The Thief by Clive Cussler (english novels to read .txt) 📗

“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.

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