The Thief (13 page)

“F
IRE!
F
IRE IN THE FORWARD BAGGAGE ROOM!”

Isaac Bell raced down the grand staircase.

Captain Turner was running up the stairs, heading for the bridge, shouting orders to turn the
Mauretania
away from the wind to keep it from fanning the flames.

Bell ran to the fire. His prisoner was trapped in the baggage room in the bow. He had to get the man and his PS guard to safety.

The bugle shrieked the alarm.
Fight fire! Fight fire!

Passengers milled. Stewards tried to calm them but had no answers to their frightened questions. The ship heeled, leaning away from a sharp turn that put her stern to the weather. The decks lurched. Ship’s officers bellowed into megaphones: “Passengers to the boat deck. All passengers to the boat deck.”

The stewards began pleading with people to put on their life vests.

A woman screamed.

I
SAAC
B
ELL SMELLED SMOKE
before he got close enough to see the fire. It was a bitter chemical blend of coal tar and gunpowder oddly layered with sweet whiffs of brandy. Suddenly he saw flames explode from the end of a corridor. It was as strikingly bright a fire as he had ever seen, with an intense white-orange color. He felt the heat fifty feet away.

He saw a band of stewards whose uniforms had been burnt to smoldering rags stagger from a cross-corridor dragging a hose. Bell ran to help them charge the flames. They were led by a tall man singed half bald. His green eyes blazed in a face black with soot.

“Archie?”

“How was dinner?” asked Archie, striding into the burning baggage room, spewing steam from the hose.

“You O.K.?”

“Tip-top. Most of the explosion went up the hatch, and our PS boy did himself proud getting Block out.”

“What’s burning?”

“Nitrate film stock. Clyde says it feeds on its own oxygen.”

Bell asked, “Any more hoses?”

“This is steam. There’s a saltwater hose in the companionway.”

Bell unreeled it and followed Archie into the burning room. “Where’s Clyde?”

“He went up the hatchway ladder to vent the fumes.”

Bell looked at the square opening in the ceiling. The bitter, undoubtedly poisonous smoke was billowing up it. “Is he all right?”

“I don’t know. It blew soon after he left. But it looks to me like he got the hatch open. Unless it blew open.”

Three dozen seaman streamed down from their sleeping berths directly above the fire. Stewards joined them, mobbing the forward baggage room with long hoses, directing steam and salt water into the furious orange maw of poisonous smoke and intense heat that threatened the ship. The water tended to spread the burning film, scattering it. The steam was better at smothering it. As they fought to confine the fire to the baggage room, paint on surrounding bulkheads was bubbling from the heat, all three automobiles exploded, and the brandy, a dining saloon steward shouted, threatened to “turn the bloomin’ ship into
Maury flambé
.”

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

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

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

L
ATE THAT NIGHT,
I
SAAC
B
ELL
interviewed Archie Abbott, Clyde Lynds, the
Mauretania
’s chief purser, and finally the bosun’s mate, who had operated the winch that had loaded cargo and luggage down the forward hatch the day they sailed from Liverpool. He reported privately to Captain Turner on the bridge.

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

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

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

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

C
APTAIN
T
URNER AGREED WITH
the stokers that Clyde Lynds was a hero. In a brisk early-morning ceremony on the flying bridge—while down on the forepeak seamen in a paint party were touching up the blackened hatchway—he pinned a medal on Clyde’s chest. “For quick thinking and brave action that prevented a catastrophic explosion. I’ll lend you one of mine for the moment until the line strikes a proper one for you.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Wasn’t it important?” Bell asked.

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

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

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

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

“Then why were you smiling?”

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

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

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

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

H
ERMANN
W
AGNER FILLED OUT
a marconigram blank and gave it to an assistant purser.

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

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

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

“No, thank you. Everything is planned.”