The Cutthroat by Clive Cussler (popular books to read txt) 📗

free hand, using her as a shield by wrapping his arm around her body and pulling her close to his chest. Bell’s eyes went wild.

“You sewer scum, don’t even think of hurting her,” he roared like a lion that took a bullet to save his mate.

“I’m leaving,” said the Ripper. “And your talented wife is coming with me.”

“Take your bloody hands off her.”

“Maybe I will and maybe I won’t,” the Ripper said with hideous malignity.

The Ripper again felt the force of the wind on his back and began to advance. Bell could do nothing but retreat, knowing he could not put Marion in any worse danger. But while the two men were distracted with each other, Marion lifted her foot off the ground and stomped with all her strength on the Ripper’s toes. In almost the same instant, she rammed both her elbows into his ribs and twisted free of his grasp. Bell dropped his sword and took hold of Marion, as they watched Barrett struggle. The cameraman, Davidson, who had long since stopped filming, had followed Marion as she had closed the gap with the duelists.

Stunned and thrown off balance, the Ripper stumbled. His balance and sense of direction lost for a brief instant, he backed away from Bell and closer to the wind machine. The propeller caught the Ripper’s cape, his hand was thrown up and his sword swallowed by the blade as it pulled him into the wind machine. His cape and shirt ripped from him as he was thrown forward. Multiple crescents carved deeply in his back. His saber lost, the Ripper, wild-eyed, in pain and fear, turned and ran toward the tunnel opening past the wind machine.

Davidson took Marion by the hand. Bell leapt forward, following the Ripper out of the tunnel. Just as Bell rounded the outside of the propeller, he tackled the Ripper and took him down. The Ripper twisted out from under Bell and, as Bell recovered, the Ripper kicked out at him. Bell grabbed his boot and twisted the Ripper. Bell was able to stand quickly and square off with Barrett. The force of the air being pulled into the blades made it difficult to keep their balance, but Bell got off three jabs to Barrett’s wounded chest and then an upper cut that sent the Ripper reeling backwards. The wind machine’s turbulent slipstream that sucked into the tunnel was too much. Generated by the tremendous torque of the huge propeller, it seized Jack the Ripper. He grabbed on to the engine and screamed in agony when the red-hot aluminum exhaust manifold seared his hands.

With nothing to hold on to, he shrieked in despair.

In less than two seconds, Jack the Ripper disappeared before Isaac Bell’s eyes. Chunks of flesh and bone flew into the rear of the tunnel as a fine mist of blood sprayed the walls.

Marion, unable to see who had been cut to pieces, in panic started to run to the tunnel opening. Davidson reached her and restrained her. Desperate, she lamented in a pitched wail, “Isaac!”

Alone, with the roar of the engine and the horror of the moment, Bell threw the switch. As the propeller blades started to slow, Isaac made his way around the wind machine and saw Marion running toward him, tears flooding her cheeks. He reached out and held her tight in his arms. She was trembling, shivering, as if frozen in a wintry wind.

“I thought you’d died!”

Bell kissed her lightly on the forehead, and said softly, “Not yet. Not for another fifty years.”

EPILOGUE

NEW YORK, 1955

“Grandma!” came a howl from the next room of a sprawling apartment on Central Park West. “Your name’s on TV.”

“Just a minute, dear. Grandpa is holding me.”

“That’s putting it mildly,” said Isaac Bell, tightening his grip when Marion attempted, halfheartedly, to slip off his lap.

“Grandma!”

They were visiting the New York branch of what had become a large family of private detectives. This bunch descended from dark-eyed offspring of Harry Warren, with dollops of Millses, Dashwoods, and Abbotts.

“I better see what’s happening.”

“I’ll back you up,” said Bell.

In a book-lined room filled with toys and children, the TV was tuned to Channel 9, a local New York station that showed old movies. Film credits were flickering oddly, frozen on the screen.

“Look, Grandma.”

It looked to Bell like the projectionist was on his coffee break. Marion said the film-chain’s pull-down claw had ripped through adjacent sprocket holes. A transparent “fire door” was keeping the hot projector lamp from melting the stuck film, and wasn’t it wonderful they had transferred flammable nitrate film to safety stock.

“Grandma!”

“Marion, what time did you say the Abbotts were coming to pick up all these little urchins?” Bell asked. “They’re taking all of them ice skating in the park, aren’t they?”

“They’ll be here by three.”

“Look, Grandma,” called a persistent voice.

Marion found her glasses and looked at the end credits still shivering in place.

“Oh, it’s Jekyll and Hyde. Did you like it, children?”

“Yeah, it was neat.”

“Yes, it was fun to watch?”

“It wasn’t fun to make,” said Bell.

“Isaac!”

“See, Grandma? It says ‘Marion Morgan Bell.’ That’s you.”

“Why’s your name on the movie, Grandma?”

“Because I made it.”

“You did? It was really scary, Grandma.”

“Really spooky,” added a little boy, who had climbed the back of the chair and was now seated on Bell’s shoulder. Another started climbing the tall detective’s leg.

“Grandma, did you know Grandpa when you made the movie?”

“Look down in that corner. Can you read that?”

The frame was jumping and reading it was difficult.

“‘Special’ is the first word,” she prompted.

“‘Special . . . thanks—to Isaac Bell.’ That’s Grandpa!”

“The one and only,” said Marion Morgan Bell.

“With the scars to prove it.”

“Isaac, what a terrible thing to say.”

“Well, it’s true.”

“Isaac, really,” Marion replied, with a shake of her head.

The little boy clinging to the back of the chair interrupted, “Was there really a