and thirty-five passengers in steer — Third Class.”
“What’s for dessert in steerage?”
“On Sunday they’ll get some marmalade.”
Bell referred back to the First Class menu. “We’ll send down apple tart, petits fours, French ice cream, and rum cake.”
The chief purser looked around his office, confirming they were alone and the door was closed. “I don’t presume to ask what a private detective earns, sir, but the cost of feeding First Class fare to over a thousand souls will be considerable.”
“Fortunately,” Isaac Bell smiled, “I had a kindly grandfather. He blessed me with a legacy. Which reminds me, how many children are in steerage?”
“Many.”
“Better lay on extra ice cream.”
“Marconigram for mr. bell,” piped a twelve-year-old call boy in a blue uniform.
“Don’t move, nervous groom,” said Archie. “I’ll get it.”
The normally nimble-fingered Isaac Bell was having trouble knotting his tie, so best man Archibald Angell Abbott IV was attempting to tie it for him. Archie tossed the boy a coin that made his eyes widen and handed Bell the orange Marconi Wireless envelope.
Bell tore it open, unfolded the buff-colored marconigram, noted the date and the notation “Handed in at S.S. Adriatic,” indicating the White Star liner had relayed the radio signal from a shore station, and then began to decipher its handwritten contents while Archie started over again on his tie.
“This is odd.”
“Hold still! What’s odd?”
“Art Curtis says that Professor Beiderbecke is not a munitions inventor.”
“What does he invent?”
“Hang on, I’m still trying to figure…” Ordinarily as quick with figures as he was nimble-fingered, he was having trouble reading the familiar Van Dorn code.
“I have never seen a more jittery groom,” said Archie.
“
“What the heck is an electro-acoustic scientist?”
“Art says he holds patents for recording and amplifying speech and music.”
“Gramophones?”
The two detectives looked at each other. “What does a munitions outfit care about gramophones?”
Archie laughed. “If Krieg Rustungswerk challenges Mr. Thomas Edison’s phonograph patents they’ll see what war really is.” He saw expressions of puzzlement and intense curiosity cross Isaac Bell’s face. “What else?”
“Clyde Lynds is an honors graduate of the Polytechnic Institute.”
“Like they told you.”
“But they didn’t tell me he’s taken it on the lam.”
“Who’s chasing him?”
“The Imperial German Army issued an arrest warrant for desertion — that makes no sense at all. The kid’s no soldier.”
“Maybe that’s why he deserted.”
Bell nodded. “But he grew up in the United States, and he’s been studying in Austria. You’d think he wasn’t subject to the German draft.”
“Maybe they drafted him anyway and he didn’t show up.”
“Art speaks fluent German, and he always chooses his words precisely. He writes ‘desertion.’ Meaning Clyde Lynds was already in the Army — come on, let’s go.”
“Where?”
“I’m going to ask Beiderbecke why a munitions outfit is trying to steal his gramophone.”
As Bell yanked open the door, a page boy came along banging a Chinese gong.
“There goes the dressing gong. You don’t have time. The captain’s tying your knot in half an hour.”
“And I’m going to keep asking until he gives me an answer.”
“But your wedding—”
Bell was already out the door. “When we get up there, peel Lynds away from Beiderbecke so I can talk to the Professor alone.”
Dozens of guests had arrived early in the First Class saloon lounge, the men in white tie, the ladies in gowns, and all wearing the tentatively relieved expressions of people whose seasickness was fading into memory. As Clyde Lynds put it when Bell and Archie approached him and Beiderbecke, “Getting over seasickness is like being let out of jail.”
Archie took Lynds’s elbow. “You must tell me about your jail experiences.”
Bell steered Beiderbecke into the small bar at the front end of the lounge. “I’ve got a case of groom’s jumps. I hope you’ll join me in a drink?”
“I am not quite over my seasickness.”
“A ‘stabilizer’ for the gentleman,” Bell told the barman. “A dash and a splash for me, please.” “The stabilizer is half brandy, half port,” he explained to Beiderbecke.
Beiderbecke shuddered.
“Trust me, it works.”
“It is gracious of you to invite us to your wedding.” The Viennese professor flourished his invitation, a thick sheet of parchment paper that had been embossed in
Bell raised his whiskey and soda to the Viennese. “Continued smoother sailing.”
“And to your bride’s happiness.”
Beiderbecke sipped doubtfully and looked surprised. “The effect is immediate.”
“I told you you can trust me,” said Bell. “Now, can you tell
Franz Beiderbecke looked guilelessly at the tall detective. “I experiment how sounds might be recorded faithfully by employing electricity instead of mechanical means.”
“Can that be done?”
“That is my hope. In theory, it is a simple matter of amplifying and regenerating weak electrical signals. Though the actual doing of it is not so simple. But wait—” He blinked, perplexedly. “Wait! How do you know that? I did not discuss my field with you.”
“I was curious,” said Bell. “I marconigraphed a colleague in Berlin, who informed me that you are a famous scientist in the field of electro-acoustics.”
“Marconigrams are dear. You went to considerable expense to inquire about me.”
“I don’t often meet inventors of so-called secret inventions.”
“Can you blame my protege for being cautious?”
“I blame Clyde for risking your lives,” Bell said bluntly. “He may be smart, but he’s not smart enough to distinguish friend from foe.
Beiderbecke touched the stabilizer to his lips. “Don’t you find proteges are more interesting that one’s own children?”
“Don’t talk circles around a deadly subject, Professor. You and Clyde are in danger. What if they have accomplices on the ship? If you do make it to New York intact, what makes you think that a powerful trust like Krieg Rustungswerk can’t grab you in America?”
“I think of Prussians as pathologically insular.”
“You have invented something that those Prussians regard as unique. What sort of a weapon is it?”
“Weapon?
