The Bootlegger

by Clive Cussler

  Bell circled for another try.

  Zolner was ready with his Lewis gun. As Bell caught up with the tanker again, he flew into streaks of blue smoke. Incendiary bullets tore through his wing. Each left a trail of fire. Flames wrapped the wing.

  “Seat belt, Asa, we have to land.”

  “How can we stop him if we land?”

  “Watch me.”

  The wind, Bell thought, was blowing behind the ship, in line with her course up the channel, which would not make a dicey maneuver any easier. But slowing the plane by landing into the wind was not an option. Fanned by the slipstream, the fire enveloped the entire wing and tumbled into the passenger cabin directly behind the cockpit. He had no choice but to come down fast and hard.

  • • •

  OLD DONALD DARBEE stopped his oyster boat in the middle of his hurricane whisky run to see what happened next. He and little Robin had noticed the tanker proceeding up the channel when no one in his right mind but a rumrunner was out. Then the tanker’s crew lowered a boat and rowed away. But the ship kept going. Then Isaac Bell’s airplane, which he recognized because it was identical to the Newport Flying Service planes but didn’t have that name written on it, swooped out of the storm and dropped a bomb on the tanker.

  That didn’t do a thing to it. Then the tanker shot blue tracer bullets at Bell. And now Bell’s plane was falling out of the sky with its wings on fire.

  “When he hits the water,” he told Robin, “we’ll pick up the pieces.”

  “He won’t hit the water,” said the little girl. “He’ll hit the ship.”

  Sharp-eyed Robin was right. Bell’s plane was flying behind the ship, catching up at forty knots to the tanker’s twelve. At the last second, it dodged the funnel and smacked down on the middle of the ship, slid along the flat deck between the funnel and the house in a shower of sparks, and banged to a stop against a ventilator.

  “That can’t have done Mr. Bell any good,” Darbee said to Robin. “Might as well head home.”

  “Let’s wait,” said Robin.

  “What for?”

  “It isn’t over.”

  • • •

  “OUT!”

  Bell grabbed the Thompson .45 in one hand and Asa with the other. He half helped, half threw the boy over the side, hooked a bundle of stick grenades on his belt, and jumped down beside him. “Run before it blows.”

  “It will blow up the ship.”

  “That’s what I’m hoping.”

  They ran toward the house and took cover around the front of it.

  Bell’s flying boat exploded. Wings, tail, floats, most of the passenger cabin, and the burning fuel tank flew into the wind and fell in the harbor. The few parts still smoldering on the steel deck were drenched by the rain. The ship, which was pounding ahead at twelve knots, and its flammable cargo, seemed immune. Bell had one hope left.

  He drew his Browning pistol and shoved it into Asa’s hand. “Stay here. Take this. Shoot anybody who tries to follow me.”

  Detonating the three-inch shells stacked around the cannon would blow the bow off the ship and stop her dead. He had failed to do it from the safety of the air. Here on the ship, the trick would be to do it without blowing himself up, too. Bell ran toward the cannon on the foredeck. Could he throw a grenade accurately enough to detonate the shells yet from far enough to escape with his life? He was reaching for one on his belt when he heard a shot behind him.

  Bell whirled around. Asa had fallen to the deck.

  A shadow swooped out of the rain like a giant bird. In the corner of his vision Bell saw a wet rope glistening. He saw Marat Zolner’s face—lips drawn with effort, eyes eerily calm. He saw a rubber-soled boot. The boot was flying at his face. Bell slewed aside. It slammed into his chest, knocked the Thompson out of his hands, and threw him halfway across the ship.

  Bell tucked his shoulder, rolled, and sprang to his feet in a fighting crouch.

  He was amazed to see the tall, lithe Russian so near, he could almost touch him.

  Zolner was holding the rope. It was tied to the front rail on top of the wheelhouse, and Bell saw that he had jumped from the back to swing three stories to the deck.

  “Simple physics, Bell. What are you doing on my ship?”

  “Arresting a hero.”

  “You’ve spoken with Fern.” Zolner let go of the rope.

  Isaac Bell attacked, throwing lightning jabs and a hard left hook. He landed all three punches. Zolner shrugged them off. Bell threw two more with the same lack of effect. The man was so fast, it was like punching quicksilver.

  Bell had twenty pounds on him, a huge advantage. He used it, wading in, punching hard. Ducking and weaving with incredible speed, Zolner pulled a long-handled blackjack from a back pocket and swung it. The blow was remarkable for its power and its accuracy, and Isaac Bell realized, as pain blazed through his elbow, that Zolner had hit him exactly where he intended to. His arm hung limply, coursing like fire, useless.

  Zolner smiled. “That should even things up.” He shifted the blackjack from one hand to the other, left to right, right to left, fast as a juggler. The weapon was a blur and suddenly, in a burst of synchronized movement, it jumped at Bell’s face.

  43

  THE BLACKJACK whistled through the air. It came from Bell’s left and Bell could not lift his left arm high enough to block the bone-crushing blow. He struggled to raise it anyway. Otherwise, he hardly moved.

  The blackjack grazed his nose.

  Bell had moved just enough to let the blackjack pass and draw Zolner’s arm across his torso. He concentrated one hundred seventy-five pounds of bone and muscle to crash a low right cross straight into Zolner’s rib cage. His reward was a soft crack of bone and a gasp.

  The Comintern agent staggered.

  Bell moved to finish him off.

  Zolner was too fast and too strong. The body blow should have doubled him up. But before Bell could retract his right fist and cock it for another blow, Zolner charged with sudden fury, kicking, punching, swinging his blackjack. Another strike against Bell’s elbow took his breath away. They grappled. Zolner broke loose.

  Bell swiped blood out of his eyes, vaguely aware that the blackjack had torn his brow. He felt as if the tanker’s deck was shaking under his feet.

  Zolner circled. Hunched, favoring his side, he said, “None of this would have happened if your precious boss hadn’t blundered into a bullet.”

  “Three bullets.” Bell went straight at him.

  Zolner sidestepped and jerked his thumb in the direction where Asa had fallen on the deck. “Is your vengeance worth it? The boy is dead. Your boss is crippled. And I’ll go home a hero.”

  Bell stopped in his tracks.

  He’s outfoxed me at nearly every turn, he thought. He’s outfoxing me now, but I don’t know how. Bell knew he was not thinking clearly. He was exhausted after two days in the storm. His arm was on fire. Something was going on that he didn’t understand.

  Suddenly, it struck Bell why the deck was shaking.

  The tall detective smiled. “The tanker is moving. You’ve got a man in the engine room and a helmsman steering. And I’m along for the ride because you told Fern you’ll make me sorry.”

  “The boy is dead,” Zolner repeated.

  Bell looked toward Asa, sprawled where he had left him at the back of the wheelhouse. He glanced over his shoulder at the deck cannon. Then he swept the foredeck with probing eyes.

  “You’re a brilliant liar. But I heard only one shot from my gun. Asa shot at you and missed you. You slugged him as you swung past. And now you are stalling me while your fireship steams on.”

  Bell turned as if to run to Asa. Zolner whirled to intercept him.

  Bell spun the other way, darted across the ship, and scooped up the Thompson that Zolner had kicked out of his hands. By force of will, he closed his left hand around the forward grip, braced it against his body, and pulled the trigger. The recoil whipped it out of his weakened hand. All but the first bul
let sprayed into the sky. The first struck its target.

  Bell dived for cover.

  A three-inch cannon shell exploded like thunder. A second detonated, and they all went off with a force that bucked the ship from end to end and lifted him five feet off the deck and dropped him like a sack of coal. He scrambled to his feet and ran for Asa. Zolner got there ahead of him. Bell pegged a wild shot that passed close to Zolner’s head. Zolner ducked. Bell slammed him out of his way, heaved Asa Somers over his right shoulder, ran to the side of the ship, and jumped.

  He seemed to fall forever before they splashed into the water.

  It closed over his head. He kicked as hard as he could to push the boy to the surface. Asa struggled. The cold water had revived him.

  “Swim!” Bell roared at him. “Swim!” And the apprentice obeyed.

  The hull was rushing past. Explosion after explosion shook the ship.

  Jagged chunks of wood, steel rails, and burning canvas rained into the water around them. Ash fell like snow, oil splashed. Bell kicked his feet and paddled with his one good arm. The ship was past them now, drawing away, still hurtling toward the city. It disappeared into the murk of rain and fog. Bell thought all was lost. But just when it seemed that nothing could stop the fireship from steaming to Wall Street, a column of fire evaporated the rain and fog. Roaring from the ruptured hold, pluming into the sky, the fiercely burning alcohol blazed stark light on the Comintern’s tanker. It was sinking alone in the middle of the bay.

  Isaac Bell saw Marat Zolner climbing a ladder up the back of the wheelhouse, racing the fires. He reached the flying bridge and stood for a long moment, a graceful shadow against the flames.

  The wind bent the pillar of fire. An explosion blew the ship’s bow apart. Water rushed in and she settled rapidly to the bottom of the channel, disappearing except for the top of her tall funnel and a cloud of steam.

  “Wow!” said Asa. He had a huge bruise over his eye.

  “Think you can swim to shore?”

  Brooklyn seemed closest. Bell tried an abbreviated backstroke with one arm. Before they got a hundred yards, a little boat with a big engine pulled alongside, and Isaac Bell looked up into the wrinkled face of Ed Tobin’s uncle Donny Darbee.

  “I was coming by with a load of oysters,” he said. “Thought you could use a lift.”

  “In return for which,” said Bell, “you want me to talk your so-called oysters past the cops.”

  “That was Robin’s idea. She thinks we’ll get top dollar in Manhattan.”

  • • •

  A TAXI PULLED UP to the St. Regis Hotel.

  Isaac Bell stepped out, soaking wet, his mustache singed, his face and hair glazed with ash and salt and grease and blood. Asa Somers staggered after him in dripping rags.

  The doorman waved them away. Burly house detectives blocked the steps.

  “Buzz my wife,” said Bell. “Tell her I’m coming up.”

  “Wife? Who’s your wife?”

  “Mrs. Isaac Bell.”

  “It’s Himself!”

  The house detectives escorted them solicitously to the elevator. Bell stopped dead when he saw a newspaper.

  MAMMOTH HURRICANE PUMMELS SEABOARD

  NEW YORK SPARED WHEN STORM SHIFTS EAST

  STEAM YACHT FOUNDERS OFF BERMUDA

  HEIRESS FEARED DROWNED

  Bad luck? Or divine retribution? It seemed, Bell thought, harsh punishment for falling in with the wrong crowd.

  “Poor Fern,” said Asa. “She was so nice.”

  “I’m not sure Fern would like to be remembered as ‘nice.’”

  “Fräulein Grandzau liked her.”

  “So did I,” said Bell. “I’ve always liked characters.”

  • • •

  BELL LED ASA down the carpeted hall to Marion’s door.

  He was suddenly aware that every bone and muscle ached. His left arm throbbed like a burning stick. He could feel the sea pounding, as if he had never left the boat, and could hear the Libertys roaring in his ears.

  “Almost home, Asa.”

  He squared his shoulders and knocked.

  A peephole opened. A beautiful sea-coral-green eye peered through it and grew wide.

  Bell grinned. “Joe sent me.”

  Marion flung open the door. “You’re all right!”

  “Tip-top.”

  She threw her arms around him.

  “Look out, you’ll get dirty.”

  “I don’t care . . . Who’s this? . . . Oh, you must be the brave Asa who saved Joe. Come in. Come in, both of you.”

  Pauline was behind her, bright and perfumed in a thick terry robe.

  “Asa, are you all right?”

  Asa swayed and caught himself on the doorknob. “Yes, ma’am. Tip-top.”

  “Go take a bath.” She pointed down the hall. “There’s a robe on the hook.”

  Joseph Van Dorn was waiting in a wicker wheelchair. Dorothy stood beside him, her eyes at peace.

  “You look like hell,” he greeted Bell in a strong voice.

  “You look better,” said Bell. “Much improved.”

  “Hospital sprung me. That’s something.” Van Dorn hauled himself to his feet, steadied himself on the arm of the wheelchair, and reached for Bell’s hand. “Well done, Isaac. Well done. I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “Wait until you get the bill for my airplane.”

  “Airplane?”

  “And you’ll want a new bow and motors for the agency express cruiser. Don’t worry, you can afford it. Texas Walt is raking it in hand over fist out in Detroit.”

  “He’s still in business?”

  “At least until we get the Coast Guard contract back.”

  Bell turned to Pauline. “Is Ed O.K.?”

  “Ed’s fine. They stitched him up. It was a vein, not an artery . . . Isaac, I must speak with you.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Marion has given me a wonderful idea.”

  Bell glanced at Marion. “She’s good at them.”

  “I want to take young Asa for my apprentice.”

  “To Germany?”

  “With his parents’ permission, of course.”

  “I believe he’s an orphan.”

  “All the better. So am I. Isaac, make it so.”

  The chief investigator of the Van Dorn Detective Agency turned to its founder.

  Van Dorn said, “Your call.”

  Bell locked eyes with Pauline and shared a private smile. “Based on how your apprentice handled a machine gun this afternoon, you might consider allowing him to carry a small pistol.”

  “All in good time,” said Pauline. “Thank you, Isaac. And thank you, Marion.”

  Van Dorn eased himself back down into his wheelchair and rolled toward the door. “We’re shoving off. Dorothy wants me home in bed.”

  They agreed to talk in the morning. “Afternoon,” Marion corrected them. “Late afternoon.”

  A freshly scrubbed Asa Somers appeared in a bathrobe with Band-Aids plastered on his brow. Pauline spoke quietly to him and they headed out the door.

  • • •

  “ALONE AT LAST,” said Marion. “Is your arm all right? You’re favoring it.”

  “Just a little sore. Where are they going in bathrobes?”

  “I got them a room upstairs.”

  “One room?”

  “The hotel’s packed because of the storm. It has twin beds, I think,” she added briskly. “They’ll work it out.”

  “Good idea.”

  “Now, what about you?” Marion asked. “What would you like?”

  “I could use a drink.”

  Marion said, “I’ll join you.”

  “And a hot bath.”

  “I’ll join you.”

  • • •

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