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“He asked me, mockingly, ‘Looking for something?’ I was searching Clyde’s body because Clyde told me as he died that he had kept the real plans. Doesn’t ‘Looking for something?’ sound like Christian Semmler already found them?”
Marion sat up. “And since he asked when he saw you searching Clyde, that means he found them in Clyde’s clothing.”
“Meaning he can carry them in his clothing.”
Bell dressed hastily. He filled his pockets, holstered his spare Browning in his coat and a fresh throwing knife in his boot, and reloaded the empty derringer he had managed to palm without the Acrobat noticing.
“From the sound of his scream, I’d say he’s sporting a good-sized bandage. In fact, I’m hoping he needed stitches. Lots of them.”
“But how do you know he’s going to New York?”
“I don’t for sure, but it’s a good bet. If Clyde’s plans were on his person, then Semmler’s traveling light. And if he’s traveling light, the fastest way home to Germany is a train across the continent and a boat from New York.”
46
Joseph Van Dorn welcomed Isaac Bell to the New York headquarters with words that Bell could have construed as compliments were it not for the thunderclouds on the boss’s face.
“Excellent reasoning,” said Van Dorn. “Downright intriguing, even: traveling light, swathed in bandages, a murderer responsible for the deaths of two of my best agents races fleet-footedly across the continent, having stolen the plans to a revolutionary machine in which I have invested heavily, and boards a steamship for Germany. Our investigative agency pulls out all stops; we cover every Limited train station between Los Angeles and New York; we pull every wire we have in the government to obtain passenger manifests from eastbound German and French liners; we shake hands with the devil — currently masquerading as a British earl and military intelligence officer — to obtain the passenger lists of British ships; we can
vas shipping clerks to watch for a man who fits Semmler’s description booking passage to Europe; we pay enormous sums of money to policemen and customs officers to help watch those ships when our forces are stretched to the breaking point. And who do we find?”
“No one, yet,” answered Bell.
“Did it ever occur to you that he might have gone the other way and boarded a ship in San Pedro, in which case he is now steaming hell-for-leather toward the Panama Canal?”
“A Talking Pictures machine is doing just that,” replied Isaac Bell, “aboard a German freighter, which will reach the canal in ten days. After they traverse it they will likely load the machine onto a warship. The Imperial German Navy has a squadron stationed off Venezuela.”
“What?” exploded Van Dorn. “He has the machine? How do you know that?”
“Tim Holian and his boys traced it and a gang of gunmen from the Los Angeles Southern Pacific freight yard to San Pedro and onto the ship. Holian is positive that Semmler wasn’t with them.”
“I was told that Holian was shot four times.”
“Apparently it didn’t take. Flesh wounds.”
“Well, he had flesh to spare, last time I saw him. So they have the machine?” Van Dorn smiled and stroked his beard. “I think I can pull a wire or two in the Canal Zone and have that freighter held up.”
“No, sir,” said Bell.
“What do you mean, ‘No, sir’? Why not?”
“Clyde switched machines. He gave Semmler a contraption that will cause them no end of confusion. Better to let them take it to Germany.”
“Where’s the right one?”
“Burned up in the fire.”
“Destroyed,” Van Dorn said, gloomily.
“Except for the plans.”
“Which General Major Semmler has.”
“I’m afraid so.”
Van Dorn sighed. “What about that Russian woman, Isaac? Might she not be helping him?”
“She vanished. The Los Angeles office is hunting, but she’s nowhere to be found.”
