The Thief by Clive Cussler (pocket ebook reader .txt) 📕

smelled the film going bad and knew exactly what it was because it was his stock.”

Marion said, “The ‘hero’ who saved the ship is the smuggler who almost sank the ship.”

“In a nutshell,” Harry Warren agreed. He stood up and put on his derby. “Anyway, when the Yorkville boys showed up, the Gophers jumped to the conclusion that they were taking delivery of the film stock they’d bought out from under them. Fighting ensued.”

“In a nutshell…”

“Thanks for the coffee.”

“Who are the Yorkville boys?”

“From the new German district up in Yorkville. Uptown, on the East Side.”

“Germans?”

“Germans are leaving downtown since the General Slocum fire. You know, the excursion-boat fire when all their poor children were killed. Tore the heart out of the old neighborhood, and they’ve just kind of been retreating north—lock, stock, and breweries.”

“What’s the gang called?”

“Marzipan Boys.”

“Like the candy?”

“The old gangs mocked ’em with that name. Now they’re proud of it since they’ve been whaling the heck out of everybody. They’re a tough bunch.”

Harry Warren was halfway out the back door when Bell called, “But why did the Marzipan Boys go to Pier 54?”

“What do you mean?”

“The film stock did burn in the fire,” Bell said with elaborate patience. “Clyde Lynds didn’t welsh on the deal. The Marzipan Boys didn’t buy it out from underneath the Gophers, therefore they weren’t there to pick up film stock they didn’t even know about. So why did the Yorkville gang meet the Mauretania?”

Harry Warren’s blank expression got blanker. “Haven’t found out yet.”

“Find out! Report to me at the office.”

“Isaac,” said Marion. “The doctor said to stay home today.”

“O.K.,” said Bell. “I’ll stay home today. Harry, report to me at the office tonight.”

“CLYDE,” SAID ISAAC BELL, “YOU’RE GOING to have to return Captain Turner’s medal.”

“What do you mean, Mr. Bell?”

Bell fixed him with an icy stare.

Clyde Lynds hung his head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Bell. I am so sorry.”

Bell asked, “Sorry for what? Spit it out! What?”

“The film stock. It was mine.”

“Go on.”

Clyde said, “We needed the money to escape from Germany. I mean, I wanted so much to succeed with Talking Pictures. But I was scared crazy for our lives. When the Army issued that phony warrant, I knew my goose was cooked.”

Bell bored into him with his eyes. Then he asked, softly, “Was this smuggling scheme Professor Beiderbecke’s idea?”

“No!”

“Are you sure?”

“The poor old guy didn’t have a clue. It was all my idea. Remember I told you I got lucky? What happened was I bumped into a Gopher I used to know in New York when he was a sceneshifter at the Hammerstein. He had moved up in the Gophers, and they sent him to Germany looking for film stock. He had the dough. I knew an outfit I’d bought from and they steered me to a shipper to pack it and hide it. We worked a deal.” He hung his head again. “I thought, What the heck, everyone smuggles film stock, why not me? I didn’t realize the stuff was so old it was unstable.” He barked a bitter laugh. “I got taken like a rube. Seven crates of garbage.”

“Deadly garbage.”

“I swear, I didn’t know it was old. I think they switched it on me. I mean, I wouldn’t risk hurting all those people.”

“And you are absolutely positive that Beiderbecke had nothing to do with it?”

“I didn’t tell him until it was on the boat… What are you going to do?”

Isaac Bell sighed. “I’m afraid you leave me no choice but to help keep you alive and unkidnapped while you build a new Talking Pictures machine.”

“Help me? Why? It was terrible. All those people could have died.”

“Why? You’re a jackass. But you’re an honest jackass. I just gave you an easy out and you didn’t take it. All you had to do was blame the Professor, but you didn’t. That’s good enough for me.”

“SOMEBODY PUT THE FEAR OF GOD into these Marzipan Boys,” Harry Warren told Isaac Bell that night at Van Dorn headquarters in the Knickerbocker Hotel, “which ain’t easy to do.”

“How’d they manage that?’

“The guy who led the raid on Pier 54?”

“What about him?”

As the agency’s New York gang specialist, rubbing shoulders with Gophers, Dusters, and Chinatown tongs, Detective Harry Warren had seen his share of evil in the slums. But his hands were shaking as he tugged a flask from his hip pocket, took a long pull on it, then passed it to Isaac Bell.

“They burned him alive in a brewery furnace.” Harry took the flask back, wiped it with his sleeve, and drank again. “The guy’s brother told me.”

“Why’d he tell you?”

“Good question. It was like whoever did this has different stripes than he’s used to. It was like the Gophers and the Marzipans and the Van Dorns and even the cops are on one side of a big hole in the street, like from an earthquake or something, and these folks roasting his brother are on the other.”

Bell asked, “What else did he tell you?”

“Nothing. Clammed up.”

Bell said, “Let’s go see him.”

ISAAC BELL AND HARRY WARREN made the rounds of dives in the East Eighties and finally found the dead man’s brother leaning on a saloon front under the Third Avenue El. He was fumbling for money in empty pockets. Hi name was Frank, and he was a tall, handsome, broad-shouldered German-American with a street fighter’s scarred face and fists. He assessed Isaac Bell in a glance and nodded his head as if to say he would fight the tall detective if he had to, but he didn’t want to. Bell read something else in the resigned nod, a confirmation of what Harry Warren had told him. The gangster had seen evil that shook him to the core.

They took Frank into the saloon and bought a bottle.

Bell said, “I’m sorry about your brother.”

“Yeah.”

“Were you and Bruno close?”

“Used to be. When we was kids. Not so much now.”

“Did your brother tell you what the deal