me.”

“I don’t often meet inventors of so-called secret inventions.”

“Can you blame my protégé for being cautious?”

“I blame Clyde for risking your lives,” Bell said bluntly. “He may be smart, but he’s not smart enough to distinguish friend from foe. You know that I won’t betray you to the people I stopped from kidnapping you.”

Beiderbecke touched the stabilizer to his lips. “Don’t you find protégés are more interesting that one’s own children?”

“Don’t talk circles around a deadly subject, Professor. You and Clyde are in danger. What if they have accomplices on the ship? If you do make it to New York intact, what makes you think that a powerful trust like Krieg Rüstungswerk can’t grab you in America?”

“I think of Prussians as pathologically insular.”

“You have invented something that those Prussians regard as unique. What sort of a weapon is it?”

“Weapon? Sprechendlichtspieltheater is not a weapon.”

“Sprechend-what?”

Beiderbecke put his glass down and repeated staunchly, “It is not a weapon. And I will say no more of it. I gave Clyde my word.”

“If it’s not a weapon why does a munitions trust want it?”

“I do not know. It is not for war. It is for education. It is for science. For communication. Industrial improvement. Even public amusement. It is—”

Clyde Lynds was approaching, trailed closely by Archie, who gave Bell a look that said he had diverted him as long as he could. Beiderbecke appeared deeply relieved by the interruption. “Ah, Clyde. I was just giving Mr. Bell an older man’s advice on how to survive marriage.”

“Wha’d he tell you, Mr. Bell?”

Bell said, “Say it again, Professor. I could never put it so eloquently.”

“I shall attempt to repeat it,” said Beiderbecke, shooting Bell a grateful look for going along with his dodge. “Since men and women are such different types of creatures, their only hope of getting along with each other is to love each other.”

“In other words,” said Isaac Bell, “The love they have in common is all they need in common.”

Archie Abbott opened his watch. “Assuming Miss Marion Morgan has not jumped ship, it’s time to test that theory.”

6

“Shipmates!” roared Captain William Turner, a short, square-jawed, squint-eyed man in his fifties with a great ship’s prow of a nose and enormous ears. His hearty seaman’s voice carried to every corner of the Mauretania’s Saloon Lounge, where hundreds of First Class passengers had come dressed in their best to celebrate the novelty of a wedding at sea.

None were disappointed.

The bride was bewitchingly beautiful in a daring, close-fitting cream-colored dress with a high waistline that suited her erect carriage and a sash of diaphanous silk that promised, discreetly, an enchanting décolletage. Her blond hair was swept up high on her head, circled by an abbreviated veil that graced her high brow, and capped with a tiara made of rosebuds instead of diamonds. Diamonds, all agreed, would have paled beside her dazzling eyes.

Her golden-haired groom stood proudly at her side in a tailcoat. He was tall and straight-backed as a cavalry officer. Beneath his gold mustache, his lips parted in a smile that twitched repeatedly into a broad grin.

The beautiful matron of honor and handsome best man wore expressions of sheer delight for their friends. The Mauretania’s famously standoffish captain was a vision of cordiality, aglitter in the dress uniform of the Royal Naval Reserve, with buttons, belt, braid, and epaulets of gold, a sword at his side, and a hat cocked fore and aft on his head.

“We are gathered together in the sight of God and in the face of Mauretania’s passengers and ship’s company to join this man and this woman in matrimony, which is an honorable estate…”

With the attention of the entire ship riveted by the wedding, Professor Beiderbecke calculated it would be safe to visit the baggage hold, deep below and far to the back, to check on the well-being of his machines and instruments. He retreated before the ceremony began, pleading that his seasickness was worse, even though the sea had calmed and most passengers were moving about with color restored to their faces.

Clyde had barely noticed. The young man was in a high state of excitement, put there initially by gaining entrance to the sumptuous First Class lounge, then by being seated next to an exotic Russian woman of Marion’s acquaintance. Dark-eyed Mademoiselle Viorets was no exception to Beiderbecke’s experience that Russian women were intoxicating. Poor Clyde was panting like a Austrian Brandlbracke puppy.

Fearing that the way into the bowels of the gigantic ship would be a confusing labyrinth of stairs and passageways, the Professor had studied builders’ drawings in the library and committed them to memory just as he would schematics for arcane electrical circuits or the latest triode vacuum tubes.

Rich carpets and runners in the corridors of passenger quarters gave way to plebeian rubber tiling. Wide staircases narrowed into steel-shrouded companionways. He dodged crew when he saw them in time, and directed at those he could not avoid a haughty stare: Make way for Professor Franz Bismark Beiderbecke in his old-fashioned frock coat and silver-headed walking stick.

Suddenly he had a strange feeling that someone was watching him. His first terrible thought was that the Akrobat—as he had dubbed the long-armed, agile thief who had tried twice to steal his Sprechendlichtspieltheater machine — was stalking him again.

Impossible. Beiderbecke had seen with his own eyes the mysterious Akrobat jump off the Mauretania into the sea. Nonetheless, he stopped in his tracks and cast a fearful glance up the stairs. No one. He craned his neck to peer down another flight. No one. He poked his head into a corridor, saw no one, and continued down into a crew section, past rudimentary sleeping quarters and lavatories, storage rooms, and pantries. The air grew oppressive.

The engines made their presence felt, resonating in the steel around him, ever more strongly the deeper he descended, a muted roar that grew louder and louder. Beiderbecke stopped again and looked back, cocking his ears for footfalls. Silliness! What could he hear over the thunder of the furnaces and the whine of the turbines? Besides, despite Isaac Bell’s efforts to frighten him into revealing his secret, the Akrobat no longer existed.

Real as it was, the sense of being watched was an irrational feeling, he told himself. A shadow flew near. Beiderbecke shrank into a shallow alcove formed by massive steel ribs. He pressed against the steel, which vibrated and felt hot, as if the fires that powered the behemoth ship were burning right behind him. The shadow, cast by electric bulbs caged in the low ceiling, crept along the corridor toward where he cowered. A crewman hurried by, cap and face and clothing black with coal dust.

Beiderbecke waited until he had gone, then darted along the corridor and down a flight of steps to the orlop deck, where he found himself yards from the stern of the ship in an area shared with sleeping barracks for three dozen cooks and stewards. The noise was deafening. Picturing the builders’ drawings, he realized that he was standing below the waterline. Just outside the hull’s shell plating, the propellers pounded a relentless din as they churned the sea at one hundred and eighty revolutions per minute.

He saw another shadow coming toward him and ducked through a door and down a companionway. At last he reached a door that should open — if he had not blundered himself utterly lost — into the corridor to the baggage room where the wooden crate that held his machine was concealed in a shipment of a dozen similar crates. All were addressed to a warehouse on New York City’s 14th Street — a short walk, Clyde had assured him, from the Cunard Line pier where the Mauretania would land.

He opened the door and bumped into a broad-shouldered seaman who was just leaving the baggage room. “Begging your pardon, sir?”

Beiderbecke said, “I wonder if you could help me? I’m looking for my shipment of crates.”

“Crates, sir?”

“Wooden crates. There is something I must get from one.”

“There’s no crates in here, sir. Just luggage.”

“No crates?” he echoed, aghast. Had Krieg Rüstungswerk stolen them? “But they were loaded down here.”

“No, no, no, bless you, sir. In the forward baggage room is where you’ll find crates. That’s where they stow crates, whip them down the cargo hatch into the forward baggage room, they do. In the bows, sir. The front.”

“On which deck will I find this room?”

“Lower deck, sir. Directly under the main deck.”

“This plethora of decks — upper, lower, orlop, shelter — appear designed to breed confusion,” said Beiderbecke, taking out his wallet. “Could I possibly prevail upon you to show me the way?”

“Bless you, sir, I wish I could. But passengers really oughtn’t to be down here.”

“I’m afraid I’m lost,” Beiderbecke said, extracting a pound note.

The seaman stared at the money, wet his lips, then sadly shook his head. “I’m afraid that the best I can do for you, sir, is lead you up to the shelter deck. There I’ll point you forward on the Third Class promenade. When you have walked all the way to the bow, go down three decks to the lower deck and perhaps someone can show you the baggage room.”

Franz Bismark Beiderbecke trudged up narrow stairs after the seaman. Then he walked forward over six hundred feet along the Third Class promenade, which was crowded with immigrants — Croats, Bohemians, Romanians, Italians, Hungarians, and Czechs, as if half the Austro-Hungary Empire had decided to regroup in America. The promenade ended at the Third Class smoking room near the front of the ship. He found the way down blocked by a scissors gate and climbed upstairs to go around. His pound sterling note persuaded a rough-looking steward to let him around a barrier.

Beyond that barrier, he looked out a porthole down onto the open foredeck and saw, between the mast and an enormous anchor, a cargo hatch. There! That must cover the hole through which the cranes had lowered his crates. He headed downstairs for several decks. Racking his memory of the builders’ plans, he finally opened a door on what could be, hopefully, the forward baggage room.

His heart froze.

The Akrobat, whom Beiderbecke had seen leap into the sea, was loping sure-footedly along the passageway, peering into every nook and cranny. Slung over his back was an enormous silver-colored steamer trunk. Judging by how effortlessly the Akrobat carried it, the trunk was empty.

7

Isaac Bell promised Marion “… to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part.”

When Marion promised to love and cherish him, she added in a strong voice, “with all my heart, forever and ever and ever,” and Bell’s blue-violet eyes swam with emotion as he placed beside their lucky emerald a plain gold wedding ring he had purchased long ago in San Francisco. Then Captain Turner repeated their vows in seamen’s terms, commanding them to “sail in company, in fair winds or foul, on calm seas or rough, in vessels great and small,” and concluded in a mighty voice, “By the powers I hold as master of Mauretania I pronounce you man and wife.”

Hastily, he added, “You may kiss the bride.”

Isaac Bell was already doing that.

Flanked by Archie and Lillian and Captain Turner, the newly wed Mr. and Mrs. Isaac Bell greeted their guests on a receiving line.

Mademoiselle Viorets and Clyde Lynds brought up the rear.

“In Russia we do everything backwards,” she proclaimed dramatically. “Instead of gentlemen kissing bride, in Russia is the custom for ladies to kiss the groom. Firmly on the lips.”

“Irina,” Marion Bell warned with a steely gaze, “we are not in Russia. If you must kiss someone firmly on the lips, start with that handsome boy trailing you with adoring eyes. Isaac, I want you to meet my very good friend Irina Viorets. It was Irina who told me about this dress.”

“A pleasure.” Bell shook the dark-eyed beauty’s hand. “From what Marion’s told me you two had more fun in London than is usual at royal funerals.”

“We are kindred spirits. Marion, I have arranged for you and your handsome husband a special wedding gift to wish you happiness in your marriage.”

“What is it?”

“An entertainment.” She snapped her fingers and took command of a phalanx of saloon stewards, who marched into the crowded lounge carrying an Edison film projector and a screen improvised from a square of sailcloth.

“That is one energetic woman,” Bell whispered to Marion.

“A bit too energetic. She escaped Russia one step ahead of the secret police.”

“How did she annoy the Okhrana?”

“By making a film that the czarina deemed ‘risqué.’ I didn’t get the whole story, and it changed a little with each glass of wine, but she’s hoping to start over again in the movie business in New York.”

“Taking pictures?”

“Manufacturing. She told me, ‘Dis time I vill be boss.’”

“Have I told you that you look absolutely gorgeous in that dress?”

“Only twice since we were married.” She stepped closer to press her lips to his. “Isn’t it wonderful? Now people expect us to kiss in public— Oh my, Irina is giving us a Talking Pictures play.”

The stewards suspended the sailcloth beside the piano. Actors, two men and a woman, positioned themselves behind the cloth with an array of gongs, triangles, drumsticks, whistles, and washboards.

“Where did she find a Humanova Troupe in the middle of the ocean?” marveled Marion.

“I say, what is a Humanova Troupe?” asked Lord Strone. The British colonel had been hovering near Mademoiselle Viorets.

“Humanovas make sound for the movies,” Marion told Strone.

“Sound? In the cinema? Do you mean like the orchestra?”

“Much more than an orchestra. The actors speak lines of dialogue. And make effects.”

“Effects?”

“Gunshots, whistles, bells. Surely you’ve heard Humanovas in London. Or Actologues?”

“Rarely get to town anymore, m’dear. Retired, don’t you know?”

Bell concealed a smile at the sight of Archie’s red eyebrow cocked toward the skylight. Strone was laying it on with a trowel, but a flurry of marconigrams from Van Dorn informants in England had repeated, in guarded language, rumors that His Lordship was, as Bell suspected, attached to Great Britain’s newly formed Secret Service Bureau with offices at Whitehall in the center of London. He left London only to undermine England’s enemies abroad.

Urged on by Irina Viorets, the stewards arranged chairs facing the improvised screen, and within minutes the lounge had been transformed into a moving picture theater. Members of the ship’s orchestra gathered around the piano with violins and a trumpet. They struck a clarion chord.

The wedding guests took their seats. The lamps were lowered. The projector clattered and light flickered on the screen. From behind the screen, an actor read aloud the movie’s title card.

“Is This Seat Taken?”

“It’s a Biograph comic,” Marion whispered to Bell. “Florence Lawrence is in it.”

The scene was laid in a ten-cent moving picture theater just as the movie ended. A well-dressed audience applauded when a woman with a pistol arrested a villain, who was marched off by a policeman. The actors behind the sailcloth clapped their hands as the movie audience applauded. The next film on the ten-cent theater screen showed a conductor and piano player auditioning singers and dancers.

The actors behind the sailcloth sang and shuffled their feet on the washboards, and the ship’s piano played ragtime.

A lady looking very much like the woman with the pistol walked into the ten-cent theater wearing an enormous hat and looked for a seat. An actress called, repeatedly, “Is this seat taken?” Theater patrons refused to move, protesting that her hat would block their view of the screen.

The lady in the big hat was followed by a man in a top hat, who looked very much like the villain just arrested. An actor called in a strong voice, “Is this seat taken?”

Theater patrons yelled that his hat was too big. Shouting matches ensued — angry words and a general banging came from behind the sailcloth.

Lord Strone laughed, “If my wife could see the thoroughly unpleasant sort who attend the cinema, she’d stop badgering me to take her there.”

The ship’s orchestra took up an aria from La Bohème.

On the theater screen, the director threw auditioning singers out the door.

Behind the sailcloth, the door banged and actors laughed.

In the ten-cent theater, ladies in increasingly large hats took their seats, provoking a riot.

A whistle blew behind the sailcloth. In the ten-cent theater, the clamshell jaws of a steam shovel descended from the ceiling and plucked off a lady’s hat. Ladies removed their hats. The lady in the biggest hat refused. The jaws descended again and lifted her, hat and all, out of the ten-cent theater. The actors behind the sailcloth cheered.

Lord Strone led the laughter. “I say! That’ll teach her. Whisked off like rubbish.”

“Irina!” cried Marion as the lights came back on, “That was splendid. Thank you.”

Irina stood and bowed. “Could we have a hand for the players?”

The Humanova troupe stepped out from behind the sailcloth. The wedding guests clapped.

Isaac Bell shook the actors’ hands, pressing into each a ten-dollar gold piece. “Thank you for a memorable performance.”

“Would that we could have rehearsed longer,” one sighed, “but Mademoiselle Viorets kept changing the dialogue.”

The wedding party trooped down Mauretania’s grand staircase to the dining saloon. Bell and Marion made the rounds of the tables, thanking guests for coming and fielding questions.

“To the beautiful bride!” shouted a red-faced Chimney Baron, draining his glass and waving for a refill. “Und to you, Mr. Bell, as ve say in Germany, Da hast du Glück gehabt!”

“Which means,” Herr Wagner translated, “Did you get lucky!”

“Danke schön!” Bell grinned back.

They were making their way back to their own table when Clyde Lynds hurried up, his face pale, his expression grave. “Mr. Bell!”

“Are you all right, Clyde?”

“I can’t find the Professor anywhere. He’s not in his cabin, he’s not on deck, he’s not here, and he’s not in the Second Class dining room.”

“When did he leave the party?”

“Before the ceremony. He said he felt seasick again.” Lynds lowered his voice and whispered, “I had a feeling he was heading down to the baggage rooms. I went down there. I didn’t see him. I checked both of them, back in the stern and up in the bow. He wasn’t in, either.”

“Why would he go there?”

Clyde Lynds shrugged. “To check on our things, I guess.”

“What things?” Bell asked. “Luggage?” The Professor and his protégé had danced repeatedly around the subject of the actual “secret invention.” Was it aboard the ship? Was it in their heads? Was it on another ship? Did it consist only of drawings? Bell had no idea, but now it sounded as if the invention was physically on the Mauretania. It was be ironical if whatever the machine was, it was riding in the same luggage room as a Van Dorn Detective Agency prisoner.

“What’s in his luggage, Clyde?”

Lynds hesitated. Then he ducked his head and said, “The Professor had some crates.”

“Go sit with Mademoiselle Viorets. I’ll have a look.”

“Don’t you want me to come with you?”

“No.”

8

“Marion, i’m afraid i’m going to have to excuse myself. Beiderbecke has disappeared. Clyde is worried, and so am I.”

“I’ll hold the fort.”

Bell walked Marion to her chair and nodded to Archie. The two men left the party separately and joined up in Bell’s stateroom, where Bell slipped a pocket pistol into his trousers and tossed Archie another. “Beiderbecke’s gone missing. Clyde thought he went down to the baggage rooms, but he couldn’t find him there.”

“We’ve got our Protective Services boy in the forward one.”

“Let’s see what he has to tell us.”

They bounded down the grand staircase faster than the elevator would take them, past promenade deck, shelter deck, upper, main, and lower, and hurried forward to the front of the ship, following a route they knew well from visits to their prisoner, the swindler, and his bored and lonely guard. Archie was soon breathing hard, but insisted on matching Bell’s pace. Bell grabbed him suddenly and stopped him in his tracks. “Watch it.”

He scooped Professor Beiderbecke’s pince-nez spectacles off the deck. They examined them in the light of a ceiling bulb. One of the lenses had cracked. “His all right, pink tint to the glass, like he wore.”

The forward baggage room was cavernous — over sixty feet long and nearly forty feet wide, although so close to the Mauretania’s bow that its width tapered to sixteen feet as it traced the sharpening line of the hull. It held far more bales and wooden crates than luggage, rows and rows of shipping barrels marked “Fragile” and “China,” oak casks of wine and brandy, a pair of Daimler limousines, and a handsome yellow Wolseley-Siddeley touring car. Bell smelled something in the fetid air, not the autos’ gasoline odor, which he had noted on earlier visits, but a more acrid stink, like coal tar, or, he thought, simply the ubiquitous odor of paint from the constant maintenance performed by the ship’s crew.

The lion cage sat near the front. As Bell and Archie pushed through the door, they saw that their Van Dorn Protective Services operative had fallen asleep beside the cage and that their swindler, a lanky, middle-aged sharper with a matinee idol’s leonine mane of hair and a choirboy’s trustworthy smile, was straining to reach through the bars for the keys.

“Lawrence Block?” asked Archie, using the alias under which he had conducted his stock manipulations. “Even if you got the door open, where do you think you would go on a steamer in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean?”

“For a walk,” said the swindler. “Maybe even find someone to talk to. This fellow and I have run out of subjects of interest to either of us. Failing that, maybe I’d bust into one of those brandy casks and get drunk.”

The guard woke with a start and jumped to his feet. “Sorry, Mr. Bell. The boat keeps moving up and down, and there’s a smell in the air that makes me tired.”

Archie said, “Next time hide your keys.”

Bell said, “We’re looking for a middle-aged Viennese gentleman with a fancy mustache and pince-nez glasses. He was wearing a frock coat and carrying a walking stick with a silver head. Has anyone of that description come in here?”

“No, sir.”

“Has anyone at all come in here while you were awake?”

“Just a young feller looking for the same guy you’re looking for. Ran in, ran out.”

That would be Clyde. “No one else?”

“Nope.”

Swindler Block called, “What about the guy who took a trunk?”

“What guy?” asked Bell.

“Just a crewman,” said the PS guard.

“What did he want?”

“Took a trunk. They’re in and out all the time. They get sent down for trunks when folks in First Class want something they forgot.”

“He wasn’t crew,” said the swindler.

“What?” Bell looked at him gripping the bars of the lion cage, glad as any prisoner of a break in his empty routine. “What are you talking about, Mr. Block?”

“He wasn’t crew.”

“He was so crew,” protested the Protective Services man. “I saw him with my own eyes.”

Bell ignored him and asked Block, “Why do you say the fellow you saw was not a member of the ship’s company?”

Block said, “The food down here is lousy. I want a good meal.”

“You’ll get one if you tell me what you mean.”

“He was pretending he was crew.”

“The hell he was,” said the Protective Services man.

“The hell he wasn’t,” said the swindler.

“Archie!”

Archie marched the Protective Services man out the door. Bell asked Block, “How do you know that the man who took the trunk was not a member of the ship’s company?”

“Do I get a meal?”

“Prime sirloin and ribs o’ beef, roast turkey poulet, quarters of lamb, smoked ox tongue, and Rouen ducklings. If you help me. How do you know?”

“I just know.”

“You better know more than ‘just know’ or you’ll be dining on bread and water.”

“I’m not dodging you, Mr. Bell. I’m telling you that it takes one to know one. I smoked right off that the fellow was an imposter. For one thing, he was covered in coal dust. Like a stoker. Well, do they send a stoker to retrieve a rich man’s shiny clean steamer trunk? Of course they don’t. They send a shiny clean bedroom steward. You get my meaning?”

“And for another thing?”

“The stewards usually come in pairs, help each other carry. He was alone.”

“What did he look like?”

“Like I just told you. Like a stoker. Hard as nails tough from the black gang.”

“Big man?”

“Not so big. Powerful build, though. Long arms. Like an ape. Like I said, what you’d expect shoveling coal.”

“Long arms? Did you see his face?”

“Black with soot.”

“Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”

“I doubt it.”

“Why not?” Bell demanded.

The swindler answered, “Cap pulled down over his eyes, collar up round his ears. All that soot on his face, for all I saw he could have been dancing in a minstrel show.”

Bell looked at him with a wintry eye. Block was a very intelligent crook.

“What color was the trunk?”

“Silver.”

“How long ago was this?”

“Hour? Little more.”

“Enjoy your dinner.” Bell started out the door, then stopped with a new thought. “Was there a sticker on the trunk indicating the passenger’s class?”

“First.”

“Lawrence Block, you’ve earned your first honest meal since you graduated reform school.”

Bell sent the PS man back in with a stern warning to stay on his toes. Then he told Archie, “A coal stoker, or someone who looked like a coal stoker, lifted a silver-colored steamer trunk with a First Class sticker. Question is, why?”

“Assuming the Professor’s been kidnapped, I’d say they stashed him inside it so they could smuggle him into a cabin they booked somewhere in First Class.”

“So would I.”

“But,” Archie said, “we found his glasses down here. How would they know he was coming down here? Maybe they have someone in the crew watching him.”

“Or a passenger,” said Isaac Bell. “We better get Captain Turner to rustle up a search party.”

9

“Isaac! They found the trunk on the promenade deck!”

Bell passed Archie at a dead run, climbing the grand staircase. There was a mob at the top of the stairs. The corridors converging outside a service pantry were jammed with the junior officers: saloon, deck, and bedroom stewards and seamen who had been pressed into the search. Bell saw a saloon steward sprawled on his back, his normally immaculate tunic filthy, and beside him the silver trunk. A husky seaman stood over it, aiming a fire ax at the lock.

“I’ll open it,” said Bell, shouldering him aside. He knelt by the trunk and felt with his hands that it was heavy. “Would there be a wine screw handy?”

The sommelier’s assistant produced a corkscrew. Bell twisted it into the lock, manipulated for a moment while gazing into the middle distance, and the lock clicked open. To the murmur of acclaim, and before anyone asked how an insurance executive happened to know the fine art of lock picking, he said, “Parlor trick my great-aunt Isabel taught me. She was a regular whiz.”

Stewards and seamen laughed.

“Never would say where she learned it,” Bell added, and the officers laughed, too.

He hinged the hasp up and lifted the lid. The laughter died.

Professor Beiderbecke had been squeezed into the trunk. His legs were bent sharply to his chest, his arms pressed about his head. His eyes were wide open. His face was rigid with pain and fear. His skin was blue.

Without a word, an elderly dining saloon steward passed Isaac Bell a gleaming fish knife. Bell held it to Beiderbecke’s nostrils. He did not expect that the poor man’s breath would cloud the silver, but it did.

“He’s alive!” A dozen hands helped Bell pull Beiderbecke out of the trunk. They laid him on the rubber-tile floor and gently straightened his limbs. Beiderbecke groaned, gasped, and inhaled fitfully.

“Doctor!”

“Get the surgeon.”

Bell leaned closer, searching for a spark in his wide-open eyes. They seemed to focus on him. “You’ll be fine,” said Bell. “The doctor’s coming.”

Beiderbecke’s body convulsed. “My heart,” he whispered. Racked with pain, he clutched his chest. “Bell!” he gasped.

“I’m right here, Professor.”

“Bell. My… protégé…”

“Don’t worry, I’ll look out for Clyde.”

“Protect him, please.”

“I will.”

“Protect him from the akkk…”

“From what?” Bell put his ear to Beiderbecke’s lips, for the man was surely dying. “From what?”

“Akrobat.”

The ship’s surgeon arrived, shooing people from his path. Bell stood up to make room for him, then watched as the surgeon parted vest and shirt with sure hands and pressed a stethoscope to Beiderbecke’s chest. He listened for a long time, shaking his head, and finally removed the instrument.

“What did Beiderbecke say? Archie asked Bell.

“Made me promise to protect Clyde.”

“From Krieg?”

“I suppose,” Bell answered. “But that wasn’t all he said.”

“What else did he say?”

“A name or a word that sounded like ‘acrobat.’ How do you say it in German?”

“The same, except spelled with a ‘k,’ said Archie. “But what did Beiderbecke mean by ‘acrobat’?”

“A man,” Isaac Bell mused thoughtfully, “who can fly.”

“Like the one who jumped overboard.”

“And somehow flew back.”

Archie said, “But acrobats can’t really fly.”

“Maybe not. But the best of them can do a darned good imitation…” Isaac Bell thought hard. “Mauretania’s carrying three thousand people, passengers and crew. Whoever killed Beiderbecke is hiding among them.”

“That’s like hiding in a city.”

“We need a witness. Let’s ask this steward if he got a look at who knocked him down.”

The steward, who was sitting up blearily, shook his head. “Sorry, guv. Jumped me from behind, he did, when I walked in the pantry.”

Bell helped him to his feet. “Not even a glimpse as you fell? Did you see how big he was or what he was wearing?”

“Not a peep, guv.” He looked at his tunic sleeve, then down at the trousers. “Blimey, am I a sight. Better get out of these before the boss sees me.”

Bell noticed brown grease stains on his trousers from the pantry floor. But the smudges on his sleeve looked like soot. He ran his finger on one.

“Coal dust,” he told Archie. “Let’s go visit the black gang.”

Block, the swindler, swore up and down, again, that he had not seen the face of the black gang crewman who had taken the silver trunk from the baggage room, but Isaac Bell brought him along anyway, intending to watch his face for signs of lying as they scrutinized the men who stoked the furnaces. He brought the saloon steward, too, on the theory that the man who knocked him down could not know beyond a doubt that the steward hadn’t seen his face. The sight of two witnesses might set off a case of nerves. Or so he thought until he clapped eyes on the stokers and the hellish place where they worked.

“Three hundred and twenty passers, trimmers and firemen, mostly Irish from Liverpool,” said the Mauretania’s chief engineer, a compact, no-nonsense Scot with a walrus mustache and four gold stripes on his sleeve. “Plus your odd foreigner.” Captain Turner had ordered him to escort Bell and Archie and their witnesses down to the stokehold.

He pressed an electric switch, and a massive watertight steel door ground open on a sulfurous scene of heat and thunder. Men stripped to the waist and hunched double were shoveling coal and wheeling barrows in near darkness.

The chief engineer had to shout for Bell to hear him warn, “Doubt you’ll get much out of ’em. The black gang are a hard lot.”

“I’d be amazed if they weren’t.”

“You should see ’em brawl. We dog the hatches till the fightin’s over. Mind, it’s no picnic. Our Maury wants a thousand tons a day to make her knots.”

The devil, thought Isaac Bell, would feel right at home deep in the ship. It was one thing to envision the principle that fire heated water into steam that spun the blades of Mauretania’s turbines that turned the propellers that drove her through the sea. It was another to peer through air thick with eye-stinging coal dust at scores of men sweating to feed her.

Timing gongs clanged. Furnace doors flew open. In the leaping light of flames, firemen with wet rags tied over their faces for protection from the heat thrust ten-foot steel-slicing bars into seething beds of yellow embers. They stabbed white-hot clinkers of fused impurities loose from the fire grates, smashed the clinkers, and raked away the pieces. They dug their shovels into coal heaped on the deck. They straightened up and scattered a scoopful into the furnaces, bent over and dug up another. Scoop after scoop after scoop after scoop they scattered onto the fires. They worked fast, endeavoring to open the furnace doors for the shortest possible time to keep the heat up. For seven minutes the firemen sliced and raked and shoveled, skillfully spreading even layers of fresh fuel on the incandescent coals. The searing heat dried their face rags stiff.

Furnace doors banged shut. Darkness fell. The firemen lunged for water buckets. Sweating trimmers manhandled wheelbarrows into the fire aisle and tipped them on the deck, heaping new coal beside the furnace doors. The trimmers raced back to the bunkers for more. Inside the bunkers themselves, Bell could see passers shifting coal from the back to the front. The gongs rang again, and the stoking indicator showed the number of the next furnace to be fed.

“How are long are their shifts?” Bell asked the chief engineer.

“Four hours on, eight off.”

Bell led the steward and the swindler along the fire aisles of all four boiler rooms, past one hundred and ninety-two furnaces under twenty-four boilers, in and out of bunkers, then by trimmers greasing machinery and shoveling white-hot cinders from ash pits into ejectors. Finally, he walked them through the fetid passers’ and trimmers’ barracks on the lower deck and the firemen’s on the main deck, where exhausted men sprawled on tightly stacked berths. Not a single glowering face of those awake or those unmasked in dreamless sleep sparked a memory that swindler Block or the steward would admit to.

Returning from the wedding feast, Hermann Wagner opened the door to his Regal Suite. Truly fit for a king, he smiled, with two bedrooms, a parlor, his own dining room, and a second entrance through a pantry for the servants. Oddly, the lights were out. On previous nights a well-lit cabin had welcomed him after dinner with his bed turned down, a pot of his favorite hot chocolate on the nightstand, and a brandy beside the chocolate. Well, if the newly minted Mr. and Mrs. Bell’s wedding had thrown the entire ship into a tizzy, it was worth the trouble. It had been a wonderful party with a dazzling bride and groom, excellent food and wine, great dollops of love in the air, even a whiff of mystery. It was rumored that half the ship’s company was knocking on doors searching for a passenger who had gone missing from Second Class.

Strange, too, was a scent hanging in the air, a heavy, acrid odor, as if the smoke billowing from the Mauretania’s stacks had drifted down the vents into his quarters. He had never smelled coal smoke in his stateroom while crossing the Atlantic in First Class. With British and German and French ships competing for the wealthiest passengers, every detail was de luxe.

He felt cautiously for the light switch. The champagne had made him clumsy. He bumped into a lamp and lunged to rescue it before he realized that it was anchored securely against the motion of the ship. Behind him, he heard a metallic click. What had he knocked over, he wondered? Then he realized the sound had been the door being locked. Something brushed close to him. A steely hand closed around his arm. He felt himself dragged backwards against a rock-hard body.

Another hand clamped his mouth shut before he could even yelp in surprise, much less shout for help. Hermann Wagner was young and athletic. He fought hard to break free. But his captor held him with astonishing strength. It was the man crushing the life out of him who reeked of coal.

Suddenly salvation! A knock at the door. “Steward, sir. May I enter?”

Wagner kicked out, hoping to knock something to the floor that would make a noise. The knock was repeated with a firm rap of impatient knuckles, not the usual deferential forgive-the-interruption-sir, but a demanding open-the-door-and-let-me-in. The missing passenger! The crew was searching the ship. He struggled harder. The hand over his mouth slid down his chin and closed around his throat. Neither blood nor air could rise to his brain. He felt his legs give out from under him and he realized with a loss of all hope that he was being strangled to death.

“Sir? Are you there, sir?”

The man who stunk of coal muttered in Wagner’s ear. “Ich bin Donar.”

It was the most beautiful sound that Wagner had ever heard in his life. Donar. German for Thor, god of thunder. It meant that he would not die. Donar named the leader of a secret Imperial German Army plan, blessed, Wagner had been assured beyond any doubt, by the kaiser himself.

The grip on his throat eased fractionally.

Wagner nodded, confirming what he had sworn in blood: obey without question.

The hand eased a little more, just enough for Wagner to whisper, “Forgive me, please. I didn’t know.”

“Tell the steward that you are sleeping. Tell him to go away.”

“What if he won’t go? They’re searching the ship.”

“If he insists, let him in, but not into your bedroom. Tell him there is a lady there who wishes to remain anonymous. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.” said Wagner. He had an impulse to salute. The last man to speak to him with such compelling authority had been his colonel in the Army.

“Do it!”

“Do you suppose they’re looking for the German?”

Two young trimmers in the No. 1 boiler room — Bill Chambers from County Mayo and Parnell Hall from Munster — passed in opposite directions, heaving wheelbarrows between the forward cross-bunker and the firing aisle. They had no fear of being heard over the thundering furnaces. Besides, the chief engineer, the American swell, the saloon steward, and the prisoner who’d been locked in the baggage room had finally left the stokehold.

“Who else?”

Chambers and Hall were leaders of a new breed of the Irish Republican Brotherhood. To hell with compromising old men. They were true rebels, and they had vowed to drive British rulers out of Ireland or die trying. Neither would deny they were hotheads. In fact, they would accept that charge as a compliment. Nor would anyone who had seen them harry English Army patrols with rocks and slingshots deny their bravery. As for being seduced by promises of rifles and explosives in exchange for helping the German, that depended on your definition of seduction.

“Think they’ll find him?”

“If they do they’ll wish they hadn’t.”

Though both were young and brave and had fought the patrols, Bill Chambers and Parnell Hall let go of their wheelbarrows and made the sign of the cross. The man they knew as the German was in a fighting class by himself.

As the poet said, plague and famine ran together.

Through his regal suite bathroom door, Hermann Wagner listened to the leader of the Donar Plan wash off the coal dust in the needle-spray shower affixed to his porcelain tub.

“Turn around,” Donar called through the door. Earlier, he had warned in a cold voice that left no doubt of the consequence, “Never look upon my face.”

Wagner stepped into the parlor and turned his back. His throat hurt since the man had nearly squeezed the life out of him.

“Order your dinner in your suite tonight so you may stand guard while I sleep.”

Wagner, who sang in his church choir and had an ear for voices, heard something slightly off-key in Donar’s High German accent. While smooth and guttural, with the expected educated flair, now and then the tones of the Prussian upper crust roughened like a peasant’s. “Shall I order food for you, too?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. One passenger doesn’t eat two meals.”

“I meant so you might have dinner, too.”

“I’ll eat yours.”

“Yes, of course. I see.” He heard Donar walk from the bathroom into his bedroom.

“Wipe up that coal dust before the bath steward sees it.”

Hermann Wagner got down on his hands and knees to scrub his own bathroom, something he had not done since he was twelve years old, in the strict boarding school his father had sent him to “make him hard.”

He did not mind. It was an honor to be among the elite diplomats, bankers, and merchants drafted into the Donar Plan. Admittedly, he was no soldier. Nor was he privy to the details of the military scheme. But he could travel freely in the United States of America while conducting legitimate business and mingle in the highest echelons.

Der Tag was coming. Victory depended not only on soldiers. There would be no victory unless a patriot like Hermann Wagner did his part to persuade Americans to join the war on Germany’s side — or at least stay out of it while Germany destroyed Russia, France, and Britain.

10

At dawn the newly wed Isaac Bell slipped silently out of bed, kissed his sleeping bride softly on her brow, dressed quietly, and went out on the promenade deck. It was bitter cold, and the sea was making up again. Long, evenly spaced rollers marched out of the northwest. The sky was clear but for jagged clouds stacked on the horizon like ice-capped mountains. The wind was strong, and the smoke from Mauretania’s tall red funnels streamed flat behind her.

He went straight to the point on the starboard side that the man who jumped from the boat deck would have passed as he fell. Somehow, Bell suspected, he had managed to land safely on the promenade deck — although that did not seem possible, as the boat deck was not set back and the promenade deck did not thrust farther out. But Beiderbecke had called him an acrobat.

Bell paced the area, his eyes roaming. Assume, he thought, that the Akrobat was a real acrobat. Assume he was a trained circus tumbler or trapeze artist. Assume he was extraordinarily strong, astonishingly agile, with no fear of heights and nerves of steel.

Bell smiled, suddenly gripped by a fond memory. He had run away from home to join the circus when he was a boy. Before his father caught up with him in a Mississippi fairground, he had befriended animal tamers, clowns, horseback performers, and especially the acrobats, whom he revered for their bravery and their strength.

Assume this Akrobat possessed every power of a professional big top performer who had honed his skills since childhood, as circus stars did. Surely, from what Bell had seen the night they sailed, the man was indeed strong and agile, with no fear of heights and nerves of steel. Was it possible for such a man to jump off the boat deck, drop ten feet down the sheer side of the ship, and swing back aboard on the promenade deck?

The answer was no.

Bell leaned over the railing and looked straight down at the water. Then he looked up the side of the Marconi house. As he had told Archie, the nearest lifeboat hanging from davits beside the boat deck was thirty feet from where the Acrobat jumped the railing. A quick count of boats revealed something he had never really thought about before. They had room for only five hundred people, while Mauretania carried three thousand…

Suddenly Isaac Bell bolted to the nearest companionway and bounded up the stairs. Would he have noticed in the dark if the Acrobat had jumped up rather than down? Up to one of the many stays and cables rising to the sundeck, immediately above the boat deck, where the Marconi house sat. Would he have seen him grip a line and scramble up to the sundeck?

Bell ran along the boat deck past the library windows that had backlighted the scene that night and saw immediately that the answer was no. There were no stays remotely near enough for a man to jump to. Therefore, if the Acrobat hadn’t fallen into the sea, he had to have landed on the deck below the boat deck. Also impossible. Baffled, Isaac Bell wandered slowly back down to the promenade deck.

Two seamen were smoothing the wood railing with rasps and sandpaper.

“Good morning, sir.”

“Good morning, gents. Up early?”

“Soon as we can see to work,” said one.

The other said, “If we let wear and tear go, the ship would be a bloomin’ embarrassment. Look at this gouge! Fairly tore the rail in half.” He stepped back to show Bell their repair of what was actually the minutest gouge in the teak, which only an eagle-eyed bosun would notice.

Oddly, the gouge traced the full twelve-inch curve of the wood from inboard to outboard as if something flexible had wrapped around it. “What do you suppose caused that?” Bell asked.

“Some bloomin’ swell, begging your pardon, sir, must have whacked it with his walking stick.”

“Or sword,” ventured his mate.

“Sword?” the first echoed derisively.

“The grain of the wood is cut.”

“It ain’t a cut. It’s a gouge.”

“You can call it a gouge if you like, mate, but I say he whacked it with a sword.”

“Where the bloomin’ hell would a First Cabin nob get his paws on a sword?”

“Concealed in his walking stick. Wouldn’t you agree, sir?” he added, enlisting support when he saw Isaac Bell studying the gouge intently.

“Wire,” Isaac Bell said.

“Beg your pardon, sir?”

“Wire. A thin braided-wire cable.”

“Well, yes, it could be braided cable, sir. On the other hand, you might ask where would the swell get a braided cable and why would he whack the rail with it? Unless he was an out-and-out vandal. Not that we don’t get the odd one or two of them aboard— You’ll recall, Jake, there was that Frenchman.”

“What do you expect?”

“An acrobat,” Bell said, half aloud. Had the Acrobat somehow grappled the railing with a flexible wire cable?

“Acrobat? No, sir, begging your pardon, that Frenchie was no acrobat.”

“A German acrobat.”

The seamen traded baffled looks.”Well, if you say so, sir.”

“An acrobat it is, sir.”

As Bell hurried away, he heard whispers behind him. “What the blazes was he rattlin’ on about?”

“Acrobats.”

“Next’ll be monkeys.”

Isaac Bell walked faster. He could imagine that a superb athlete, a muscular, lithe acrobat, could stop his fall by hooking a thin cable over the railing. But he could not imagine where the man could suddenly get the cable. Nor how he had secured it in the split second that he hurtled past the railing. Nor why the wire didn’t slip through his hands. Or cut him to the bone if he wrapped it around his wrist.

Bell passed a barrier into Second Class, said good morning to the seaman Captain Turner had assigned to stand guard outside Clyde Lynds’s cabin door, and knocked loudly. “It’s Isaac Bell, Clyde. Open up.”

Lynds let him into the cramped, windowless space he had shared with the Professor. He appeared to have slept in his shirt and trousers.

“You look a mess,” said Bell.

“Didn’t sleep a wink. The Professor was a good man. A kind man. He didn’t deserve dying that way.”

“You wouldn’t either,” said Bell.

“Am I next?”

“Make a clean breast of it, Clyde. Your life’s in danger. Who are they? What do they want?”

“I swear I don’t know them.”

“Does it have to do with you deserting the German Army?”

“I didn’t desert. I was never in the Army. I’ve never been a soldier.”

“Then why is the German Army after you?”

“I don’t know. They’re lying.”

“Why would the Army lie? If they are lying, why are they hunting you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.”

“I am not a deserter.”

“I know you’re not. That’s what makes it worse.”

“Worse?”

“The German Army is helping Krieg Rüstungswerk steal your invention.”

“I’ll be O.K. when I get to America.”

Isaac Bell asked the question he had come to Clyde’s cabin to ask. “Did you ever hear the Professor mention a name or a word that sounded like ‘acrobat’?”

Lynds turned pale. “Why do you ask?”

“When Professor Beiderbecke asked me to protect you, it was the last word he spoke. ‘Acrobat.’”

“Oh my Lord,” Clyde Lynds breathed. “Are you telling me the guy didn’t fall overboard?”

“You know who I mean.”

“Yes,” Clyde admitted. “He’s the one. Is he really on the ship?”

“I think the Professor saw him. I think this acrobat locked him in the trunk. If that’s true, then you’re being stalked not by his accomplices, but by the man himself, the same man who tried get you in Bremen and again the night we sailed from Liverpool. You were lucky that night that I just happened to be there. Last night the Professor’s luck ran out. Whoever killed Professor Beiderbecke is hiding among either the passengers or the crew. He will not be found before disembarking in New York, at which point he will disappear into the city — where he will find you easily, Clyde. A man who has hunted in the confines of a steamship with nearly a thousand crew to take notice is a formidable hunter. He will find you.”

Clyde Lynds puffed up. “What does an insurance man care about this?” he demanded, truculently.

“I don’t give a hang about this or you,” Isaac Bell shot back.

“You don’t?”

“If I hadn’t promised the Professor to look out for your prevaricating hide, I’d let you to swing it out with this murderer we’re calling the Acrobat. But I did promise. So you’re stuck with my help, like it or not.”

“Can you really protect me?”

“Only if you can tell me what I’m protecting you from. What is your ‘secret invention’? Why do they want it?”

“O.K. O.K. We’ll do it your way.”

Lynds sat silent for a long moment. Bell prompted him, saying, “Professor Beiderbecke started to name it when we had a drink before my wedding. He called it ‘Sprechchend-something’ before he clammed up.”

Clyde Lynds laughed.

“What the devil is funny?”

“Sprechendlichtspieltheater.”

“Sprechendlichtspieltheater? What is Sprechendlichtspieltheater?”

“A ridiculous name. I told him we needed an American name. So he came up with ‘Animatophone.’ I told him that was worse. So he said, ‘How about “Photokinema”?’ Which is a bad joke. I couldn’t get it through his head that we needed a snappy name we could sell.”

“But what is it?” demanded Bell.

“Professor Beiderbecke and I have invented a machine that reproduces sound perfectly.”

“What kind of war machine is that?”

“It’s not a weapon.”

“That’s what Beiderbecke told me. I thought he was lying.” Bell recalled Beiderbecke’s claims for education and science, communication, industrial improvement, even public amusement. It was quite a laundry list, but a better gramophone might fit that. “What is it, a gramophone?”

“It is much more than a gramophone. Much, much more than a gramophone. We perfected a way to add sounds to moving pictures. A machine to make talking pictures.”

“Talking pictures?”

“That’s what I named it. Talking Pictures. Snappy, eh?”

“Better than Sprechendlichtspieltheater,” Bell admitted with a smile.

Lynds shook his head ruefully and ran his fingers through his tousled hair.

“Word got out. We were approached immediately by the biggest film manufacturer in Germany. They wanted to make a deal. Invited us to Berlin, First Class, all expenses paid, put us up in the best hotel. But then we learned that the firm was owned by Krieg Rüstungswerk, and we knew they would steal it. The Professor knew a scientist whose invention they robbed. So we decided we would do much better taking it to America to sell it to Thomas Edison… Boy, were we babes in the woods. Never occurred to us they’d try to stop us from leaving Germany. Or that the munitions trust was so in cahoots with the German Army that the Army would help track us when we cut and ran. Blind luck, we got away. That phony warrant gave them the power to have me arrested for desertion and the Professor for harboring a draft dodger. We barely made it out of there with that Rotterdam hocus-pocus. But when we got aboard Mauretania we thought we were free to sell Talking Pictures in America. Then surprise, surprise…”

“What do they want it for?” asked Bell.

“It is very valuable,” Lynds answered.

“But the German Army isn’t in the movie line.”

Lynds shrugged. “Maybe they want to be.”

11

“Somehow,” said Marion, smiling awake at the sight of Isaac Bell perched on the edge of their bed with a cup of tea for her, “I always assumed I would see more of you when we married. At least the morning after the wedding.”

“Forgive me. But I’m afraid we’ve landed in a case.”

“Of course you’ve landed a case. After you saved poor Professor Beiderbecke from being kidnapped, he was murdered. That makes him your personal case.” She hugged him and took her tea. “What have you learned since we kissed good-night?”

“Clyde Lynds finally told me what the kidnappers want. But I’m having a hard time believing it.”

Bell reported word for word what Lynds had told him. He often talked through cases with Marion. She had a razor-sharp mind and an uncanny ability to approach an idea from an unexpected angle. In the case of Talking Pictures, she was uniquely qualified to help him as an expert in the moving picture line.

When he was done, Marion put down her cup and sat up straight.

“Talking Pictures? Real talking pictures?”

“What do you mean real?”

“Not someone behind the screen, but actors actually speaking on the screen? Pictures with sound?”

“That’s what he says.”

“Isaac! Pictures with sound are the Holy Grail. I don’t know how he would do it — scores have tried and failed — but if he could, it would be worth a fortune. It would change everything. Right now we’re stuck in wordless drama. Pantomime.”

“The Humanova troupe got around that.”

“But what are Humanovas and Actologues but a traveling vaudeville show staging the same drama night after night in a single theater? They’re less than movies, not more, saddled with all the expense of touring players — payroll, train tickets, room and board. With real talking pictures, hundreds of copies could be exhibited simultaneously. Film reels don’t need to eat or sleep.”

“Like a frying pan factory that didn’t need to pay workmen because machines make frying pans automatically.”

“Exactly. All each theater needs is a projector with a sound machine.”

“You’re very excited by this. Your eyes are shining.”

“You bet I’m excited. It’s like you told me I could suddenly fly to the moon— Don’t you see? Ten-minute, eight-hundred-foot one-reel movies have been playing forever in nickelodeons. But there’s a potential for a huge new audience. Theater- and operagoers would flock to longer two- and three-reelers. Sound would let us tell bigger stories. I would quit Picture World in a flash to make talking pictures.”

“So young Clyde has his hands on something very valuable.”

“If it works,” said Marion.

“Why wouldn’t it?”

“There are three technical problems that no one has been able to solve.” She enumerated them on the long, graceful fingers of her left hand, starting at her index finger and ending on her ring finger, where beside her emerald nestled the gold band from San Francisco.

“One: synchronizing the sound with the picture; the actor’s words must match the movements of his lips, just as a theater audience hears what it sees on the stage. Two: amplifying sound; it must be loud so thousands can hear movies in big theaters. Three: fidelity; so they feel the power of human voices and the beauty of music.”

“What you’d expect in a great opera house.”

“Hundreds of opera houses! Simultaneously! Talking Pictures could play in every city at once. Seen and heard by millions. But so far, no one in Europe or America has come close to solving those three problems. Those who tried have given up, ruined. Beiderbecke and Lynds’s Talking Pictures machine has to solve all three.”

“If it does,” said Bell, “they own a commercial gold mine.”

“And an artistic treasure. Isaac, this is so exciting.”

“What do you think of Lynds’s scheme to sell it to Thomas Edison?”

Marion thought on Bell’s question.

“It is very risky to bring a new idea to Thomas Edison. He doesn’t want new inventions unless they’re his own. He fights tooth and nail to keep his monopoly over moving pictures by licensing his cameras and projectors and banning the competition. His Motion Picture Patents Company has U.S. marshals and his own private detectives investigating patent infringements, and he hauls independent filmmakers into court for the smallest thing. The courts are on his side because he’s made friends in the legislatures by supporting the reformers’ silly ‘recruiting stations of vice’ nonsense against nickelodeons — But worst of all, if you’re not working under his Edison Company license, you can’t buy perforated Eastman Kodak film stock, which means that you can’t take quality pictures. And frankly, that is the reason I don’t mind working with Preston Whiteway on Picture World. Edison can’t touch me. Topical films occupy a separate universe, and Preston is too rich to be intimidated.”

“And too unpleasant,” said Bell. “Who should Clyde go to instead?”

“There’s the rub.” Again, she answered carefully. “He has little choice. Edison will be the only market Lynds can sell to — unless he’s willing to risk joining up with an independent who could be crushed any moment by the Trust. You know, maybe you should invest in it. Put some of your grandfather’s fortune to good use.”

“Grandfather Ebenezer told me on his deathbed that a man who acts as his own banker has a fool for a client.”

“I’ve heard that said by lawyers.”

“I mentioned as much, and Grandfather gasped, ‘Lawyers stole that expression from bankers.’ His dying words: ‘Spend all you like on wine, women, and song, but swear to me you won’t invest it.’ So I’ll leave investing in Talking Pictures to the professionals. But I have an idea about getting Joe Van Dorn to waive the agency’s protection fee in exchange for Clyde sharing a piece of his profits.”

“Where is Clyde now?”

“He’s safe. Archie’s with him.”

Marion frowned. “Lillian told me that Archie is still not entirely well.”

“Archie promised to shoot first and avoid fisticuffs.”

“But is he well? Lillian says he still drifts off to sleep sometimes.”

Bell nodded. “It happened last week in Nice. But he snapped out of it. The fact is it’s important to Archie that he pull his own weight. I have to honor that,” he added evenly. “Whether I like it or not.” A warm smile softened his no-nonsense expression. “Which leaves me with time on my hands until we join Captain Turner for dinner tonight. Is there anything you would like to do on our last day at sea?”

Marion stretched across the bed and lifted the receiver from the switch hook of a white telephone affixed to the paneling. “If you would like to shed your scratchy outdoorsy tweeds, you’ll find in that closet a silk dressing gown that I bought for you at Selfridges— Oh, yes, good morning, steward. We would like our breakfast in bed, please— They’re asking what we want.”

“Honeymoon specials.”

That night, their last night at sea, Isaac and Marion and Lillian Hennessy Abbott ate at the Captain’s table in the First Class dining saloon. Archibald Angell Abbott IV sent his regrets. He was busy babysitting Clyde Lynds.

12

Clyde Lynds watched Archie Abbott drift toward sleep, start awake, then drift again.

Isaac Bell’s redheaded pal would be a goner in ten more minutes, he predicted, and indeed in eight he was fast asleep, sitting up in the chair squeezed into a corner of Clyde’s cabin. Having noticed Archie’s condition, Clyde had prepared for this opportunity by visiting the purser’s office to remove some money from the wallets he and the Professor had left in the safe.

He slipped quietly out the door and signaled a deck steward he had primed to wait, touching a finger to his lips to ensure silence. The steward hurried off and returned quickly with two mates, bigger men then he. They padded quietly along the corridor, their shoes making no sound on the rubber tiles. All three were grinning like men who were about to earn enormous tips for very little effort.

“Ready?”

“Ready, sir.”

“I don’t expect trouble, but just in case.”

“Don’t you worry, sir,” all three assured him.

“If trouble they want, trouble they’ll have.”

“Bet yer sweet life.”

He knew this was crazy. But he had to get a look at the machine to be sure it was O.K. It was a move like this that got the poor Professor the ax, which was why he was paying good money to husky stewards to make sure it didn’t happen to him.

“You know the way?”

“Follow us, sir.”

“Where you headed, Clyde?”

Clyde Lynds whirled around to discover a wide-awake, hard-eyed Archie Abbott in the doorway behind him. The stewards rushed to his rescue, then thought better of it.

“Whoa, Emma!”

Archie held a pistol tucked tight to his torso. “Take it easy, boys. Where are you headed, Clyde?”

Clyde Lynds explained that he had hired the stewards to escort him safely to the baggage hold so he could see his machine. “I just have to make sure it’s O.K., Mr. Abbott. Can you understand? It’s really important.”

Archie took a close look at Clyde’s “protection squad.” Second Class stewards were a tougher lot than he’d seen in First. And one bruiser looked like he’d stepped into the prize ring, though not recently.

“All right.” He pocketed his pistol. “I’m rear guard. Go ahead, gents. Lead the way.”

They went quickly along the corridor and down companionways, Clyde close behind the stewards and Archie lagging behind Clyde, breathing hard and thinking to himself, I could be dining with my wife instead of herding this motley crew into the bowels of an ocean liner.

Both the swindler and his guard were fast asleep under blankets. Neither stirred when Archie, Lynds, and the stewards crowded into the baggage room. Archie smelled something sharp and acrid that he hadn’t noticed on his last visit. Clyde smelled it, too. He stopped abruptly in front of the row of wooden crates from which the smell emanated.

“I smell tar,” said Archie.

“Could be the wine went bad,” said a steward and laughed, “Why don’t we sample some, see if it’s all right?”

Clyde did not laugh, Archie noticed. The young man wet his lips and looked around nervously.

“What’s the matter, Clyde?”

“Uhhmm.”

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Do you smell something sharp?” Clyde asked.

“Yes, I just said that. So do they. What’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” Clyde answered, slowly, though Archie bet that he did. He laid a tentative hand on one of the crates, bent over it, and sniffed the wood. When he straightened up, Archie thought that he looked terrified.

“Mr. Abbott, we’d better open all the doors and hatches in this baggage room. Immediately — all you men! Open everything. Now!”

The stewards looked about, uncomprehending.

Archie said, “What is going on, Clyde?”

“Unless I’m mistaken,” said Clyde, “these crates contain raw celluloid film stock. Movie film. The tar smell indicates that it’s old and decomposing.”

“So what?”

“It breaks down chemically into a volatile nitrate gas. It will explode.”

“How do you know?”

“I’m a scientist! I experiment all the time with celluloid film. It’s manufactured by dissolving nitrocellulose in camphor and alcohol.”

“Guncotton,” said Archie, as the penny finally dropped. “Highly flammable.”

“The gas generated by the breakdown will do more than burn. First it will explode. Then the film will burn. We have to vent the gas before something detonates it.”

“Open everything!” Archie ordered the stewards. “Do it now. Open every door.”

They ran to obey.

Clyde Lynds looked up at a ten-by-ten square opening in the ceiling. “The cargo hatch!”

“What are you doing?” said Archie.

Lynds scrambled onto a crate, reached up, and pulled himself onto the bottom rungs of a ladder that rose into the darkness overhead. “The cargo hatch,” he called down. “If I can open it, the shaft will suck the gas out like a chimney.”

Many decks higher and three hundred feet aft in the First Class dining saloon, Marion said, “Captain, I can’t help but notice that eight of the twelve seats at your table are empty. Surely it can’t be for lack of guests who want to dine with you. This is a splendid dinner, and you are a charming host.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Bell,” Turner replied, studiously ignoring the titans of industry, the London aristocrats, and the American millionaires at nearby tables who were attempting to catch his eye. “I will carry your sweet compliment to my grave. But I only dine with passengers when I feel like it, which is not often. They tend to be a bunch of bloomin’ monkeys, present company excepted.”

“Doesn’t the line object? Isn’t the captain supposed to woo wealthy passengers?”

“Cunard have taken notice of a curious fact,” the captain answered. “The more I insult First Class passengers, the more First Class passengers wish to sail in my ship. It was the same way on the Lusitania, my previous command. For some reason the wealthy, particularly the newly wealthy, court abuse. As you know”—Turner lowered his voice and beckoned them closer, conspiratorially—“the White Star Line will soon launch Olympic and Titanic. Neither will ever match Mauretania’s speed, of course, but they will be bigger, and there’s always the appeal of novelty, so competition will be hotter than ever. With that in mind, I’ve suggested to the chairman that I drive up ticket sales by treating passengers in First Class to old-fashioned Royal Navy floggings.”

Isaac Bell and Marion burst out laughing.

“Haven’t heard back from him yet,” Captain Turner chortled. “Presumably he’s debating it with his directors.”

Their laughter was abruptly quelled by a hard thump that rattled the silverware. Crystal rang musically. Five hundred people in the enormous dining saloon fell silent.

Bell thought it felt as if something heavy had smashed the carpeted deck under their feet. Either another vessel had struck the ship, or somewhere in the eight-hundred-and-ninety-foot hull something had exploded with terrific force. Then came the most frightening cry heard at sea.

“Fire!”