by Darrell Pitt
‘I wonder why you were attacked,’ Scarlet said to Jack. ‘There would seem to be no advantage to it.’
‘We are a force of three,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘Killing one of us diminishes our strength by one third.’ He turned. ‘I want you to both be extremely careful. These are dangerous men. They will stop at nothing to prevent us from finding out about this whip of fire. From now on, we will go everywhere together.’
Jack went to his adjoining cabin. Bertha lurked in her cage next to his bed. She scampered about, regarding him with dark eyes. Jack groaned.
Will the terror never end?
Jack gave her some food and turned out the light—but not before double-checking that the cage door was locked.
The next morning, Mr Doyle accompanied Jack and Scarlet to breakfast. They met with Gabrielle and her uncle to inform Captain Haze of the attack.
Later a message was delivered to every cabin, advising passengers to look out for unusual activity. By lunchtime holiday-makers either walked in groups or did not leave their cabins at all. Fear was written on many faces.
‘They’re worried for their lives,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘There are over seven thousand people on board this ship and one of them tried to kill you.’
The next day passed quietly. The captain sent a man named Pearson to take Jack, Scarlet and Mr Doyle on a tour of the ship. It was a wonderful experience, but the most exciting part was the flat top of the gondola. Here they had to wear harnesses with clips at the waist, linking them to the railing that ran all around the circumference. The view was mind-blowing. Jack felt comfortable at the great height, but he noticed Scarlet had gone pale. ‘We’re quite high up,’ she stammered.
‘Three miles at present,’ Pearson said, oblivious to her terror. ‘I’ll show you the balloon while we’re here.’
They climbed up a connecting tube, entering the vast cigar-shaped construction that kept the vessel alight. The Challenger was a rigid airship: the gasbags were contained within the outer balloon, held in place by a metal structure. The bags were overhead, the deck below stretching away into the distance, lit only by translucent portholes in the fabric.
‘The fabric makers stitched tiny gaps in the cloth,’ Pearson explained. ‘There’s no naked flames allowed up here on account of the hydrogen.’
Jack knew what he meant. One spark—and boom!
‘I thought airships were one big balloon,’ Scarlet said.
‘Some are,’ Pearson said. ‘But the really big ones, especially passenger ships, have several gasbags. The Challenger has four, although it can run with only two.’
‘Is that for safety?’ Mr Doyle said.
‘Right you are, sir. There’s nowhere to fill up if we spring a leak. Better be safe than sorry.’
Each evening, the team had dinner at the captain’s table. The other passengers quizzed Jack relentlessly about the attack, theorising who could be responsible. Captain Haze tried to turn the conversation to other topics, but without success. Ideas about the culprit ranged from a crewman who looked suspiciously like Prime Minister Horatio Kitchener to a Russian priest Lady Thompson had seen lurking on Deck 6.
Jack captured his first glimpse of the United States on the morning of the fifth day. They had gone out for some air when someone gave a cry and pointed. Jack pulled out his goggles and switched them to telescopic view. A mighty bronze structure rose out of the ocean: a blazing, copper-coloured monolith that caught the morning sun.
‘Do you know what it is?’ Mr Doyle asked.
‘Is it the Statue of Liberty?’ Jack asked.
‘It is indeed.’
‘I read a book about it,’ Scarlet said. ‘It was a gift to the United States from France after the American Civil War.’
‘That was the original statue,’ Mr Doyle pointed out. ‘It now sits inside the new one constructed by the Americans.’
The new figure was almost a mile in height. Jack had seen pictures of it, but the reddish-brown form took his breath away as the Challenger drew nearer. The statue was a woman dressed in long, flowing robes, staring out to sea. Her figure was lean and her arms were strong. She held a chain in her hands that fell to the ground. It was broken in the middle as if she had wrenched it apart. Upon her head sat a crown with seven points.
‘She’s beautiful,’ Scarlet said. ‘The journey is worth it just for this.’
‘I don’t know about that,’ Jack said. ‘I was almost killed!’
‘Still…’
Jack glanced back to the statue. ‘She looks all alone,’ he murmured.
‘The Statue of Liberty is the tallest structure in New York,’ Mr Doyle explained. ‘Nothing is allowed to exceed her in height.’
Professor Smith appeared at their side with Gabrielle. ‘Enjoying the view?’ she asked.
‘We are,’ Scarlet said.
Jack wasn’t sure why Scarlet was acting so strangely around Gabrielle. She seemed annoyed every time the young American woman appeared.
‘There are stairs you can climb to the top,’ Gabrielle said, oblivious. ‘Although it’s quite a walk.’
‘I will take the elevator,’ Professor Smith said. ‘I am allergic to walking.’
The New York skyline rose from the sea like a row of uneven teeth. The Challenger coasted past the statue to a place Professor Smith referred to as Staten Island, with an immense dockyard. Jack could see airships sailing to and from it in all directions. ‘It is the biggest departure terminal on the East Coast,’ the professor explained.
The rotating blades of the mighty airship slowed as it approached an enormous hangar. Men clustered beneath, lines lowering towards them. The cables were attached to a locomotive that dragged in the Challenger and the paddles came to a complete halt.
‘Captain Haze and his crew are excellent pilots,’ Mr Doyle said.
‘It isn’t anything a woman couldn’t do,’ Scarlet said. ‘And probably will one day.’
Jack was inclined to agree with her. Gabrielle was a highly competent individual: strong and intelligent. There seemed to be no reason why she or any other woman couldn’t accomplish anything.
A final whistle rang out over the ship. Lines were tied down. The drone of the mighty engine died. They had arrived.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Everyone was keen to disembark after the long journey across the Atlantic. Jack caught sight of Gabrielle and her uncle in the crowd, and they said a hurried farewell. The gangways led to a line of trains that took them to the passenger terminal, a vast dome-shaped structure resembling a cathedral. The ceiling was enclosed in glass, radiating heat. Jack was soon sweating in his coat, while Scarlet’s red hair was plastered to her face. ‘We were able to cross the Atlantic in five days,’ Mr Doyle muttered, ‘but I fear we may spend five more waiting for our luggage.’
Their suitcases soon appeared on a rotating carousel, the device belching steam as it conveyed luggage past the travellers. The trio then headed outside to join a line waiting for cabs and horse-driven carriages. Smoke and steam filled the air.
It’s just like London, Jack thought.
He spotted Doctor Phillips. He did not see them, speaking instead with another fellow—a tall, thin individual with a hooked nose—before climbing into a private car.
‘He was thoroughly unpleasant,’ Scarlet said. ‘I shall not miss seeing him again.’
‘He seemed suspicious to me,’ Jack said.
‘There is no doubt he is an impostor,’ Mr Doyle said, ‘but he has nothing to do with Charles Ashgrove.’
Scarlet’s mouth fell open. ‘What did you say?’
‘He does not have the hands of a surgeon,’ Mr Doyle explained. ‘And it’s obvious he knows nothing about anatomy. I mentioned rhinitis to him and he thought I was talking about a visit to the zoo!’ He shook his head. ‘I believe he is a con artist attempting to steal money from the unwary.’
A moment later police officers turned up in a steamcar. Within minutes they had apprehended the astonished Phillips and his friend
. Captain Haze appeared and shook hands with Mr Doyle.
‘Thank you once again, Ignatius,’ he said. ‘The man had me fooled.’
‘I imagine the police will discover the real Dr Phillips to be alive and well in Baltimore,’ Mr Doyle informed him. ‘No doubt he has been blissfully unaware that someone has been trying to steal his identity.’
Blimey, Jack thought. Nothing gets past Mr Doyle.
A horse-driven carriage was hired to take the team into the city. They said goodbye to Captain Haze as the driver, a gentleman with a white moustache, piled their bags into the rear storage compartment. Jack clasped Bertha’s cage close as the others climbed in.
‘Is she happy?’ Scarlet asked.
‘I think so,’ Jack said. ‘She’s reading a ladies’ magazine and drinking a cup of tea.’
Mr Doyle asked to be driven to the Empire Hotel in Manhattan. The driver tipped his hat, climbed into his seat on the roof and shook the reins. The carriage joined the traffic leaving the dockyard. Jack settled back. Through the clouds of steam and smoke, he began to catch glimpses of the city and its people.
New York and London were different in so many ways—some obvious, many more subtle. It seemed like every building in New York was an apartment complex. Some ten storeys high, others twice that size, soaring into the air. Many were of a French style with high gables and steep roofs, large rectangular windows and shallow balconies. When Jack asked Mr Doyle about it, the detective explained that much of New York had been rebuilt over the years.
‘New York has undergone rapid development in the last century,’ he said. ‘Old has given way to new. I expect much of what we see today will be gone in another hundred years.’
Many streets were narrow. Metal stairs clung to the outside of most buildings. Pitchmen—vendors selling from suitcases on the street—sold everything from ties to pencils to cigarettes. Jack was surprised to see one pack up shop and race down the street with a policeman in pursuit.
Scarlet was most entranced by the fashions of the Americans. The women wore brighter colours than in Britain. Long outing jackets with puff sleeves and matching skirts were popular. The hats were all shapes and sizes, decorated with feathers, fine metal cogs and lace. She was quick to point out, however, that many of the people appeared impoverished, just like in Britain. ‘Poor looks the same wherever you go,’ she murmured.
The shops sold food and goods foreign to Jack. He recoiled in horror when he saw a vendor selling some sort of cooked dog.
Mr Doyle laughed. ‘Hot dogs. I promise you no canines were harmed in their production.’
Traffic was gridlocked in places. Pedestrians had their own rules; they crossed whenever and however they wanted, and vehicles surrendered to them. At first Jack thought it utter chaos, but there seemed to be an unspoken understanding between the drivers and the pedestrians. Somehow no-one got run over.
Mr Doyle peeked through the rear cab window a couple of times. ‘I don’t wish to alarm you both,’ he said, ‘but I believe we are being followed. A vehicle has been tailing us since we left the terminal.’
‘Maybe they’re going to the same hotel,’ Scarlet said.
‘Possibly. But I think we should be ready for anything.’
The road led to a bridge that crossed The Narrows, the body of water separating Staten Island from Brooklyn. Despite the overcrowding in New York, a park adjacent to the river had survived. A few individuals were taking a leisurely walk along the riverbank, while others rode bicycles along a pathway. A figure on a steam-powered motorcycle chugged past.
Mr Doyle again glanced behind. ‘I don’t see them anymore.’
Jack started. ‘Maybe they were—’
A shot split the air, breaking through the ambient noise like the boom of a cannon. The horses whinnied and the carriage lurched. Something fell past the door onto the ground.
‘Good heavens!’ Mr Doyle yelled. ‘That was the driver!’
The horses now set off at a gallop, dragging the carriage onto the footpath. People screamed. A man selling socks from an open suitcase leapt aside, sending the socks flying. An elderly couple jumped clear and a woman pushed her child out of harm’s way as the cab careened down the path and into the park.
Another shot rang out, this time scaring the horses into a second burst of speed.
‘We have to get out!’ Mr Doyle cried.
But it was too late. The horses were headed towards the river. Only at the last instant did they change direction, but the forward momentum still swung the carriage around. The wheels struck a stone wall and the carriage rolled.
Everything went black. Then water was pouring into Jack’s nose. He found himself floating. Light entered through a crack in one door. The other was completely underwater. Scarlet had dragged him to the surface.
‘Keep breathing,’ she advised.
‘Thanks,’ he spluttered.
She disappeared under the water as Jack saw something float by his head. Bertha’s cage. The tarantula gave him a reproachful look.
Scarlet’s hand broke the surface. She dragged the detective’s head up and Mr Doyle came coughing as the carriage began to sink. More water poured in. A hand appeared at the gap and wrenched the door open.
‘Welcome to New York,’ Gabrielle Smith said. ‘I believe this is your stop.’
She pulled Mr Doyle free of the carriage, then grabbed Jack’s shoulder, dragging him free as he kept a firm grip on Bertha’s cage. Passers-by helped the three of them over the retaining wall. Jack coughed up what felt like half of New York Harbour. He glanced at Bertha. Her cage lay on its side, but she was unharmed. Catching a glimpse of Scarlet’s face, he said, ‘Baby Bertha’s fine. She’s laughing her little legs off.’
Scarlet was about to deliver a stinging retort when a small fish leapt out of her hair and onto the grass. Shrieking, she swatted it away. Jack burst out laughing.
Gabrielle helped sort out their baggage. ‘Thank you, my dear,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘You are extremely capable.’
‘It’s my pleasure, Mr Doyle.’
He lowered his voice. ‘Perhaps you can now share your true identity with us.’
Gabrielle frowned. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Your answer can wait until we reach the hotel.’
Their attacker had escaped. The police arrived and asked questions as the elderly driver of the carriage was taken to hospital. He had been winged by the shooter, but would survive. With the assistance of a few friendly New Yorkers, Jack and the others soon had their baggage on board another steamcab and resumed their journey over the Verrazano Bridge, through Brooklyn and to Manhattan.
They were still damp by the time they reached the hotel. Scarlet’s hair was the most serious casualty, sticking out in every direction. Gabrielle helped them to check in and followed as a bellhop took their luggage upstairs. Mr Doyle tipped him as he departed.
Their room was on the fifth floor. It was clean and dry with a view of the busy avenue below. Painted ivory white with periwinkle-blue carpet, it had three bedrooms running off the main chamber.
‘Possibly you can speak now,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘We may be able to help each other.’
She pursed her lips. ‘Your activities regarding Charles Ashgrove have not gone unnoticed.’
‘Is your name really Gabrielle Smith?’
‘It is.’
‘And who is your employer?’
‘I am an agent with the United States Secret Service.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Jack and Scarlet could not have been more amazed if Gabrielle had confessed to coming from the planet Mars.
‘I’m sorry I could not share this information with you,’ she said. ‘Very few people know.’
‘Your uncle?’ Jack asked.
‘Not even him. He thinks I’m a clerk working at the White House.’ She turned to Mr Doyle. ‘How long have you known?’
‘Since our first day on the Challenger.’
Gabrielle frowned. ‘That lon
g?’
‘You presented yourself as a lady of leisure. Yet your athleticism was evident in your rescue of Jack on board the ship, and later single-handedly dragging us from the river.’
‘But still…’
‘Besides, it is only logical for the US government to monitor the activities of Charles Ashgrove and the SLA. Now that my team and I have become involved, it makes sense that we would also fall under surveillance.’
‘You must tell me what you know.’
‘There is little to tell.’ Mr Doyle boiled water and insisted they all change into fresh clothing before the discussion continued. Scarlet lent Gabrielle a dress that, although a little short, was acceptable under the circumstances.
Within half an hour they were dry and clean, with a silver pot of tea before them. Mr Doyle outlined the history of their investigation to Gabrielle.
‘This tallies with the little we already know,’ she said. ‘We believe the SLA is planning an attack, but we can only guess its nature.’
‘Can’t you just arrest Charles Ashgrove?’ Jack asked.
‘On what charge? Many people think he’s an honourable man. He gives to charity and employs thousands of people. We have no evidence linking him to terrorist activities of any kind.’
‘But he is a villain!’ Scarlet said. ‘Surely he should be thrown into jail—just in case.’
Gabrielle smiled. ‘I wish we could.’
‘And what do you know of Olinka Slate?’ Mr Doyle asked.
‘He is a genius. He migrated from Europe to the United States several years ago. He has been experimenting with electricity for decades, but with limited success. He has many strange habits that alienate him from other people.’
‘Such as?’
‘He likes to do things in groups of three. He counts his steps and measures his food. He has an abnormal fear of germs. He hates women’s pearls and has an aversion to human hair.’
‘That is rather odd.’
‘Not surprisingly, he has found it difficult to fund his research. Not everyone wants to pour money into experimental power sources—especially when they think the inventor is mad.’
