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

don’t eat, don’t sleep, and don’t demand a salary. It would be like a frying pan factory that doesn’t need to pay workmen because machines make frying pans automatically.”

Van Dorn, as hard-nosed and tightfisted a businessman as Bell had ever met, smiled at the thought of not having to pay labor. “You are very persuasive, Isaac. When you put it that way, you make me think he’s got something worth protecting.”

The savvy founder of the detective agency stroked his chin, ruminated silently, and fiddled absently with his candlestick telephone and his speaking tube. “But Professor Beiderbecke is dead. Can Clyde Lynds reproduce Talking Pictures without him?”

“Beiderbecke claimed Clyde is smart as a whip. The German Army believes he can. So do the German consuls.”

“I find it hard to believe the kaiser’s army is fighting this hard just for the money.”

“I agree,” said Bell. “They’re not businessmen. They’re soldiers. There’s something more to this.”

Van Dorn nodded vigorously. “Find out what,” he ordered. “Continue to watch developments at the New York consulate. I’ll nose around here in Washington.”

“Why not invite the German ambassador to lunch at the Cosmos Club?”

“I’ll do it tomorrow. But don’t get your hopes up. His Excellency is not likely to be informed of such a vicious operation, particularly if it’s a military scheme.”

“Will you give Art a free hand in Berlin?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” Van Dorn growled, reluctantly.

“I’d rather he didn’t waste time clearing each payment through you.”

Van Dorn grimaced. “O.K., dammit. You’re authorized to spend what you need.”

“Don’t worry. Art won’t squander a penny.”

“Just remember that while you’re trying to figure out what the Germans are up to, our valuable young genius is already in their crosshairs. Keep him safe— Where is he right now?”

“Lipsher’s got him.”

“Who’s Lipsher?”

“The PS boy who guarded Block on the ship. Turned out to be a good man in a pinch.” Bell stood up. “If you will clear it with Dagget’s managing director, I’ll continue under my insurance executive guise and spread the word that Dagget, Staples and Hitchcock is investing in Lynds’s invention. That such a staid old firm is interested ought to burnish its appeal.”

“Dagget, Staples and Hitchcock consorting with moving picture people?” Van Dorn laughed. “The founders will be spinning in their graves. But you’re right. Keep us out of it as long as you can. Best to not show our hand till we know who’s across the table.”

“And what he wants,” said Isaac Bell, grabbing his hat and charging out the door.

“Where you headed?”

“Union Station. I’m meeting Clyde in West Orange, New Jersey.”

“Thomas Edison’s laboratory? Hang on to the fillings in your teeth.”

ISAAC BELL WAS SURPRISED TWICE UPON ARriving at the red brick building that housed Thomas Edison’s laboratory in West Orange, New Jersey. It had never occurred to him how young Edison’s scientists would be. The laboratories were teeming with nattily dressed bright young fellows like Clyde Lynds. Nor had he expected Edison, with his reputation for hard bargaining, to have such a warm smile. It widened his full mouth engagingly and lighted his deep-set eyes.

Bell was not surprised, when a functionary led them into a soundproof phonograph-cylinder recording room, by the sight of the great man trying to hear music by biting down on the piano lid. Edison’s deafness was public knowledge. He stood up from the piano, dismissed the man playing it with a pleasant nod, and said in a loud but friendly voice, “Never go deaf. You’ll hate it. You must be Mr. Bell.”

Bell shook the strong hand Edison extended.

“And you, young fellow, must be Mr. Lynds, about whom Mr. Bell has telegraphed so glowingly. Shrewd move with the telegraph, Mr. Bell. I am hopeless on the telephone. All right, come in, sit down. Tell me what you’ve brought me.”

Clyde had prepared a sketchbook with drawings and titles written out in block letters. Thomas nodded appreciatively. “This even beats Mr. Bell’s telegram.” He flipped through the pages. “‘Pictures that talk’? Everyone brings me pictures that talk. Trouble is, none of them work.”

Clyde Lynds faced the inventor and spoke loudly and slowly, moving his lips to exaggerate each word. “This. One. Works.”

“You don’t say? O.K., show me. Where is it?”

Lynds tapped the sketch pad and then tapped his head. “In here.”

“What was that?”

Bell watched with admiration as Clyde turned a page of his pad to display the words he had written out ahead of time: The first machine was lost. I need a laboratory, machine shops, and money to build a new one.

“What do you mean ‘lost’?” Edison shouted.

Clyde flipped to the next page, on which he had written In a fire, and Isaac Bell’s admiration went up a notch. The penniless young scientist was choreographing his conversation with the richest, most famous inventor in the world.

Edison glanced at Bell. Whatever the expression in his eyes, it was lost in the shadow of his brow, but Bell sensed a shift in his attitude. “Mr. Bell,” he said briskly, suddenly all business, “I suspect that the purely scientific conversation we are about to embark on will bore you. I’ve arranged a tour of my laboratories for your enjoyment while Mr. Lynds and I pursue what makes his talking pictures different from all the others.”

“Thoughtful of you,” said Bell, rising to his feet. “I’m curious to see your operation.” Clearly, Edison wanted to get rid of him. But just as clearly, Bell concluded, Clyde could take care of himself. Besides, they had made a pact that Clyde would sign no papers without Van Dorn attorneys reading them first.

The functionary sprang into the room as if he had had his ear pressed to the door, and Isaac Bell allowed him to walk him through a standard canned tour of the Edison laboratory. He saw the chemical plant, machine shops, laboratories. At the storeroom he watched a clerk dispense a length of manatee skin, which would be fashioned into belt drives, his guide told him. From a gallery Bell could look down at Mr.