The Assassin Clive Cussler (top 10 most read books in the world TXT) đ
- Author: Clive Cussler
Book online «The Assassin Clive Cussler (top 10 most read books in the world TXT) đ». Author Clive Cussler
Edna thought a moment. âNellie loves him as fiercely as I do. But she wasnât around for as much of it. Sheâs traveled ever since she put her teens and pinafores behind her. Here today, gone tomorrow.â
âMaybe she was trying to get away from them.â
âI donât know. Sheâs always on the roadâand at home wherever she alights.â
âYou travel, too.â
âLike a hermit crab. I carry my home with me. No matter where I land at the end of the day, Iâm at my typewriter. I thought it was time to stop writing, my crusade over.â
âIs there a purpose to stop your writing?â
âI thought I was ready to stop. But the new oil strikes make it a new story. And now the unrest in Baku threatens shortages that could upend the petroleum industry all over the world. Imagine what must be going through Mr. Rockefellerâs mind at a moment like this.â
âWhat is in Baku for him?â
âHalf the worldâs oil. And a well-established route to the customers. If they burn the Baku fields, who will supply the Russiansâ and the Nobelsâ and the Rothschildsâ markets? JDR, thatâs who, even if itâs true he retired, which I never believed . . . Listen to me! Iâm too obsessed with JDR to stop reporting on him. Just when I think Iâm done, I learn something new.â
âLike what?â
âIâve heard rumorsâspeculation, reallyâthat Rockefeller uses his publicists to communicate secretly with his partners. They plant a story. It gets printed and reprinted in every paper in the world, and those who know his code get his message . . . Boy!â
She gave two pennies to a passing newsboy hawking the early-morning edition of the Sun and scanned the paper in the blazing window of a lobster palace. âHere! Iâve traced this one back to last January. Itâs supposedly a letter he wrote to his Sunday school class from his vacation to France. âDelightful breezes. I enjoy watching the fishermen with their nets on the beach, and gazing upon the sun rising over the beautiful Mediterranean Sea. The days pass pleasantly and profitably.ââ
Bell said, âIt sounds perfectly ordinary. So ordinary, you wonder why the papers print it.â
âAny pronouncement the richest man in America makes is automatically news. They change details to keep it up to date. After he returned from Europe they added the introductory âI recall, when I was in France,â et cetera. Recently they added âthe sun rising.â Iâm sure itâs a message. Maybe it doesnât matterâexcept it might, and I canât stop writing about him . . .â She leafed through the paper. âHereâs another Iâve been following in the social sections. I cannot for the life of me figure it out, but it has to be code.â She read, ââMonmouth County Hounds, Lakewood. First Drag Hunt of the season. John D. Rockefeller in his automobile was in line at the start, but soon dropped out.â And this, supposedly about him playing golf. âStandard Oil President Rockefeller was gleeful over his foursome victory. Dominated the links with long sweeping drivesââ Why are you staring at me, Mr. Bell?â
âYou should see your face. Youâre on fire. Congratulations!â
âFor what?ââ
âAn excellent decision not to retire.â
Suddenly a ragged chorus of young voices piped, âExtra! Extra!â
Gangs of newsboys galloped out of the Times building. They scattered up and down Broadway and Seventh Avenue, waving extra editions and shouting the story.
âRich old man jumps off Washington Monument.â
Bell bought a paper. He and Edna leaned over the headline
TYCOON SUICIDE
STANDARD OIL MAGNATE LEAPS TO DEATH FROM WASHINGTON MONUMENT
and raced down the column and onto the second page.
âWhy do you think he did it?â asked Bell. âGuilt?â
Edna Matters shook her head. âClyde Lapham would have to look up âguiltâ in the dictionary to get even a murky idea of its meaning.â
âMaybe he felt the government closing in,â said Bell, knowing the Van Dorn investigation had yet to turn up enough evidence to please a prosecutor.
âIf he jumped,â said Edna, âbecause he felt the government breathing down his neck, then his last living thought must have been I should have taken Rockefeller with me.â She cupped Bellâs cheek in her hand. âIsaac, I must go home. I have to look into this . . . I bet you do, too.â
â
At the Yale Club on 44th Street, where Isaac Bell lodged when in New York, Matthew, the night hall porter, ushered him inside.
âMr. Forrer telephoned ahead and asked that I slip him in privately by the service door. I put him in the lounge.â
Bell bounded up the stairs.
The Main Lounge, a high-ceilinged room of couches and armchairs, was deserted at this late hour but for the chief of Van Dorn Research, who occupied most of a couch. Forrer wore wire-rimmed spectacles, as befit his station as a scholar. Scholarly he was, but a very large man, as tall as Bell and twice as wide. Bell had seen him disperse rioters by strolling among them.
âThe Boss and I have been burning up the wires. All hellâs broken loose on the Corporations Commission case.â
âI just read the Lapham story. Do we know for sure he killed himself?â
âNo. All we know is what Archie Abbott learned when he wormed his way into the official investigation. Mr. Van Dorn was impressed, which he isnât always with Archie.â
âWhat did Archie learn?â
âSomeoneâif not Lapham, then presumably our assassinâpulled an elaborate fast one on the Army, who operate the monument. So elaborate that it can only be characterized as baroque.â
ââBaroqueâ? What do you mean, baroque? Complicated?â
âMore than complicated. Bizarre. Whimsical as an elaborate prank, except a man died. Itâs hard to imagine they pulled it off. Harder to reckon why they went to such trouble to kill one old man.â
âHow could he fit out the window?â asked Bell. âThey barred them up after that lunatic Anti-Saloon Leaguer tried to jump with a banner.â
âThe bars were forced open with a barn jack.â
âIt takes time to crank a barn jack. Why didnât anyone stop him?â
âNo one saw. The window on the west had been cordoned
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