The Titanic Secret (Isaac Bell 11)

Both men had to stand opposite Bell in order to lift a crate and, ev

en then, they struggled. Five months earlier, even little Warry O’Deming could have manhandled one of the chests on his own.

38

Back in the city, Bell drove the lead truck to the garage he’d found earlier and whose owner had agreed to a trade. The building was in a rougher part of town, which was why Bell had chosen it. Around it were row upon row of worker tenements and pubs doing business despite it being the Sabbath. The streets were filthy and teeming with dirty-faced boys, roaming like packs of wild dogs, searching for anything of interest. The men had the dullard look of overworked draft animals, while the women appeared decades older than their years.

The lookout posted at the larger of the commercial garage’s two entrances had been told to expect the convoy and swung the doors open. Bell drove straight into the cavernous space with Warry right behind. On the concrete floor sat several trucks and motorbuses in various states of repair, in addition to a row of autos fitted out as taxis and a tarp-covered touring car that had likely been boosted from the streets of London. Its front fender was exposed and gleamed like polished silver.

The garage owner, a thickset man with a few days of stubble on his chin and a gin blossoms nose, had been in a glass-enclosed corner office when Bell rumbled in. He wore loose-fitting khaki pants held up by a dark belt and over-the-shoulder braces that he was just snapping back across his meaty deltoids. His shirt was so oft-laundered, it appeared gray rather than white.

“What’s this, then?” he asked in a thick Midlands accent. He squinted at Bell through the smoke of a cigar.

“We talked.”

Behind the owner was another man, whip-thin and dressed in black. He had hard, unflinching eyes and the look of a killer. He was clearly the garage owner’s enforcer for all the criminal enterprises he dabbled in besides stolen vehicles.

“Right, but you said half eleven. You’re early, mate. Hold on.” He pointed to one of the workers loitering in the bays, a young boy used as a runner. “Joey, do that thing I told you or I’ll tan ya hide. Right?”

“Sure, Mr. Devlin. I’s on it.” The urchin scampered through a judas gate set inside one of the main doors.

“Bell! Bell!” Brewster was still in the back of the second truck. “Vern’s awake.”

“About time,” Bell muttered, and indicated to the garage owner he had to see to his people.

The owner, George Devlin, made a harried, dismissive gesture and turned back to his subordinate, while Bell boosted himself on top of the truck’s rear tire to peer into its bed. “Welcome back,” he said.

Hall was owl-eyed and disoriented. “Where are we?”

“Birmingham. More than halfway between where we started and where we need to go.”

“What happened?”

“You need to tell us that,” Brewster said to his old friend. He gave Hall some tea from one of the thermos flasks. “You were in a nasty fight in the locomotive cab when we left Aberdeen.”

“A fight?” Hall didn’t seem to recall.

“Aye. You and Johnny and Alvin.”

“Who were we fighting?”

Bell knew it was common for people with head injuries to have short-term memory loss. He told Hall, “Each other, it would appear. Alvin Coulter was thrown from the train, and Johnny Caldwell died from a blow to the head.”

“Oh, God. No.”

“They’re all dead,” Warry said. “All of ’em but us three and Mr. Bell.”

“What?” Hall moaned. “How is that possible? Tell me what happened. All of it.”

“We don’t have time for that,” Bell said. “Being here is a hell of a risk, so the quicker we finish, the better.”

He stepped back down from the truck, but kept close to it, while Devlin and his henchman ambled over. “It doesn’t matter that we’re early. You have what I need and I have two perfectly good trucks to trade. Let’s do this and we can be on our way.”

Devlin scratched absently at the bald spot atop his bullet head. “My sources tell me the coal strike ends tomorrow. I have to sell my stockpiles before the price drops back to normal, so I need to keep my truck.”

Bell felt rage boil to the surface.

“And,” the gangster continued, “I have this other deal brewing.”