The Wrecker by Clive Cussler (read the beginning after the end novel TXT) 📗

“I like gunfights,” Bell bantered back. “They focus the mind. Though in this case we may be talking about sword fights.”

“Sword fights?”

“It’s very strange. He killed Wish and another man with what appears to be some kind of sword. The question is: how does he get the drop on a man with a gun? You can’t hide a sword.”

“What about a sword cane? Plenty of men in San Francisco carry sword canes for protection.”

“But just unsheathing it, drawing the blade out of the cane, would give a man with a gun all the time he needed to shoot first.”

“Well, if he comes after you with a sword, he’ll be sorry. You fenced for Yale.”

Bell shook his head with a smile. “Fenced, not dueled. There’s a big difference between sport and combat. I recall my coach, who had been a duelist, explaining that the fencing mask hides your opponent’s eyes. As he put it, the first time you fight a duel, you are shocked to meet the cold gaze of a man who intends to kill you.”

“Were you?”

“Was I what?”

“Shocked.” She smiled. “Don’t pretend to me you’ve never fought a duel.”

Bell smiled back. “Only once. We were both very young. And the sight of spurting red blood soon convinced us that we didn’t really want to kill each other. In fact, we’re still friends.”

“If you’re looking for a duelist, there can’t be too many of them left in this day and age.”

“Likely, a European,” mused Bell. “Italian or French.”

“Or German. With one of those horrible Heidelberg scars on his cheek. Didn’t Mark Twain write that they pulled the surgeon’s stitches apart and poured wine in their wounds to make the scars even uglier?”

“Probably not a German,” said Bell. “They’re known for the plunging blow. The thrust that killed Wish and the other fellow was more in the style of an Italian or a Frenchman.”

“Or the student of?” Marion suggested. “An American who went to school in Europe. There are plenty of anarchists in France and Italy. Maybe that’s where he became one.”

“I still don’t know how he takes a man with a gun by surprise.” He demonstrated with a gesture. “In the time it takes to draw a sword, you can step in and punch him in the nose.”

Marion reached across the teacups and took Bell’s hand. “To tell the truth, I would be delighted if a bloody nose is the most I have to worry about.”

“At this point, I would love a bloody nose, or even a flesh wound or two.”

“Whatever for?”

“You remember Weber and Fields?”

“The funny old gents.” Wally Kisley and Mack Fulton had taken her to dinner while passing through San Francisco recently and kept her laughing all evening.

“Wally and Mack always say, ‘Bloody noses are a sure sign of progress. You know you’re close when your quarry pokes you in the snoot.’ Right now, I could use a good poke in the snoot.” The comment brought a smile to their faces.

Two women, fashionably dressed in the latest hats and gowns, entered the hotel lobby and crossed it in a flourish of feathers and silk. The younger was so striking that many of the lowered newspapers remained on their owners’ laps.

Marion said, “What a beautiful girl!”

Bell had already seen her in a mirror.

“The girl wearing pale blue,” said Marion.

“She is Osgood Hennessy’s daughter, Lillian,” said Bell, wondering if it was coincidence that had brought Lillian to the St. Francis while he was here, and suspecting it was not.

“Do you know her?”

“I met her last week aboard Hennessy’s special. She’s his private secretary.”

“What is she like?”

Bell smiled. “She has pretensions to being a seductress. Flashes her eyes like that French actress.”

“Anna Held.”

“She is intelligent, though, and savvy about business. She’s very young, spoiled by her adoring father, and, I suspect, very innocent when it comes to matters of the heart. The dark-haired woman with her used to be her tutor. Now she’s Hennessy’s mistress.”

“Do you want to go over and say hello?”

“Not when I have only minutes left to spend with you.”

Marion returned a pleased grin. “I am flattered. She is young, unspeakably beautiful, and presumably very rich.”

“You are unspeakably beautiful, and when you marry me you will be very rich, too.”

“But I’m not an heiress.”

“I’ve known my fill of heiresses, thank you very much, since we were taught the Boston Waltz in dancing school,” he said, grinning back. “It’s a slow waltz with a long glide. We can dance it at our wedding, if you like.”

“Oh, Isaac, are you sure you want to marry me?”

“I am sure.”

“Most people would call me an old maid. And they would say that a man your age should marry a girl her age.”

“I’ve never done what I ‘should’ do. Why should I start now when I’ve finally met the girl of my dreams? And made a friend for life?”

“But what will your family think of me? I have no money. They’ll think I’m a gold digger.”

“They will think I am the luckiest man in America.” Isaac smiled. But then he added, soberly, “Any who don’t can go straight to hell. Shall we set a date?”

“Isaac . . . I have to talk to you.”

“What is it? Is something the matter?”

“I am deeply in love with you. I hope you know that.”

“You show me in every way.”

“And I want ever so much to marry you. But I wonder if we could wait a little while.”

“Why?”

“I’ve been offered an exciting job, and it is something I would like to try very much.”

“What sort of job?”

“Well . . . you know who Preston Whiteway is, of course?”

“Of course. Preston Whiteway is a yellow journalist who inherited three of California’s leading newspapers, including the San Francisco Inquirer.” He gave her a curious smile. “The newspaper you happen to work for ... He’s said to be quite handsome and a celebrated ‘man-about-town,’ and he flaunts his wealth, which he earns publishing sensationalist headlines. He’s also sunk his hooks into national politics by using