The Bootlegger Clive Cussler (that summer book .txt) 📖

Donny,” he muttered. “Could you manage to do something to annoy them?”

Donald Darbee, who despised authority in general and rated the Coast Guard even lower than the New York Police Department Harbor Squad, curled his lips to show yellow teeth in a mocking smile.

The sailor guarding them shouted, “What are you grinning at?”

“I haven’t had this much fun since a foggy night I ‘helped’ a police boat run into the Statue of Liberty.”

“Shut up, old man. Watch your mouth.”

Now Bell raised his voice in righteous indignation. “Watch your mouth, sailor! That’s no way to talk to a gentleman four times your age.”

“Shut up or you’re under arrest.”

Bell shouted, louder, “You can’t arrest me!”

“Oh yeah? You’re under arrest. March!”

Bell let sailors pull him up onto the cutter’s stern deck. The petty officer hurried down to confront him, stopped cold, and said, “I know you from somewhere.”

Bell looked him in the eye. “I believe you’re the man who saved Joseph Van Dorn’s life with a tourniquet. If you are, I’m in your debt.”

“That’s who you are.”

“I wonder if you would do me another favor and tell your skipper I have to talk to him.” Just then the boarding party called out that there was no booze on the oyster boat.

The weary-looking skipper, who had been observing from the flying bridge, came down to the stern deck. “What’s the big idea with the smoke screen? There’s no liquor on your boat.”

“We knew you lamebrains would never find us if we didn’t help!” Darbee yelled.

The captain ignored him, saying to Bell, “You lured me off station to help your pals’ taxis get by. It’s a crime to impede a patrol.”

Isaac Bell extended his hand. “Captain, I am Van Dorn Chief Investigator Isaac Bell. I’m sure you don’t begrudge me investigating who shot my boss while he was on your ship. Do you?”

“Of course not. But—”

“You can get back to your patrol as soon as you tell me exactly what happened when Mr. Van Dorn was shot on your ship.”

“Why the charade?” The captain jerked a thumb at Darbee and his boat.

“The Coast Guard is dodging me. Your superiors won’t let me interview you or your crew.”

“I wondered about that,” the captain nodded. “That’s why they’ve kept us out here. Cook’s down to baked beans and water, and we’re running low on fuel.”

“As soon as you answer my questions,” said Bell, “I’ll stop bothering them and they’ll let you return to harbor.”

“I have nothing to hide.”

“What struck you most about the black boat?”

“Speed. I’ve never seen such a fast boat.”

Exactly what Joseph Van Dorn had told him. “What next?”

“Tactics,” said the captain. “They used their speed to great effect. They took advantage of my vessel’s shortcomings, maneuvering behind us so we couldn’t bring the Poole gun to bear.”

Bell said, “Mr. Van Dorn told me he thought he was back in Panama with the Marines.”

“I thought I was back in the war,” said the captain.

“Lead flying will do it,” said the petty officer.

“That, too, but what I’m saying is they conducted their attack like a naval engagement. Isn’t that so, Chief?”

“Aye, sir. The rumrunners handled themselves like vets.”

“They weren’t common criminals.”

Again, thought Bell, precisely what Van Dorn had said.

At that moment, with the cutter’s deck rolling under his feet, Isaac Bell voiced in his mind what he had been mulling ever since he chased the killer who murdered Johann Kozlov: If they weren’t common criminals, if they weren’t run-of-the-mill whisky haulers, what were they doing bootlegging?

“That’s all I know,” said the captain. “Chief, put him back on his boat.”

“One more thing,” said Bell. “Who pulled Mr. Van Dorn out of the water?”

The captain and the petty officer exchanged uncomfortable glances.

The captain spoke. “Seaman Third Class Asa Somers.”

“I’d like to shake his hand.”

The chief looked out at the water. The captain said, “Somers was discharged.”

“What for? He’s a hero.”

“His discharge order came straight from headquarters. Someone complained about the wild-goose chases we got sent on—said someone was tipping them off. The brass decided the complainer, or the tipster, was Somers. He was the last to join the ship. They took him off on a launch.”

“Was he the complainer?”

“I don’t know, but he’s a decent kid.”

“Smart as a whip,” said the chief.

“Where can I find him?”

•   •   •

“LONG LIVE SOVIET GERMANY!”

The Communist battle cry was uttered in hoarse whispers by the Hundertschaften company as they sneaked into Hamburg in the dead of night. Valtin ordered his men to break into shops to steal jars of kerosene. The Central Committee had promised stick grenades. Until they arrived, the Red shock troops would set fires with lamp oil. Which left Pauline with little hope that the Central Committee would dispatch Zolner as promised. But she was in the thick of it now, an unwilling participant in what was beginning to look to her like a doomed attack by a thousand men against a city of a million.

But as they advanced deeper into the city, they were joined by other Hundertschaften companies and ordinary citizens streaming down from the tenements. Their numbers began to swell. The first police station they attacked fell quickly. They marched bewildered policemen out in their own handcuffs—hostages, if needed—and looted the station house arsenals of rifles and pistols, ammunition, and a water-cooled MG 08/15 Maschinengewehr mounted on a tripod. Valtin assigned four war veterans to lug the machine gun to a tenement roof that commanded the street.

They continued toward the shipyards, the night dark, the streets deserted. Surprise seemed total. There was no sign of riot brigades, no mobs of Bürgerwehr auxiliaries, no columns of Freikorps. They were advancing stealthily on another police station when its lights went out.

“Attack!” Valtin bellowed, and they charged the building.

The cops opened fire with rifles and pistols. Flashes of red and yellow pierced the dark. Men fell in the street.

Valtin hurled a stick grenade. It smashed the glass of a small window and lodged against wire mesh. But the grenade was a dud and did not explode. The Hundertschaften resumed firing their