The Titanic Secret

by Clive Cussler

  And it happened.

  The man rounded the corner, walking like someone who hadn’t a care in the world because he hadn’t seen his quarry emerge from the mine. He hadn’t heard the two shots either because he’d stood so close to the blast his ears still rang.

  With people willing to protect the secret of the Little Angel disaster, Bell was in a position to need questions answered. Bell had the pistol up and the sights centered on a crease between the man’s eyebrows. He had the drop on the guy. “Freeze.”

  The man jumped at the sound of Bell’s voice and went ashen when he realized his predicament. For some reason, he looked behind himself and up the hill.

  “Hands up.” Bell emphasized the order by flicking his pistol’s barrel up and down.

  Just as his hands went up, a second man emerged from the gulley. He was large, with a shaved head, and he reminded Bell of a circus strongman but without the charm. There was an aura of menace about him.

  The man had his gun cradled low across his hips and wasted no time raising it. He twisted to bring the barrel to bear on Isaac Bell. Bell shifted his aim and fired a fraction too quick and missed, but the rifleman reconsidered his plan. He leapt back out of sight and then fired. But he wasn’t aiming at Bell. His bullet hit the first man, his accomplice and partner, just to the left of his spine in line with the heart. The round emerged, the man thrown forward a good five feet by the impact of the heavy copper bullet.

  There was no need to check if the injury had been fatal. Nobody could have survived a shot like that.

  The man knew where Bell was and exactly where he’d likely show himself. Bell couldn’t just charge in. His foe had the high ground, the superior weapon, and all the time in the world. Rather than chase directly, Bell scrambled out of the hillside gulley and atop a ridge that rose up the flanks of the foothills. He stayed in a crouched position to reduce his silhouette and started running uphill after the shooter. He could see the man racing back up his own little ravine toward his sniper’s nest. For such a big man, carrying slabs of muscle around his shoulders and back, he moved swiftly, eating ground at a pace Bell could barely maintain.

  The erosion-worn gulley split into two channels just ahead, and when the man reached it, he spun around and started back down the mountain in the new channel. Bell completely lost sight of him and had to rush back down into the gulley and try to work his way back up the other side in order to emerge above and behind the gunman again.

  He’d just started climbing the far bank of the valley when he heard the sound of machinery. Not an engine but mechanical noises, and they grew both louder but also receded.

  Bell cursed and redoubled his effort. But it was no use. Even before he reached the top, the assassin had built up enough speed coasting downhill in the vehicle they’d driven here to pop the clutch and force the engine to life. Once lit, the truck roared off, accelerating down the mountain with each second. By the time Bell was high enough on the bank to spot the machine, it was a hundred yards off, trailing a fine plume of dust. He hadn’t gotten a close enough look to identify its color, much less its make and model.

  He jogged back the way he’d come to check on Tony Wickersham. On the way, he’d check the dead body for clues. He reached the bouldered area where he’d left Tony only to find the young Englishman gone and a stranger in his place. Bell had his pistol trained on the interloper in an instant.

  “Easy there, I’m not your enemy.”

  “Who are you and where’s Tony?”

  “I’m Buck Tompkins. I’m a miner down at the Satan. We heard the explosion and realized the water had stopped gushing into our camp, so a couple of us came up to check things out. We found your man. The others took him back to our camp and I waited here for you.”

  “I recognize you now. You helped with drilling the holes.”

  “Yes, sir, I did.” He eyed Bell’s strange attire but didn’t comment.

  “Thank you for looking after Tony. He’s in a bad way.”

  “We’ll get him warmed up and into town real quick. Central City has a fine doctor.”

  Bell thought for a second. The men from the Satan Mine knew nothing of the attack and how the blast had meant to seal them in the mountain for all eternity, and there was no need to tell them. “I need to change and do some things at our camp. If you have transportation out of here, take Tony into town as soon as you can, and I’ll catch up at the doctor’s office. It’s all my fault. I dropped my pistol handing it to Tony. That’s how he was shot.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up over an accident. That’s part of life. We’ve got a truck, so it’s no problem.”

  Bell shook the man’s hand, thanking him, before turning back to climb up to the camp that had been half buried in debris from the blast. One thing was for certain. Isaac Bell owed his friend Alex Hecht for what had to be a thousand dollars’ worth of experimental diving equipment.

  Bell rummaged through the mess until he found his clothes. He shed the diving suit and his wet drawers and donned the overalls and work boots. He rekindled the fire to make himself some coffee and wolfed down three prepacked sandwiches.

  A half hour after finding Tony in good hands, Bell returned to the dead man left in the remote erosion channel. He remained facedown, and because his heart had stopped at the instant the shot came, there was very little blood staining the ground when Bell turned the body over.

  Bell grunted. He recognized the victim. The man had called himself William Gibbs and said he was a reporter with the Rocky Mountain News. Bell had to hand it to the guy—he’d told that lie quickly and convincingly after being discovered tailing him and Wickersham. Though now he was at a loss as to how this man came to be tailing him in the first place.

  He went through the man’s pockets and checked the labels on all his clothes, including his shoes. None of it told him a thing. It was all nondescript and ordinary, and the only labels were for stores with Denver addresses. The man’s black leather wallet initially revealed just a couple of dollars but, on closer examination, he saw a hidden compartment with a photograph preserved between pieces of stiff paperboard.

  It showed an even younger version of “William Gibbs,” barely out of his teens, with a dark-haired, morose-looking girl of about the same age. They stood on the plaza right in front of the Eiffel Tower in Paris.

  Bell had an identical photo, only in it his wife was beaming at the camera.

  He turned it. In faded ink was written Theresa et moi 6/12/99.

  Bell chuckled. On the back of his Eiffel Tower picture he’d written Marion et moi and the date of their visit. He realized he wasn’t as clever as he’d thought since this guy had added a dash of French to his souvenir too. Bell looked again at the couple in the photograph, and the date once again, and quickly knew why Miss Theresa looked so miserable.

  Bell stood and dusted off his overalls. And heard whistling. Close by. He drew his pistol and turned in place. It was a man, and he was walking down the mountain above where Bell stood. He moved casually, hands swinging easily at his sides, though his spine remained ramrod straight. Bell didn’t need an introduction to guess this man was current or former military. He’d started whistling so his approach didn’t startle Bell, as a sign of good faith. Bell lowered the pistol, though he kept it cocked. He let the man approach, saying nothing.

  The stranger said, “I think they would have let you leave unharmed had you not brought that fancy diving gear.” He was in his fifties, with weathered skin, a squint to his blue eyes, and silver stubble on his chin and cheeks. He was a cowboy out of central casting, but the real deal and not a Hollywood facsimile. His accent was pure Kentucky honey.

  “Who were they?”

  “Big one’s named Foster Gly.”

  “And the Frenchman?”

  The newcomer cocked his head and his eyes narrowed further. “How could you know that? I saw the shot. Gly shot h
im dead so you couldn’t question him.”

  “Figured.”

  “You don’t know the half of it.”

  Bell said, “Tell me who you are, and what this is all about, and I’ll tell you how I know he was French.”

  “I’m Colonel Greggory Patmore, U.S. Army, and you have stumbled onto something you definitely shouldn’t have. I’ve been monitoring this area since we faked the accident, just hoping and praying no one came sniffing around.” He paused to survey the forlorn scenery. “I knew the frog-eaters were here, making sure just like me, but I was so high up the mountain they had no idea I was watching them while they were watching you. When all hell broke loose today, I was too far away to do much good. But truth be told, part of me was hoping these men succeeded in punching your tickets because you and your pal just became wrinkles I don’t know how to iron out. And if I don’t think of something quick, the nine men who pretended to die in that old mine are going to die for real.”

  Bell was a fast study of situations and people. He knew immediately that Patmore was someone to be trusted. He held out his hand. “My name is Isaac Bell and I am the senior detective for the Van Dorn Agency and maybe I can help you figure something out.” Patmore clasped Bell’s hand, respect in his eyes, for he knew, like so many, of the fearsome reputation enjoyed by the Van Dorns.

  8

  Gregg Patmore hiked back up to where he’d spent the past few days watching over the Little Angel Mine to get his vehicle. For his part, Bell was too anxious about Tony Wickersham to wait for the Colonel, so the two men agreed to meet at the Teller House back in Central City. If Patmore was delayed or if Tony needed immediate transport to Denver, they had a contingency plan to rendezvous at the Brown Palace. Patmore said he’d also take the time to bury the dead man.

  The sun was going down, and the REO’s headlights left a lot to be desired. Adding to his miseries, Bell was still borderline hypothermic, and exhaustion made his eyes feel gritty, the lids swollen and leaden. He was a man who knew his body’s limits because he’d asked it to perform beyond them many times in the past. He felt he was coming up fast against a new limit now. It was only his concern for Tony—a stranger yet a friend—that drove him out of the mountains toward the slumping boomtown far down the road. The weight of responsibility was an added burden.

  He finally reached town just as the sun slipped over the top of the Rockies, bringing on almost full dark with surprising suddenness. He parked near the Teller House, but left the engine running, and went into the hotel. The manager himself was behind the counter, and when Bell asked the location of Central City’s doctor, the man came around and offered to escort him since it was around the block.

  Together, the two men strode back out, Isaac invigorated by the manager’s obvious concern. He killed the REO’s motor on the way past the truck.

  Around the corner, the manager rushed ahead to open a door for Bell, saying in a loud voice, “Hey, Doc, I got a patient for you. He looks to be in need of your help.”

  “Good God, man,” Bell said indignantly. “I’m not here for myself but for a friend hurt in a hunting accident.”

  The hotel manager looked shocked that Bell wasn’t in need of medical attention and embarrassed that he’d insulted one of his guests.

  “A thousand pardons, Mr. Bell. I just . . . ah . . .”

  “Don’t worry yourself. I’m sure I look like death’s apprentice. Or worse.”

  A voice from another room called out, “What’s the problem? I’m rather busy.”

  “No problem, Doc. A little misunderstanding.”

  Bell took over the conversation. “Doctor, my name is Isaac Bell. I’m a detective with the Van Dorn Agency. Mr. Wickersham was assisting me when he was shot accidentally. How is he doing?”

  “C’mon back and see for yourself.”

  Bell followed the voice through a curtained doorway, down a short hallway, and into a brightly lit room with clean tile floors and antiseptic-white walls. A table sat in the middle of the room, with an arc lamp overhead, and there were countless metal tables on rollers covered with surgical devices and other tools of the medical trade. A counter ran along the back wall and had its own washbasin with fresh water. There, a nurse was washing out bloody towels. In all, it was thoroughly modern, and not what Bell expected from a small Colorado mining town.

  Tony Wickersham was atop the table while the doctor stood over him wearing a blood-smeared white coat over his suit pants and vest. He wore no tie. Tony was cocooned under a bladder of red rubber filled with hot water held in place by towels swaddled around him as though he were an infant. His color had retuned somewhat, but he was still paler than normal. He was also fast asleep.

  “Once he started warming up,” the doctor said, “I had to give him a few whiffs of chloroform to keep him from getting up off the table and rushing back to help you. I’m Paul Brinkerhoff, but everyone calls me Doc.” He showed Bell the blood on his palm as reason to not shake hands.

  “How is he?”

  “No ill effects from the hypothermia. Blood vessels all seem to be undamaged, and under that water bottle he’s pinking up nicely. The shoulder’s another story. The arm can stay, but only time will tell how much function he’ll have. The bullet did a lot of damage.”

  “Is there anything to be gained by taking him to Denver? Specialists? That sort of thing.”

  “The surgery’s already done. The channel of the wound dictated what needed to be repaired, so that’s that. He will certainly benefit from physiotherapy. A specialist will work the shoulder using proven techniques to increase motion, mobility, and strength. It’s a tough road, but he’s young and strong. But that’s a little bit down the road. I’ll want to keep him here for a few days and then send him back to Denver.”

  Bell nodded, encouraged. “As soon as we’re back at the hotel I’m going to telephone his employers and let them know what’s happening.” Bell was thinking he’d contribute to the fund for Tony’s upcoming rehabilitation, and he felt certain men like the Bloesers would also help pay.

  “How about you, Mr. Bell? Are you sure you’re physically okay?”

  “Nothing a hot bath and a few stiff drinks won’t cure, Doc. Thanks for your concern.” Bell laid a hand on Tony Wickersham’s good shoulder as a good-bye gesture and shook the doctor’s hand anyway before heading back to the hotel with the manager.

  “I know Tony and I know Ernst Bloeser, Mr. Bell. Would you like me to make the call for you?”

  Although Bell was sorely tempted, Tony was his responsibility. “Kind of you to offer, but this is my bullet to take.”

  The manager set up the call through the various exchanges while Isaac downed a quick shot of whiskey in the bar. When the wires were aligned, the manager motioned for Bell to enter the booth just off the reception desk. Bell did and closed its accordion door. A light automatically flickered to life above him.

  “Mr. Bloeser, this is Isaac Bell. Your brother and I met at the Brown Palace Hotel and he hired me to investigate the Little Angel Mine disaster.”

  “Hello, Mr. Bell. This is actually Hans Bloeser. I am with my brother this evening for dinner, hoping we might get some news from you.”

  “The news is not good, I’m afraid. Your man, Tony, was accidentally shot in the shoulder.” Bell heard a sharp intake of breath over the staticky line. “He’s going to be fine. The doc’s going to keep him here in Central City for a few days before sending him home.”

  A few seconds passed while Hans reiterated the news to his brother. He finally told Bell, “When the time comes, Ernst will fetch Tony and keep him at his house until the lad is up and about.”

  “The doc here mentioned physiotherapy.”

  “Ja, we will find the best in Denver and he will work with Tony every day until he is, ah, right as rain.”

  “I’m heartened to hear he has such generous support.”

 
“Mr. Bell, what about our reason for hiring you? Were you perhaps successful—”

  Bell cut him off before he could finish the question. He cited the fact that this was an open wire, but, in truth, he wanted a fuller understanding of the situation from Colonel Patmore before telling the Bloesers anything. “Why don’t we meet tomorrow night at the Brown Palace and I’ll give you my full report.”

  “Very well, Mr. Bell. Until tomorrow.”

  He exited the telephone booth and asked the manager that when one Mr. Greggory Patmore arrived, Bell was to be told immediately. His room didn’t have its own tub, but as it was between dinner and bedtime for most guests, no one disturbed him while he warmed in the large ceramic tub in the shared bathing facility. Afterward, he ate a late supper and had two more drinks. It was nearing ten at night and still no sign of the Colonel. Bell was too tired to consider this a bad omen. He repeated his instructions to the night man and went to bed.

  Patmore didn’t turn up until an hour after dawn. Bell was in the hotel restaurant, lingering over a coffee and staring idly out the window, when the military man came through from the lobby. He looked a little worse for wear, but, then again, he had been camping for the better part of a week.

  “Good morning, Mr. Bell. I thought I could race the darkness back to town, but nights fall like a trip hammer in these parts and it grew too dark. Had to camp on the side of the road.”

  “Understood. I barely made it to town myself.” Bell made a gesture for the Colonel to join him at the table.

  Patmore accepted a mug of coffee from a waitress, curling his callused fingers around the earthenware cup to soak up its warmth before taking a sip. “Give me thirty to clean up. Then come up to my room. Number eighteen.”

  “Take more time if you need it.”

  “Twenty-five years in the Army drilled a lot of things into me, Mr. Bell, and being inspection-ready as quickly as possible was probably the first.”