The Striker ib-6

by Clive Cussler

“Why New York?”

  “Report to the Boss.”

  “What happened to the telegraph?”

  “I want to see his face when I tell him what I’m thinking.”

  * * *

  Mary Higgins felt like she was falling backwards in her nightmare.

  But she knew for sure that she was not dreaming. And she certainly was not sleeping. She was too cold and wet to sleep. Besides, who could sleep standing up, much less slogging along a road that had turned to mud?

  Suddenly, screams pierced the dark, worse than any nightmare.

  “They’re coming!”

  “They’re coming!”

  A glaring white light almost as bright as a locomotive raced straight at them. Men and women scurried off the road, dragging their children into the ditches and shoving them through the hedges. Eight huge white firehorses galloped up the road towing a freight wagon on which the Coal and Iron Police mounted a gasoline dynamo and an electric searchlight. Its only purpose was to terrorize. The miners’ wives had named it the Cyclops.

  Their march was twenty miles short of Pittsburgh, and they were pressing on through the night, hoping to reach a farm where philanthropists and progressive church people were erecting a tent city. In this place, they dreamed, they would find hot food and dry blankets.

  When the Cyclops had gone and Mary was helping people to their feet, a deep despair descended upon her. The cause seemed hopeless. But worse than her fear that the march and the strikes would achieve nothing was the bleak realization there existed in the world a brand of human being that wanted to attack with something as diabolically cruel as the Cyclops. A tiny, tiny minority, her brother always said, but he was wrong. It had taken many to dream up such a monstrosity, many to build it, and many, many more to allow it.

  “Cyclops!”

  Again it roared, blazing through the night, and again they jumped. From the ditch, Mary Higgins caught a fleeting glimpse of the horses as they galloped ahead of the light, nostrils flaring, eyes bulging, heads thrashing against their harness, terrified by the whip, the dark, and the screaming.

  It was still raining when the last of the marchers straggled into the tent city at dawn. Mary was last, carrying a child in one arm and propping up the mother, a woman with a racking cough. She was surprised when church ladies, who looked like they had never missed a meal or ironed their own linen, rushed to help. They took the child and the mother to a makeshift infirmary and directed Mary to a soup kitchen under a stretched tarpaulin. Hundreds of people had lined up to eat, and she had just found the tail end when John Claggart appeared out of nowhere and pressed into her cold hands a mug of hot coffee that smelled better than seemed possible.

  Claggart had men with him. They were dressed like miners. But none, she noticed, looked like they worked with their hands, and she recognized the flash operators who hung around prize rings, pool halls, and racetracks. She saw in their eyes their contempt for the miners.

  “Who are those men?” she asked.

  “Not choirboys,” Claggart replied boldly. “But they’ll get the job done.”

  The word accomplices wormed its way into her mind.

  “Criminals?” she asked.

  Claggart shrugged. “It’s not for me to judge. But I’ll bet that you and your brother know plenty of men who have been railroaded into prison for fighting the good fight.”

  “Those I know,” she said, “don’t resemble criminals.”

  Claggart said, “Give me a brave man, quick on his feet, and I don’t care what you call him as long as he knows that the bosses are the real bums. Now, listen carefully. I have more barges tied along the banks and more boats to move them into the channel.”

  * * *

  “Missed your spittoon. Sorry, chief.”

  Henry Clay recognized the brown trail of tobacco juice that soiled his pale blue Aubusson carpet for what it was, a challenge by a thug who had never lost a fight and was too stupid to imagine that he ever would. A dozen of them — all blood-oath members of the Hudson Dusters, a West Side New York docks gang — had crowded into his front office through the back hall. He would never permit these scum in his private rooms. Most didn’t know him from Adam. All they knew was their boss had ordered them to appear for a special job. But now, instead of quietly listening to Clay’s orders, they were snickering at the mess on his carpet.

  The spitter’s second mistake was to underestimate a Wall Street swell just because he wore a splendid suit of clothes. Clay stood up. The Dusters’ boss and his enforcer exchanged expectant glances. Pain was about to be suffered.

  “What’s your name?” Clay asked.

  “What’s it to you?”

  “Tell him your name,” said the boss, signaling Clay that he had no desire to get in the middle.

  “Albert,” said the thug, watching with amusement as Clay walked closer.

  “Not to worry about missing the spittoon, Albert. Just lick it up.”

  “What?”

  “Lick it up.”

  “Go—”

  Clay hit him high, low, and in between, then put him in a hammerlock, slammed him facedown on the floor, and jerked his pinioned arm higher and higher until the gangster screamed. Eventually, his screams turned to pleas. Clay jerked harder. Pleas dissolved into sobs.

  Clay let go.

  “Don’t bother licking it up, Albert. We know you would, and that’s all that matters.”

  Eleven Hudson Dusters laughed.

  “All right, boyos, you’re here because I have a strong feeling that I am going to have an angry caller bursting into my office. When he arrives, I want you to beat him slowly to a pulp. Make what happened to Albert here seem like a friendly wrestling match.”

  “When’s he coming?”

  “Soon. Meantime, there’s a spread laid out in the back room and cots where you can nap. Don’t get drunk, don’t molest my staff, and don’t spit on the carpet. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  After they had trooped out, Clay unlocked his private office and focused his telescope on Judge Congdon’s window. The Judge was hard at work, bullying someone on the telephone. Clay put on his hat, bid his staff farewell, went down to the street, entered the Congdon Building, and rode the elevator to the top floor.

  Congdon kept him waiting half an hour. When he did allow him into his office, he said, “I’m busy. Make this quick.”

  “This may be my last report in person for a while,” said Clay.

  Somehow, Isaac Bell had survived. Clay blamed himself. He had made a rare mistake sending assassins instead of doing the job himself and he had no option but to pay the price.

  “What’s wrong?” Congdon demanded.

  “Suffice it to say that events are on schedule.”

  30

  Isaac Bell reported to Joseph Van Dorn in Van Dorn’s office twenty minutes after the Pennsylvania Railroad ferry landed at Twenty-third Street.

  “I’m afraid Wish got stabbed. The blade missed his vitals, but it was a shock to his system, and he’s out of commission for weeks.”

  “Stabbing Aloysius Clarke used to be near impossible. I’ve warned the man a hundred times that drink would slow him down.”

  “Not drink,” Bell answered coldly. “He took a knife meant for me.”

  Van Dorn lowered his gaze. “Sorry, Isaac. I should not have said that. He’ll be O.K.?”

  “I found him the best doctor in Chicago.”

  “The agency will pay for it.”

  “I already have.”

  They sat silent for a moment, Bell biding his time until Van Dorn felt impelled to speak.

  “How’d you make out with Rosania?”

  “As I hoped. He is indeed studying shaped charges. And so is our provocateur.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Rosania actually ran into him up in Newport outside the Torpedo Station.”

  “You’re sure Rosania wasn’t having you on?”

  “Positive. He described a man who looked
very much like the one I’ve seen. He thought he had a Chicago accent, but he swore he’d never seen him before.”

  “So if he was from Chicago, he was gone before Rosania went into business.”

  “Judging by what Wish and I ran up against, he’s stayed on speaking terms with the Chicago police.”

  Van Dorn shrugged. “Money talks to Chicago cops.”

  “You’re friends with some, sir. Could you ask around?”

  “We won’t stay friends if I just go fishing. Do you happen to have a name I could lay on them?”

  “His name is a bit of a dead end so far,” Bell admitted and fell silent again.

  At length, Van Dorn asked, “Where’s the rest of your gang?”

  “Weber and Fields are in Pittsburgh with Archie. Mack discovered a county sheriff is making secret arrangements to extradite union leaders back to West Virginia for the murder of Black Jack Gleason.”

  Van Dorn gave an admiring whistle. “Mack must have burrowed mighty deep into the sheriff’s office to find that.”

  “Wally claims that the sheriff’s girlfriend took a shine to Mack.”

  “I’d have thought Mack’s seducing days were over.”

  “And Wally’s collected rumors of a radical attack on the railroads.”

  “What sort?”

  “Trestle bombings, Wally thinks.”

  Van Dorn shook his head. “Lunatics.”

  “Plenty of lunacy to go around. Pittsburgh is bracing for the marchers. Half the Monongahela Valley is joining up along the route. So the Pinkertons and the Coal and Iron Police are offering a bounty for city prisoners released early to fight the strikers.”

  “Good God! How’d your squad find that out?”

  “Archie infiltrated the Coal and Iron Police.”

  “He’s only an apprentice.”

  “Archie convinced them he’s on the lam from Idaho for beating a miner to death with his fists. They welcomed him like a brother.”

  “That is very dangerous for an apprentice to be alone inside. Too dangerous. What if they tumble to him? He doesn’t have the experience to see it coming, and with no one to back him up, God knows what will happen.”

  “Anyone who challenges Archie Abbott’s boxing skills will quickly cease to doubt his story.”

  “I’ll shake Archie’s hand, but I want you to take him off that job.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ve already shifted Archie from the Coal and Iron Police to shadow someone slightly less dangerous.”

  “Who?”

  “You want to know what Mary Higgins is up to. Well, so do I.”

  “Any hint?”

  “She’s back in Pittsburgh. And she still refuses Van Dorn protection. That’s why I put Archie on her.”

  Van Dorn gave a faint smile. “You must trust your friend immensely to let him shadow a girl you’re sweet on — don’t bother denying that.”

  Bell grinned back. “I’m hoping that Archie recalls the only boxing match he lost.”

  “Back to business. What’s your next step?”

  The mirth left the young detective’s face. He looked the Boss in the eye. “I am about to identify the provocateur.”

  “You are?”

  “With your help.”

  “Me? How?”

  “Start by looking at this.”

  Bell’s hand flicked to his boot. He laid his throwing knife on Van Dorn’s desk.

  “I’m looking at it. What about it?”

  “You gave it to me.”

  “I give one to all my apprentices.”

  “The man who got the drop on me in the Tombs cellar was packing the same knife.”

  “Shows he knows his business. It’s a good one.”

  “It was identical.”

  “I get them from a cutler in Connecticut. His craftsmen turn out thousands. What are you up to, Isaac?”

  Bell said, “This man knows a lot about me. He knew about my sleeve gun.”

  Joseph Van Dorn looked amused. “Isaac, if you were a stranger and I ran up against you in a dark cellar, I’d check for a sleeve gun so quick it would make your head spin.”

  “He also knew about the one-shot in my pocket.”

  “You can bet I’d look for one of those, too. Though, first, I’d inspect your shoulder holster — remove the heavy artillery.”

  “He did that, too. First.”

  “Like I say, everything you reported about him suggests a fellow who can handle himself.”

  Bell picked up his throwing knife. He balanced it on one finger and flicked it gently with another to make the light play on it.

  “Mr. Van Dorn, do you remember who taught me how to throw a knife?”

  Van Dorn laughed. “I tried. But you were so damned bullheaded, you insisted on that overhand throw they taught you in the circus.”

  “It’s got more power. The knife travels farther and hits harder.”

  “Overhand looks fancy,” Van Dorn shot back. “But it’s slower and not as accurate.”

  “Than what?”

  “Than what? You know what. What are you talking about?”

  “Say it, please.”

  Van Dorn gave him a puzzled look. At length, quizzical wrinkles furrowed his brow as it dawned on him that his young detective was asking for a reason. “Sidearm. Overhand is slower than a sidearm. And, in my experience, less accurate.”

  “Speaking of accurate, his main artillery is a Colt Bisley.”

  A peculiar look flickered across Van Dorn’s face. He tugged reflexively at his beard.

  “Yes,” he said slowly. “As I said, a professional through and through.”

  “Mr. Van Dorn, you know this man.”

  “If I know him, I’ll get him. Who is he?”

  “I don’t know his name.”

  “What does he look like?”

  “Big fellow. Broad in the shoulders. Light on his feet.”

  “What color hair?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Eyes?”

  “He’s got yellow eyes.”

  Van Dorn stared. “Are you sure?”

  “I saw them.”

  “Did Rosania?”

  “Rosania was not quite as sure. But I saw them twice. In the coal mine. And in the Tombs. Yellow and gold, almost like a wolf.”

  Van Dorn surged to his feet and grabbed his hat.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’ll take care of this.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  “Stay where you are!” Van Dorn shouted. “I’ll take care of it myself.”

  He pushed so hard out the door that it banged against the wall of the detectives’ bull pen, knocking street maps and wanted posters askew. When he shoved through the hall door, frosted glass shattered. Then he was gone, storming down the hotel’s grand stairs, barreling across the lobby, and shouting on Broadway, “Cab! You there. Stop now!”

  He leaped aboard, next to the driver.

  “Wall Street!”

  By the time Bell reached the sidewalk, the cab careened around the corner on one wheel, and the horse broke into a gallop.

  * * *

  “Wall Street!” the hotel doormen told Isaac Bell Mr. Van Dorn had bellowed at the cabbie.

  Bell ran full tilt to Sixth Avenue, climbed the steep covered stairs to the Elevated three at a time, and reached the platform just as a downtown train pulled away. The next seemed like it would never come.

  31

  Isaac Bell jumped off the el at the Rector Street stop, pounded down the stairs and across Rector, cut through Trinity Church’s cemetery, and bolted across Broadway, dodging six lanes of streetcars, wagons, autos, freight vans, and carriages. He stopped at the head of Wall Street, praying he had gotten there before Joe Van Dorn. He had never seen the Boss so disturbed and knew his rage would make him reckless, which was a dangerous state in which to confront the provocateur.

  But now that he was here, how to find him?

  Wall Street stretched nearly half a mil
e between the soot-blackened graves in Trinity’s cemetery to the East River docks and was lined on both sides by innumerable buildings. The cab Van Dorn had hailed was one of thousands of identical black horse-drawn two-wheelers, and all that Bell had seen of the driver was a wizened man in a black coat and a flat cap.

  Many cabbies wore a tall black stovepipe. He could eliminate them as he ran down Wall Street. But his best clue would be an exhausted horse with its coat lathered from galloping top speed from Forty-third Street. He found one in the second block, forelegs spread wide, head down, flanks heaving.

  “Ready in a jiff, sir,” the driver called. “He’s not so bad as he looks. Just catching his breath.” He jerked the reins to pull its head up.

  Bell kept running. The driver was wearing a top hat.

  A block down, a crowd had gathered in the street, blocking traffic. Bell pushed through it. He saw a hansom cab with its traces empty. A horse was in the street, down on the cobblestones. A wizened man in a flat cap knelt beside it, stroking its face.

  Bell pushed beside him and pressed ten dollars into his hand. “For the vet. Where did your fare go?”

  The cabbie pointed mutely at a small, well-kept office building.

  Bell ran to it, shouted to the doorman, “Big fellow, red hair and beard?”

  “Blew past me like a maddened grizzly.”

  Bell ran into the lobby and grabbed the elevator runner. “Big man. Red beard. What floor?”

  The runner hesitated and looked away.

  Bell seized his tunic in his fist. “That man is valuable to me. What floor?”

  “Tenth.”

  “Take me.”

  “Mister, I don’t think you ought to go up there.”

  Bell shoved him out of the car, slammed the gate shut, and rammed the control to rise at full speed. He overshot the tenth, brought it back down, threw the door open, and leaped out into the shambles of a business office. Chairs and desks were tumbled everywhere, glass was shattered, and five men in colorful gangster garb lay still on the carpet.

  Five more were gripping Joseph Van Dorn by his arms and legs. A sixth was swinging wildly at his face. The man’s fists had already blackened his eye and split his lip, but Van Dorn had not seemed to notice as he battled to free his arms.