The Titanic Secret (Isaac Bell 11)

ll take real fine care of you, Mr. Isaac.”

“You always do.”

“Need help with your bag?”

“No, I’m fine. Thanks.”

“Just so you know, the inlet scoop acted up on the run here last night, but the conductor and engineer say it’s all fixed up now.”

“That’s a relief.”

Unlike the trains Bell had taken across the country, the 20th Century Limited didn’t need to stop in every jerkwater town—so named because the engineer jerked a chain to get water flowing from the towering cisterns—to satisfy the locomotive’s unquenchable thirst. This train was outfitted with a special siphon that could be lowered from the locomotive tender. The Limited would need to slow some as they came to special lengths of track that were flooded with water in anticipation of their passing. The siphon would scoop water straight into the tender, and, once the tender was full, the train would speed up again. This ingenious system ensured the rail linking America’s two greatest cities had the highest average speed of any long-distance run in the nation.

“Anyone on board tonight?” Bell asked, meaning anyone of significance.

“No, Mr. Isaac. No need for you to be snooping about my train tonight.”

Bell laughed. “I’m going to set my luggage in my cabin and head to the observation car for a drink.”

“Do you want me to make up your room now?”

“Why don’t you. I’ve been traveling nonstop for three weeks and I am exhausted.”

“Well, you’ll be with Mrs. Bell soon enough. She’ll cure what ails ya.”

Bell chuckled. Truer words were never spoken.

Eighteen hours after pulling out of the LaSalle Street Station, the Limited rumbled into Grand Central. Bell had completed a report about his upcoming mission for Joseph Van Dorn. He kept it light on details, which was his usual style. Van Dorn trusted Bell’s judgment, so they’d always enjoyed a tight working relationship. He had also managed to sleep well and felt better than he had in days. He’d repacked his case and was standing in the vestibule when the train shuddered to a stop. He tipped his hat to Tom, who was readying steps for less athletic passengers, and began striding the length of the platform. While the urgency of his mission was a driving force within him, when he was so close to home his desire to be with his wife superseded everything.

He crossed the richly appointed Great Hall, where dishwater light filtered through the multiple windows. The Chicago storm had stayed with them across the country, and the sky was leaden. He climbed the stairs for street level and had started looking for a taxi when he spotted a beautiful Rolls-Royce automobile and its even more stunning driver.

Wisps of Marion’s blond hair had escaped the leather cap she wore as she stood, clad in baggy jodhpurs, with one foot on the car’s running board and her hip cocked alluringly. Her eyes were the green of the clearest emeralds and smiled just as much as her lips. Marion was a classic beauty and spent plenty of time on movie sets explaining to people that she was the director and not a starlet.

She tried to play aloof for a second longer but couldn’t. She cried out like a little girl seeing a new doll on Christmas morning and launched herself at her husband. She kissed him openly, social conventions be damned.

“What are you doing here?” Isaac asked when they’d detangled themselves.

“Driving you to Hoboken.”

Bell’s enthusiasm flagged. “Today?”

Marion nodded, stroking his cheek. “The office called first thing this morning, my poor darling. You’re booked on the Rotterdam for this afternoon’s sailing. I’m going to drive you to the Algonquin Hotel, where we will enjoy a few hours in each other’s company, as it were, and then it’s off to beautiful Hoboken, where the Dutch-American Steamship Company docks their ships.”

Bell saw that Marion had two large suitcases loaded in the backseat of the Rolls. He knew she’d have thought of everything for him, including additional ammunition and a few accessories he usually carried in the field but hadn’t thought necessary in pursuit of the circus thieves.

“Wait,” he said as Marion slid into the driver’s seat. “The Rotterdam doesn’t make landfall in France.”

“Special stop. A funicular railroad engine was too late being delivered here to make it aboard the French line’s La Provence and apparently they need the little loco right away. The Rotterdam has a shallow enough draft for Le Havre Harbor. Et voilà! Rather than a relaxing night together, you and I have to tryst like Antony and Cleopatra.”

Bell laughed aloud, always loving Marion’s turn of phrase. “In that case, my Nile Queen, let’s get this chariot in gear.”

10

The crossing to Europe aboard the Rotterdam was about the worst Isaac Bell had ever experienced. He could place blame on neither ship nor crew but squarely on the shoulders of Mother Nature. The storm that seemingly followed him from Denver, through Chicago, and on to New York, had dogged the Dutch liner across the Atlantic. While Bell had never felt the full effects of mal de mer, even he had spent one night in his cabin nibbling bland water biscuits and drinking a cloying pink dyspeptic fluid that was originally marketed for children with cholera but which was finding a market among adults suffering stomach issues.

To his inner ear, the rain-lashed train from Le Havre to Paris bucked and yawed and rolled ponderously even though the tracks were level and straight. It would take a couple of whiskies and a comfortable bed in the new Art Deco–style Hôtel Lutetia to make him right. Marion had made him promise that he wouldn’t stay at the Ritz, their customary residence in Paris, without her.

He woke early on his first full morning in France, and when he rolled off the feather-soft bed and stood, he paused to see if the floor was still in motion as it had been the previous night. He smiled at the fact he did not sway. He’d gotten his land legs back. As with so many modern hotels, it had an en suite, which made getting ready in the morning so much quicker.