The Saboteurs Clive Cussler (ebook reader with built in dictionary .txt) 📖

was an attack at the Hotel Del tonight, and Senator Densmore is missing. The explosion was noted from shore, and they wanted to know if we have any information.”

“Very well,” the captain said. He looked back at Isaac. “It appears, Mr. Bell, the civilian authorities have already been alerted to the disturbing events of this evening, and I’m inclined to let them have jurisdiction in the matter. Ensign Armstrong?”

The seaman stepped forward from the crowd of sailors. “Captain?”

“Tow Mr. Bell’s boat back to The Del, and see that he and the Senator are presented to the lead investigator at the hotel.”

“Yes, Captain.”

Bell said, “Sir, if I may be so bold, there are going to be a number of injured people back at the hotel and pier. I’m not sure how long it will take civilian medical services to arrive. I believe it would be prudent to send your ship’s surgeon and as many corpsmen as you can spare.”

The captain considered Bell’s suggestion for only a moment. “XO, round up Sawbones and his staff.”

“Aye, sir.”

“My weapon, Captain?” Bell asked before the first officer disappeared with it.

“XO?”

The man handed it to the captain, who handed it to the young ensign.

“It will be given to the lead investigator when Ensign Armstrong hands you over.”

Bell considered the offer. “Fair enough.”

Forty minutes later, the pinnace, with the shot-up runabout in tow, rounded the headland into Glorietta Bay. The marina building was bathed in light from a half dozen cars pulled around it so their headlamps could add much-needed illumination. As the distance narrowed, police could be heard coordinating the crowds to allow a pair of Cunningham motorized ambulances sent by special ferry to approach. They would take to the hospital those most injured in the attack and subsequent stampede.

To Bell’s immeasurable relief, he’d later learn that none of the injuries were more severe than broken bones or bumps and bruises, and only six people had non-life-threatening bullet wounds.

As the pinnace drew closer still, a shrill shout rose from a man in the crowd on the pier. “That’s my boat.”

Bell recognized the foppish owner, in his straw boater and striped knickerbocker pants, as he jumped up and down in place and pointed at the craft following meekly in the Navy boat’s wake. The elegant woman with him seemed bored.

The man then spotted Bell, leaning on the pinnace’s gunwale, and he yelled again. “And there’s the thief. Police. I need the police. That’s the man who stole my boat. The blond man. And the fat one too. He’s the accomplice.”

By the time the pinnace was secured to the dock, two police officers from San Diego’s legendary motorcycle squad were waiting. The owner’s outrage reached a fevered pitch when he saw the sorry state of his beloved motor launch and demanded that Bell be hanged for his crime. Ensign Armstrong interceded before Bell and Senator Densmore were clapped in irons. He explained to the cops that he was delivering the two men to the lead investigator and asked who that might be.

While the Navy doctor and his four assistants waded into the crowd in search of patients, and the excitable boatman ranted in increasingly shrill tones, Armstrong and another sailor led Bell and Densmore through the shell-shocked crowds and up the gentle hill they had rocketed down on a luggage cart a short time earlier.

The lobby was full of guests, milling about, most still dressed for the parties that had been interrupted. Waiters ghosted through the throng with trays of whiskey for the gentlemen and lemonade for the ladies, though more than a couple availed themselves of the stronger drink. Uniformed police and detectives in suits were taking statements from anyone who might have been a witness. Bell grabbed two cut-crystal tumblers off a silver tray and handed one to the Senator. The man grunted his thanks.

Bell looked anxiously for Renny Hart but didn’t spot the young Van Dorn detective. He guessed where most of the police action was taking place and pointed to the dining room doors. “The chief will be in there,” Bell told Armstrong. “That’s where the attack started.”

The young sailor was overwhelmed by The Del’s opulence, but more so by the amount of décolletage on display. “Oh, right.”

The vaulted space showed the sheer violence of the attack. Two of the chandeliers had been shattered. Their frosted-glass globes now lay in powdery splinters on the floor like newly fallen snow. Angry bullet holes had chewed up much of the intricate woodwork, leaving raw white scars in the walls and ceiling where chunks of once ornate wood had been savaged by the Lewis gun. On the floor were two shroud-covered corpses. From one, blood had leached through the white cloth and appeared black in the dim lighting.

“Uncle Bill.” Elizabeth Densmore was seated at a table with several other men, including Major Talbot and the young waiter. She launched herself from her chair and shouted his name again.

He hugged her tightly. “Are you all right, my dear?”

“Yes, I’m fine. Major Talbot and Beau led me to safety. I’ve already told Mom and Dad I’m okay, and everything. The police are just finishing taking our statements, and then Beau and I are going to take a walk along the beach. My nerves are frazzled.”

“Beau, huh?” Densmore said questioningly. He’d been through this with his own now married daughters.

San Diego’s current police chief was Jefferson “Keno” Wilson. He was tall, six foot three, and lankily built. His eyes were a lighter shade of blue than his uniform, and he sported a walrus mustache above his dimpled chin. He had jug ears and long, tapered fingers, and was known as a fair lawman for suspect and victim alike.

Bell went straight to him. At this point, he didn’t offer to shake hands. “My name is Isaac Bell. I’m a detective with the Van Dorn Agency. I’d like to know the status of my man Renny Hart?”

Wilson’s eyes narrowed. Bell wasn’t sure if he was annoyed by the question or approved of