“Well, I’ll be…” said Bell, half aloud.
He shoved open the cabin door and strode inside.
Farley Kent jumped. The Navy captain did not, but merely regarded the tall detective with an expectant gaze.
“Welcome aboard, Mr. Bell. When I learned the terrible news from Camden, I hoped you’d find your way here.”
“What is Hull 44?”
“Better to ask why Hull 44,” answered Captain Lowell Falconer, the Hero of Santiago.
He offered a hand that had lost two fingers to shell splinters.
Bell closed it in his. “It is an honor to make your acquaintance, sir.”
Captain Falconer spoke into the voice pipe. “Cast off.”
13
FEET POUNDED ON DECK. A LIEUTENANT APPEARED AT the door, and Falconer engaged him in urgent conversation. “Farley,” he called. “You might as well get back to your loft.” The architect left without a word. Falconer said, “Please wait here, Bell. I won’t be a minute.” He stepped outside with his lieutenant.
Bell had seen the Reuterdahl painting of the Great White Fleet on the c
over of Collier’s magazine last January. The fleet lay anchored in the harbor of Rio de Janeiro. A native boat was rowing toward the bright white hull of the anchored flagship Connecticut, waving an advertisement that read:
American Drinks. SQUARE DEAL at JS Guvidor
Smoke and shadow in a dark corner of the sunny harbor scene obscured the sleek gray hull of a German cruiser.
The deck moved under Bell’s feet. The yacht began backing out of her slip into the East River. When she engaged her propellers ahead and wheeled downstream, Bell felt no vibrations, nor even the faintest throbbing of the engines. Captain Falconer stepped back into the cabin, and Bell gave his host a curious glance. “I’ve never been on such a smooth-running steam yacht.”
Falconer grinned proudly. “Turbines,” he said. “Three of them, linked to nine screw propellers.”
He pointed at another painting, one which Bell had not seen from the porthole. It depicted Turbinia, the famous experimental turbine-powered vessel Alasdair MacDonald’s mentor had raced through an international gathering of naval fleets at Spitshead, England, to dramatize turbine speed.
“Charles Parsons left nothing to chance. In the event that something went wrong with Turbinia, he built two turbine racers. This one’s named Dyname. Do you remember your Greek?”
“The result of forces acting together.”
“Very good! Dyname is actually Turbinia’s big sister, a trifle beamier, modeled after the torpedo boats of the nineties. I had her refitted as a yacht and converted her boilers to oil, which opened up a lot of space in the former coal bunkers. Poor Alasdair used her as a test craft and modified the turbines. Thanks to him, even though she’s beamier than Turbinia, she burns less fuel and goes faster.”
“How fast?”
Falconer laid an affectionate hand on Dyname’s varnished mahogany and grinned. “You would not believe me if I told you.”
The tall detective grinned back. “I wouldn’t mind a trick at the helm.”
“Wait ’til we’re out of congested waters. I don’t dare open her up in the harbor.”
The yacht steamed down the East River into the Upper Bay and increased her speed dramatically. “Quite a clip,” said Bell.
Falconer chuckled, “We rein her in until we reach the open sea.”
The lights of Manhattan Island faded astern. A steward appeared bearing covered dishes and spread them on the table. Captain Falconer bid Bell sit across from him.
Bell stood where he was, and asked, “What is Hull 44?”
“Please join me for supper, and while we head to sea I will tell you the secret of why Hull 44.”