the Spy (2010)

by Cussler, Clive

  This unusually warm weekend for early spring had brought walkers to the park. Striding purposefully in his tweed jacket, knickers, and boots, Lakewood passed an old lady on her constitutional, exchanged hearty Good morning!s with several hikers, and observed, longingly, a couple holding hands.

  Lakewood was quite good-looking, sturdily built, with a ready smile, but working six and seven days a week-often bunking on a cot at the lab-made it hard to meet girls. And for some reason, the nieces and daughters that the older engineers' wives marched in to meet him were never that appealing. It usually didn't bother him. He was too busy to be lonely, but now and then when he saw a young couple he thought, One day I'll get lucky, too.

  He hiked deeper into the park until he found himself alone on a narrow path through dense forest. When he saw movement ahead, he was disappointed because he was hoping to have the cliff to himself and concentrate on climbing in peace and quiet.

  The person ahead stopped and sat on a fallen log. When he drew closer, he saw it was a girl-and a petite and very pretty girl at that-dressed for climbing in trousers and lace-up boots like his. Red hair spilled from her brimmed hat. As she turned her head abruptly toward him, her hair flashed in the sunlight, bright as a shell burst.

  She looked Irish, with paper-white skin, a small, upturned nose, a jaunty smile, and flashing blue eyes, and he suddenly remembered meeting her before . . . Last summer . . . What was her name? Let's see, where had they met . . . Yes! The company picnic, hosted by Captain Lowell Falconer, the Spanish-American War hero to whom Lakewood reported his range-finder developments.

  What was her name?

  He was close enough to wave and say hello now. She was watching him, with her jaunty smile, and her eyes were lighting up with recognition. Though she looked as puzzled as he felt.

  Fancy meeting you here, she called, tentatively.

  Hello, said Lakewood.

  Was last time at the shore?

  Fire Island, said Lakewood. Captain Falconer's clambake.

  Of course, she said, sounding relieved. I knew I knew you from somewhere.

  Lakewood searched his memory, goading himself: Lakewood! If you can land a 12-inch, five-hundred-pound shell on a dreadnought steaming at sixteen knots from a ship rolling in ten-foot seas, you ought to be able to remember the name of this Gibson Girl lovely who is smiling at you.

  Miss Dee, he said, snapping his fingers. Katherine Dee. And then, because his mother had raised him properly, Lakewood doffed his hat and extended his hand and said, Grover Lakewood. How very nice to see you again.

  When her smile spread into one of delighted recognition, the sunlight of her brilliant hair seemed to migrate into her eyes. Lakewood thought he had died and gone to Heaven. What a wonderful coincidence! she said. What are you doing here?

  Climbing, said Lakewood. Climbing the rocks.

  She stared in what appeared to be disbelief. Now, that is a coincidence.

  How do you mean?

  Well, that's why I'm here. There's a cliff up that path that I'm going to climb. She cocked an eyebrow that was so pale as to be almost invisible. Did you follow me here?

  What? Lakewood flushed and began to stammer. No, I--

  Katherine Dee laughed. I'm teasing you. I didn't mean you followed me. How would you even have known where to find me? No, it's a perfect coincidence. Again she cocked her head. But not really . . . Do you remember when we talked at the clambake?

  Lakewood nodded. They hadn't talked as much as he would have liked to. She had seemed to know everybody on the captain's yacht and had flitted from one person to another, chatting up a storm. But he remembered. We decided we both liked to be out of doors.

  Even though I have to wear a hat for the sun because my skin is so pale.

  More pale skin had been visible that summery day. Lakewood remembered round, firm arms bared almost to her shoulders, her shapely neck, her ankles.

  Shall we? she asked.

  What?

  Climb the rocks.

  Yes! Yes. Yes, let's.

  They started along the path, brushing shoulders where it narrowed. Every time they touched, he felt an electric shock, and he was thoroughly smitten by the time she asked, Do you still work for the captain?

  Oh, yes.

  I seem to recall that you told me something about cannons.

  They call them guns in the Navy. Not cannons.

  Really? I didn't know there was a difference. You said they.' Aren't you in the Navy?

  No, I work in a civilian position. But I report to Captain Falconer.

  He seemed like a very nice man.

  Lakewood smiled. Nice' is not the first word that comes to mind for Captain Falconer. Driven, demanding, and daunting came closer to the mark.

  Someone told me he was inspiring.

  That, he is.

  She said, I'm trying to remember who said that. He was very handsome, and older than you, I think.

  Lakewood felt a hot stab of jealousy. Katherine Dee was talking about Ron Wheeler, the star of the Naval Torpedo Station at Newport who all the girls fell over. Most of them are older than me, he answered, hoping to get off the subject of the handsome Wheeler.

  Katherine put him at ease with a heartwarming smile. Well, whoever he was, I remember that he called you the boy genius.'

  Lakewood laughed.

  Why do you laugh? Captain Falconer said it, too, and he was a hero in the Spanish-American War. Are you a Boy Genius?

  No! I just started young, is all. It's such a new field. I got in at the beginning.

  How could guns be new? Guns have been around forever. Lakewood stopped walking and turned to face her. That is very interesting. But, no, guns have not been around forever. Not like they are now. Rifled guns can fire tremendous ranges no one ever imagined before. Why, just the other day I was aboard a battleship off Sandy Hook and--

  You were on a battleship?

  Oh, sure. I go out on them all the time.

  Really?

  On the Atlantic Firing Range. Just last week the gunnery officer said to me, The new dreadnoughts could hit Yonkers from here.'

  Katherine's pretty eyes grew enormous. Yonkers? I don't know about that. I mean the last time I sailed into New York on the Lusitania it was a clear day, but I couldn't see Yonkers from the ocean.

  The Lusitania? thought Lakewood. Not only is she pretty but she's rich.

  Well, it's hard to see Yonkers, but at sea you can spot a ship that far. The trick is, hitting it. They resumed walking, shoulders bumping on the narrow path, as he told her how the invention of smokeless powder allowed the spotters to see farther because the ship was less shrouded in gun smoke.

  The spotters range with the guns. They judge by the splashes of shot whether they've fallen short or overshot. You've probably read in the newspaper that's the reason for all big-guns ships-all the guns the same caliber-so firing one in fact aims all. She seemed much more interested than he would expect of a pretty girl and listened wide-eyed, pausing repeatedly to stop walking and gaze at him as if mesmerized.

  Lakewood kept talking.

  Nothing secret, he told himself. Nothing about the latest range-finding gyros providing continuous aim to hunt the roll. Nothing about fire control that she couldn't read in the papers. He did boast that he got interested in rock climbing while scrambling up a hundred-foot cage mast the Navy was developing to spot shell splashes at greater distances. But he did not say that the mast builders were experimenting with coiled lightweight steel tubing to make them immune to shell hits. He did not reveal that cage masts were also intended as platforms for the latest range-finding machines. Nor did he mention the hydraulic engines coupled to the gyro for elevating turret guns. And certainly not a word about Hull 44.

  I'm confused, she said with a warm smile. Maybe you can help me understand. A man told me that ocean liners are much bigger than dreadnoughts. He said that Lusitania and Mauritania are 44,000 tons, but the Navy's Michigan will be only 16,000.

  L
iners are floating hotels, Lakewood answered, dismissively. Dreadnoughts are fortresses.

  But the Lusitania and Mauritania steam faster than dreadnoughts. He called them greyhounds.'

  Well, if you think of Lusitania and Mauritania as greyhounds, imagine a dreadnought as a wolf.

  She laughed. Now I understand. And your job is to give it teeth. My job, Lakewood corrected proudly, is to sharpen its teeth. Again she laughed. And touched his arm. Then what is Captain Falconer's job?

  Grover Lakewood considered carefully before he answered. Anyone could read the official truth. Articles were devoted daily to every aspect of the dreadnought race, from the expense to the national glory to gala launchings to flat-footed foreign spies nosing around the Brooklyn Navy Yard claiming to be newspapermen.

  Captain Falconer is the Navy's Special Inspector of Target Practice. He became a gunnery expert after the battle of Santiago. Even though we sank every Spanish ship in Cuba, our guns scored only two percent hits. Captain Falconer vowed to improve that.

  The steeply sloped face of Agar Mountain loomed ahead. Oh, look, said Katherine. We have it all to ourselves. No one's here but us. They stopped at the foot of the cliff. Wasn't that crazy man who killed himself blowing up his piano involved with battleships?

  How did you hear about that? asked Lakewood. The Navy had kept the tragedy out of the papers, admitting only that there had been an explosion at the Gun Factory.

  Everyone in Washington was talking about it, said Katherine.

  Is that where you live?

  I was visiting a friend. Did you know the man?

  Yes, he was a fine man, answered Lakewood, staring up the rocks, surveying a route. In fact, he was on the captain's yacht for the clambake.

  I don't believe I met him.

  It was a darned sad thing . . . Terrible loss.

  Katherine Dee turned out to be a strong climber. Lakewood could barely keep up. He was new to the sport, and noticed that her fingers were so strong that she would raise her entire weight by the grip of one hand. When she did, she was able to swing her body to reach high for the next grip.

  You climb like a monkey.

  That's not a very nice compliment. She pretended to pout as she waited for him to catch up with her. Who wants to look like a monkey?

  Lakewood figured he better save his breath. When they were eighty feet off the ground and the tops of the trees looked like feathers far below, she suddenly pulled farther ahead of him.

  Say, where'd you learn to climb like that?

  The nuns at my convent school took us climbing on the Matterhorn.

  At that moment, Grover Lakewood's hands were spread wide, gripping crevices to either side, as he felt for his next toehold. Katherine Dee had reached a position fifteen feet directly above him. She smiled.

  Oh, Mr. Lakewood?

  He craned his neck to see her. It looked like she was holding a giant turtle in her strong white hands. Except it couldn't be a turtle this early in the year. It was a large rock.

  Careful with that, he called.

  Too late.

  It slipped from her hands. No it didn't! She opened her hands.

  Chapter 6

  LANGNER'S SUICIDE NOTE KEPT TICKLING THE BACK OF Isaac Bell's mind.

  He used his pass from the Navy Secretary to reenter the Gun Factory, opened the Polhem padlock on the design-loft door again, and searched Langner's desk. A stack of special hand-laid stock that Langner apparently reserved for important correspondence matched the paper on which the suicide note was written. Beside it was a Waterman fountain pen.

  Bell pocketed the pen, and stopped at the chemist's laboratory where Van Dorn maintained an account. Then he took a streetcar up Capitol Hill to Lincoln Park, a neighborhood that was flourishing as Washingtonians moved up the Hill from the congested swampy areas around the Potomac River, which turned foul in the summer heat.

  Bell found the Langner home directly across the street from the park. It was a two-story brick row house with green shutters and a wrought-iron fence around a small front yard. The Van Dorn auditor investigating Arthur Langner's financial affairs had uncovered no evidence of a private income. Langner would have had to purchase this new house on his Gun Factory salary, which, the auditor had noted, equaled that of top managers in private industry.

  The house looked newly built-as did all but a handful of old wooden structures on the side streets-and boasted tall windows. The brickwork was typically ornate, flaring skyward to an elaborate dentated cornice. But inside, Bell noted in a glance, the house was anything but typical. It was decorated in a spare, modern manner, with built-in cabinets and bookshelves, electric lamps, and ceiling fans. The furniture was up-to-date, too, and very expensive-airy yet strong pieces made by the Glaswegian Charles Rennie Mackintosh. Where, Bell had to ask, did Langner get the money to pay for Mackintosh furniture?

  Dorothy was no longer dressed in black but in a silvery gray color that complemented her eyes and her raven hair. A man trailed her into the foyer. She introduced him as My friend Ted Whitmark.

  Bell pegged Whitmark as a hail-fellow-well-met salesman sort. He looked the picture of success, with a bright smile on his handsome face, an expensive suit of clothes, and a crimson necktie speckled with Harvard College's insignia.

  More than a friend, I'd say, Whitmark boomed as he shook Bell's hand with a hearty grip. Closer to a fiancE, if you get my drift, he added, tightening his grip emphatically.

  Congratulations, said Bell, squeezing back.

  Whitmark let go with an easy smile, and joked, That's some shake. What do you do in your spare time, shoe horses?

  Would you excuse us for a moment, Mr. Whitmark? Bell asked. Miss Langner, Mr. Van Dorn asked me to have a word with you.

  We have no secrets here, said Whitmark. At least, none that are any business of a detective.

  That's all right, Ted, said Dorothy, laying a hand on his arm and giving him a kind smile. There's gin in the kitchen. Why not mix us cocktails while Mr. Bell reports?

  Ted Whitmark didn't like it but he had no choice but to exit, which he did with a grave Don't be keeping her too long, Bell. The poor girl is still recovering from the shock of her father's death.

  This will just take a minute, Bell assured him.

  Dorothy slid the pocket doors shut. Thank you. Ted gets flatteringly jealous.

  I imagine, said Bell, he has many good qualities to have captured your hand.

  She looked Bell straight in the face. I am not rushing into anything, she informed him in what the tall detective could not help but interpret as a blunt and flattering statement of interest from a very appealing woman.

  What line is Ted in? Bell asked, diplomatically changing the subject.

  Ted sells foodstuffs to the Navy. In fact, he's leaving soon for San Francisco to get ready to provision the Great White Fleet when it arrives. Are you married, Mr. Bell?

  I am engaged.

  An unreadable smile danced across her beautiful lips. Pity.

  To be perfectly honest, said Bell, it is not a pity. I am a very lucky man.

  Perfect honesty is a fine quality in a man. Are you visiting today for more important reasons than to not flirt with me?

  Bell took out the fountain pen. Do you recognize this?

  Her face clouded. Of course. That's my father's pen. I gave it to him for his birthday.

  Bell handed it to her. You may as well hold on to it, then. I took it from his desk.

  Why?

  To confirm that he had used it to write his letter.

  The so-called suicide letter? Anyone could have written that.

  Not quite anyone. Either your father or a skillful forger.

  You know my position on that. It is not possible that he killed himself.

  I will keep looking.

  What about the paper the letter was written on?

  It was his.

  I see . . . And the ink! she said, suddenly eager. How do we know it was written with the same ink as i
n his pen? Perhaps it wasn't this pen. I bought it in a stationer's shop. The Waterman Company must sell thousands.

  I've have already given samples of the ink in this pen and on the letter to a chemistry laboratory to ascertain whether the ink is different.

  Thank you, she said, her face falling. It's not likely, is it?

  I'm afraid not, Dorothy.

  But if it is his ink, it still doesn't prove he wrote that letter.

  Not beyond all doubt, Bell agreed. But I must tell you frankly that while each of these facts must be investigated, they are not likely to give us a definitive answer.

  What will? she asked. She seemed suddenly bewildered. Tears glinted in her eyes.

  Isaac Bell was touched by her suffering and confusion. He took her hands in his. Whatever it is, if it exists, we will find it.

  The Van Dorns never give up? she asked with a brave smile.

  Never, Bell promised, although in his heart he had less and less hope that he could lay her pain to rest.

  She clung to his hands. When she finally let them go, she stepped closer and kissed his cheek. Thank you. That's all I can ask.

  I'll keep in touch, said Bell.

  Would you stay for a cocktail?

  I'm afraid I can't, thank you. I'm expected in New York. As she walked him to the door, Bell glanced into the dining room and remarked, That is a splendid table. Is it a Mackintosh? It sure is, she answered proudly. Father used to say if buying a piece of art that he could not afford meant eating beans for supper, he would eat beans for supper.

  Bell had to wonder if Langner had gotten tired of beans and accepted a bribe from a steel mill. As he stepped through the gate he looked back. Dorothy was standing on the step, looking for all the world, he thought, like a fairy princess locked in a tower.

  THE B & O RAILROAD'S ROYAL LIMITED was the fastest and most luxurious train from Washington to New York. As night darkened the lead crystal windows, Isaac Bell used the quiet journey to review the hunt for the Frye Boys. The state line-jumping bank robbers that Van Dorn detectives had been tracking through Illinois, Indiana, and Ohio had vanished somewhere in eastern Pennsylvania. As had Detective John Scully.