The Gray Ghost

by Clive Cussler

  * * *

  —

  MY COUSIN BEGAN TO STIR as the laudanum wore off, and I reached down, lifted his head so that I could see his face. “You’re awake,” I said.

  Reggie’s eyes opened, then widened as he saw me watching him. He tried screaming through the gag tied around his mouth, as he struggled to free himself from the ropes around his wrists and feet. When that failed, he kicked at the coach door. As Miss Atwater scooted to the other side, I brought the heel of my boot down on his shins. “Do that again and you’ll regret it.”

  He tried speaking through the gag. I dug my heel in harder. “Do not test my patience.” I leveled my sternest look on him. “A word of warning, cousin. You make a noise loud enough to be heard by anyone other than me, I’ll kick your teeth out. Do you understand?” I asked, enunciating each word clearly.

  For the first time ever, I saw fright in Reggie’s eyes.

  I hated resorting to violence, but Mr. Bell’s life depended on my cousin’s silence. Bell told us that if the man in the tavern suspected anything was amiss, if he suspected Isaac at all, he’d likely try to kill him.

  I refused to have anyone’s death on my conscience, especially Mr. Bell’s. Not that I was worried the man couldn’t handle himself—after all, he’d single-handedly taken down both Reggie and his accomplices and recovered the stolen Grey Ghost in the process. What we hadn’t recovered was the stolen treasure, but Mr. Bell assured us that it was only a matter of time.

  I looked out the window, saw Isaac Bell stepping out of the tavern, looking very much like the dandy he was trying to portray. A swarthy dark-haired man followed him out, and the pair walked in our direction.

  When they reached the coach, Isaac rapped on the door, calling out, “Apparently, this man is under orders that he’s only to deal with Mr. Reginald Oren. They’re insisting on seeing him. Now.”

  Miss Atwater and I exchanged glances. She lifted her hand as though holding a glass to her lips.

  She was as brilliant as she was beautiful. I realized, though, that to allay suspicion, such news of Reginald’s intoxication would sound better coming from a woman. I leaned toward her, whispering that she should respond.

  She hesitated but a second before leaning toward the window and pulling the curtain open just enough for the pair outside to see only her. “He’s . . . had a bit much to drink, but I’ll see if I can’t rouse him.”

  “Thank you,” Mr. Bell said. He stepped back from the coach, giving a bland smile.

  The other man looked in the window, trying to see, but she closed the curtain. “This better not be some trick,” he said.

  “I assure you, it’s not,” Isaac said.

  Using my father’s dagger, I leaned in close to Reggie, whispering a reminder about the loss of his teeth if he so much as uttered something I didn’t like. I pulled down his gag and dragged him up, hoping the man outside didn’t notice the odd rocking of the coach as I forced my cousin to the window, whispering, “Be careful.”

  Miss Atwater pulled the curtain for him to look out.

  “What?” Reggie barked.

  The man shifted on his feet as he peered into the window. “Mr. Keene said you were the only one we were to talk to. No one else.”

  When Reggie said nothing, I pressed the point of my father’s dagger into his spine. “So here I am,” Reggie said. “Now, make the sale.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “You heard me. I’m here now. You want the forty-fifty? Tell Keene to bring the money.”

  “This wasn’t how you said it—”

  I pressed harder. Reggie’s shoulder jerked toward the window. “Tell Mr. Keene to bring the money to my uncle’s warehouse,” he said through gritted teeth. I poked him again. “And to hurry. Before I change my mind.”

  The man narrowed his eyes as though not quite trusting what he was hearing. After a moment, he shrugged, looking at Isaac. “I’ll be off, then.”

  After he left, I wanted to follow, but Isaac bade me wait. “Why?” I asked. “He’ll lead us right to this Mr. Keene.”

  “Barclay Keene?” Miss Atwater said.

  “And who would that be?” Bell asked.

  “The man who owns the Barclay Keene Electric Motor Works,” she replied. “He’s married to the sister of the headmaster at the orphanage. I’ve heard tell the business is struggling financially.”

  “Interesting,” Bell said. “Perhaps where some of that money embezzled from the orphanage is ending up?”

  It made perfect sense to me. What I didn’t understand was, why weren’t we immediately going after Keene to make an arrest? And so I asked Mr. Bell.

  “Because we only have the word of your cousin, an admitted thief and murderer. Not much good against that of a prominent businessman, wouldn’t you say? My feeling is, the more evidence against Keene, the better.”

  “But there’s our good word,” I said. “And that of Miss Atwater.”

  Miss Atwater reached out, placing her gloved hand on my arm. “What is it you suggest, Mr. Bell?” she asked.

  “We wait at the warehouse for this Barclay Keene to bring the money. He can hardly deny his involvement, then, can he?”

  Though it was a tense hour waiting in the cold warehouse, Miss Atwater and I hid in the shadows, along with two constables, whom Mr. Bell had called in. Finally, Mr. Keene and his man arrived. Byron, still playing Reggie’s coach driver, met them at the warehouse door, and the two men walked in, Keene’s eye on the Grey Ghost, which we’d parked inside.

  “Nicely done,” Keene said, trying to hand his satchel of money to Reggie, who was seated in a chair, with Mr. Bell standing right behind him. Keene, apparently, failed to realize that something was amiss until he noticed Reggie wasn’t reaching out to take it.

  He couldn’t. His hands were tied behind his back, though that detail was concealed by the cloak Mr. Bell had put over my cousin’s shoulders.

  “What on earth?” Keene said.

  Reggie gave him a cynical smile. “I have some bad news, Keene.”

  The older man frowned, not understanding until the two constables stepped into the light, surrounding him. The man from the tavern drew a dagger, lunging at one of the constables, but Isaac Bell was quicker. He tackled the younger man, and the blade clattered to the floor. I stepped forward to help, but Keene drew a pistol. I stopped as he fired, the bullet so close that I felt my cloak move as it passed. Had he not hesitated before taking a second shot, distracted by Bell calling my name, I’d be dead. I knew instinctively what Bell wanted. I tossed my father’s cane. It barely hit Bell’s hand, the shaft almost a blur as he swung it toward Keene, knocking the pistol from his grasp, then bringing it upward in one fluid motion, striking Keene’s jaw with the brass handle. As Keene stumbled, Bell recovered the man’s gun, aiming it at him. “I believe our work is done here,” he said, when Miss Atwater cried out.

  We all turned to see Reggie slumping to the floor, shot by Keene’s pistol.

  I rushed to his side, kneeling. “Reggie . . .”

  His face ashen, he looked at me, asking for his wife.

  “Of course,” I said, looking around for help. “Let’s get help first.”

  But Mr. Bell, seeing the growing stain on Reggie’s torso, shook his head. “Bring her here,” he said quietly, as he folded Reggie’s cloak and pressed it to the wound.

  “Byron,” I said. “Would you . . . ?”

  My friend nodded, ran from the building. Mr. Bell and I laid Reggie on the floor, while Miss Atwater took her own cloak, fashioning a pillow for Reggie. I was at once amazed by her fortitude, as well as by her forgiveness of the man who’d kidnapped her.

  After several minutes, his breathing grew shallow, and we knew his time with us was nearing an end.

  “The treasure, man,” Mr. Bell said, patting him on the cheek to rouse him. “Where is it?”


  “My wife . . . Where . . . ?”

  “On her way,” I said.

  “Tell her . . . The music . . . Give it to her, would you, cousin?”

  “What music?”

  Bell said, “I saw sheets of music in the chest with the car parts.”

  “Miss Atwater,” I said. “Would you mind?”

  She stood, her gaze lingering on Bell’s bloody hand as he pressed the cloak to Reggie’s stomach. Looking away, she hurried to the chest on the floor beside the Grey Ghost, lifted the lid, and pulled out several sheets of music. She carried them over to us. “This?” she asked him.

  He opened his eyes. “She wanted . . . to learn . . .”

  “Save your strength,” I said, seeing what an effort it was for him to speak. “She’ll be here.”

  “The treasure!” Bell asked again. “Tell us!”

  And just when I thought he’d left us, he looked right at me. “You . . . helped . . .”

  “Helped what?” I asked.

  But it was too late. He was gone.

  Keene denied knowing anything of the treasure or the train robbery. He was in it only to ruin Rolls-Royce. The saddest part that night was having to tell Reggie’s wife, Elizabeth, of all that had transpired, once she’d arrived.

  Her stoic expression, as she listened, nearly broke me. A tear slipped down her cheek. “Where is he?”

  We stood aside. Her breath caught. She walked over, looked down at him, sank to her knees and called him a fool. “Why?”

  Her ragged whisper tore through me. I put my hand on her shoulder, but she pushed me away, then started out.

  Miss Atwater held out the sheets of music to her. “Your husband wanted you to have these,” she said.

  Elizabeth took the music, looked over each page in disgust, tossed it all into the Grey Ghost. “Music won’t feed my child,” she said.

  “Mrs. Oren,” Isaac Bell called out as she started to walk off. “I’m very sorry for your loss. But if you know where the stolen money is . . .”

  “If my husband took any money, he failed to tell me about it. So, please. Allow me to take my leave. I need to return to my son.”

  And though I insisted she was welcome to stay at Payton Manor, she refused. I fear she blamed me for her husband’s death. Perhaps she was right. The next day, she took her son and left, with naught but the clothes they wore. For weeks after, we searched the Grey Ghost, the warehouse, and Payton Manor, thinking that a half million dollars would be difficult to hide, but we never located any sign of the missing money. And this despite Mr. Bell’s assurances, his last words to us being “You’ll find it.”

  85

  The five of them listened, transfixed, as Trevor related what he recalled from the last journal entry.

  “No doubt about it,” Sam said, “the sheet music is the clue. Maybe the notes are a code. Has anyone ever really looked at it since it was found?”

  “The music?” Oliver asked. “I wouldn’t even know the first place to look. We could try to ask Uncle Albert, I’m just not sure it would do any— I say, Fargo. Didn’t Uncle Albert say something about your mother and my father finding the music back when?”

  “He did at that.” Sam checked the time, took out his phone, and called his mother. He turned it on speaker so that everyone could hear.

  “Sam? Is everything okay? How’s Albert?”

  “He’s fine. Everyone’s fine,” he said. His mother had been upset with him for waiting so long to tell her about everything that had happened—until he’d explained about the hacking. He’d insisted that he would’ve called her earlier, except he was worried that she’d end up getting hacked, too. He wasn’t sure if she believed him and started right in with the question, hoping she wouldn’t think to belabor the point. “Albert was telling us about how you and his brother found the sheet music in the Gray Ghost that was mentioned in the journal.”

  “Sheet music?” Several seconds ticked by, then she laughed. “That was so long ago, I’d almost forgotten. We used to play detectives. Something about a treasure we were going to find, and the music was a clue.”

  “Do you know where it is?”

  “The treasure?”

  “The music.”

  She laughed again. “It was falling apart when we found it all those years ago. I expect it ended up in the trash, at some point.”

  “Did you get a good look at it?”

  “Decades ago. Hold on . . .” She must have muted the call, as it went silent. A few seconds later, she was back on the line. “Just saying good-bye to my afternoon charter. Now, what is it you’re hoping I saw?”

  “Anything. Something written on it. Notes circled.”

  “If there was, it had faded by the time we found it.” She started humming a somewhat off-key but familiar tune. “‘Come away with me, Lucille . . .’”

  “‘In My Merry Oldsmobile’?” Sam and Remi asked together.

  “That’s the song!” she said. They heard a muffled noise, as though she were covering over the receiver. A moment later, she was back. “Hate to cut it short, but I need to return to my guests.”

  “Thanks, Mom.” Sam smiled at Remi. “Reggie’s version of a message in a bottle to his wife?”

  “Except the car’s been searched,” she said.

  “Many times,” Oliver added. “Maybe someone knew about the music. After all, there were several people in and out of the warehouse that night. Byron, the night watchmen. Maybe one of them went back.”

  “I don’t buy it,” Sam said. “As good a detective as this Isaac Bell was, I’d have to think searching the Ghost for the missing treasure was the first thing he did.”

  Oliver tried for a cheerful smile. “Doesn’t really matter now, does it? We’re all safe, and that’s what counts.”

  Trevor looked crestfallen, as he turned toward Remi. “You read the journal. Reggie told Jonathon twice. You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?”

  Remi locked eyes with the boy. Sam knew how her brain worked. She was mentally ticking off the facts she’d read with a speed that always amazed him. Suddenly she smiled, then looked at Sam. “That music was a message to his wife. After all, Reggie specifically requested that it be given to her. And if you recall, when Payton told him to think about his wife and child before he did something he’d regret, Reggie specifically said that’s exactly whom he was thinking of. He—”

  “Knew the risks,” Sam said. “Maybe preparing for the eventuality he might not come back and sending her a message in case something happened to him?”

  “Maybe,” Remi said, looking up something on her phone. “Another possibility is that Reggie was trying to make things right at the end.”

  “How?” Oliver asked her.

  “With his dying declaration. Trevor’s correct,” she said, earning a smile from the boy. “He’d told Payton not once, but twice, that Payton had helped him move the treasure. Admittedly, the first time it was more of a taunt, right after he’d been captured by Bell. But the second time was after he’d been shot, and he specifically told them to give the music to his wife . . .” Remi’s attention was suddenly drawn to something on her phone’s screen.

  “It makes sense,” Oliver said. “We know Isaac Bell was desperately trying to get him to say where he’d hidden the treasure before he died. And we know Reggie’s last words to Payton were ‘You helped.’ Still, was the answer in the journal or not?”

  “I think it is,” Remi said. Sam recognized that look in her eyes. There was no “think” about it. She knew what the answer was and held up her phone, showing them a photo of the sheet music from the internet. “That song was very popular in 1905 and early ’06.” She glanced at Sam. “Maybe a bit of that British irony, when you think about it.”

  “You mean he picked the song for the car reference, but not because he hid the treasure in
the car?”

  Her catlike smile was all the answer Sam needed.

  Remi knew exactly where that treasure was.

  86

  Sam sat back and watched as Remi and Trevor discussed what was in the journal, the others looking on. As their discussion progressed, he could see the boy’s confidence growing, as she subtly guided him, allowing him to see what she saw, without ever giving away that she even knew the answer. After a few more minutes of back-and-forth between the two, Remi nodded thoughtfully. “I wonder if any of this has something to do with Miss Atwater?”

  “Maybe,” Trevor said, his gaze fixed on his water glass, lost in thought. Suddenly his eyes widened, and he shot out of his seat, looking over at his mother, then Remi. “It was all about the music!” He ran toward the door, his demeanor one of pure excitement.

  The others hesitated, not quite sure what to think, but, just as quickly, they hurried after him, through the garden, to the Dowager Cottage, Sam and Remi bringing up the rear.

  Trevor banged on the door. Finally, Mrs. Beckett opened it. “We need to see Uncle Albert,” he said, darting past her. “It’s important.”

  Albert stepped into the parlor a moment later, as they all filed in after Trevor. “What’s all this? Didn’t know we were having guests, Mrs. Beckett.”

  “Neither did I.”

  Trevor walked over to the pianoforte, pulling out the bench, taking a seat, lifting the cover from the keys. “Miss Atwater sat right here, next to Payton.” He hit one of the bass keys, then another, and another, each making a plunking noise. “She told him it needed tuning.”

  Sam and Remi stood back as Oliver and Chad lifted off the top of the piano so that they could see inside. Oliver told Trevor to do the honor of looking in, handing him his cell phone to use as a flashlight.

  Trevor hesitated, glancing shyly at Remi. She smiled at him, and he turned on the light, shining it into the depths of the piano. He looked back at her, then his mother, his face filled with wonder. “There’s something down there. Mum . . . You have to see this.” He handed her the phone. When she and Oliver moved in, Trevor looked over at Remi. “You were right, Mrs. Fargo!”