The Gray Ghost by Clive Cussler
On Sam and Remi’s advice, Chad, still looking a bit shell-shocked after the rescue of his mother, convinced her and his aunt to visit the coast for several days. In the meantime, Chad’s aunt invited them to stay at her home while she was gone. “I know your friend fixed my clogged drainpipe,” she said to Chad, as he carried her suitcase down the stairs for her. “But I really would like a plumber to have a proper look.” She smiled at Sam, who stood at the bottom of the stairs. “No offense, young man.”
“None taken.”
She gave a firm nod, turning her attention back to her nephew. “Please don’t forget to water the garden. I don’t want to lose my vegetables while I’m gone.” She reached over, tugging at the hem of his shirt. “And tuck this in. How do you expect to find a young woman if you look like that? Did my sister not teach you how to dress?”
Chad looked slightly embarrassed, as he guided her out the front door, where his mother sat in the waiting taxi. Once the women were safely off, he returned to the house. “You’re sure they’ll be safer?” he asked, watching out the window as the taxi departed.
“Definitely,” Sam said, as Oliver’s cell phone rang. “The farther away from us, the better. At least until we figure out who’s behind this.”
Oliver, who was seated at the kitchen table, answered, waved Sam over to him. “I’m not quite sure when we’ll be returning to Manchester . . .” He pressed a button, set the phone on the table. “It’s Bill Snyder, the private detective recommended by David Cooke,” he said.
“Who’s David Cooke?” Chad asked.
“His uncle’s solicitor,” Remi replied quietly.
“You’re on speaker, Mr. Snyder,” Oliver said. “The Fargos are here with me.”
“I’ll try to keep this brief,” Bill said. “I had a chat with your sister yesterday. She had the journal after all. A bit reluctant to turn it over, but, in the end, she gave it to me.”
“The missing journal?” Oliver said.
“Quite. I took the liberty of reading a bit to be sure. Young boy who witnessed a murder, American detective Isaac Bell assisting the Viscount . . . ?”
“Good show, then.”
Sam and Remi took the seat next to Oliver, asking, “Was there anything else you saw that would explain the sudden interest in the Gray Ghost?”
“Nothing that stands out in the few pages I read,” Bill said. “Unfortunately, time was an issue if I wanted to make the cutoff for shipping. I was under the impression that you wanted it sent to your researcher. She should get it tomorrow.”
“A shame,” Oliver said. “Thought we might have a go at it, ourselves. See what turns up.”
“You’re in luck,” Bill said. “My secretary scanned it. I’ll have her send a digital copy to you first opportunity.”
“If you could send a copy to Remi as well,” Sam said, “I’d appreciate it.”
“Mr. Payton?” Bill asked. “I’ll need your permission for that.”
“Absolutely. In fact, if you can copy the Fargos on all the correspondence, I’d be most grateful.”
“Very good. Something else you should be aware of, Mr. Payton,” Bill added. “A bit of a feeling that your sister was hiding something.”
“She can be a bit strange. I wouldn’t worry too much.”
“Maybe so, but the reason she gave me for having the journal in her possession seemed . . . odd. It’s possible the timing was mere coincidence. She mentioned taking it so that her son could read it.”
Oliver leaned back in his chair, his expression softening. “Good lad, Trevor. Lived with us for a bit during her divorce. Stands to reason she’d think this. Can’t tell you how many times I’ve told Allegra that the boy should read them. After all, unless I meet someone and start a family, which doesn’t seem likely in my current state, he is the next in line for the viscountcy.”
Sam and Remi exchanged glances, Remi sharing a similar thought: the timing of Allegra taking that journal—in the midst of the investigation of her uncle’s arrest for murder—was highly suspicious. “It could be coincidence,” Sam said, more for Oliver’s sake than any real belief that the detective’s instincts were faulty.
“Perhaps,” Bill said. “That, however, is only part of the picture. I was there midafternoon. One of those bright sunny days, and her curtains were closed tight, and she was reluctant to let me in. Mind you, this last could be because she was by herself, and there was a strange man at her door. But it was precisely because she said she was by herself that I found her behavior unusual.”
“For what reason?” Remi asked. In her mind, someone with the years of investigative experience that Bill Snyder had was generally well qualified to make such an opinion.
“The television was on. Football. I made a comment about the score, and it was clear she had no idea what I was talking about.”
Oliver laughed. “That part would be true. Allegra’s never followed sports.”
“There was also an open bottle of ale on the table.”
Oliver’s smile faded as he stared at the cell phone.
“What is it?” Sam asked him.
“I’m beginning to wonder if any of this has anything to do with my grandfather at all. Her reprehensible ex-husband, Dex, suddenly appeared back in the picture a few months ago, trying to charm her. He’s the sort that only comes around when he needs money. In fact, he’s the reason Trevor came to live with us when they were divorcing.”
“Define reprehensible,” the detective said.
“Allegra never came out and said anything to me, and Trevor certainly never mentioned it, but we always suspected the man was physically abusive to her. If he’s there, I’m not at all surprised that she’d try to hide it from you. She knows quite well what I think of her ex and she’d worry that you’d tell me.”
“That might explain it,” Bill said.
Sam wasn’t ready to write off any possibility that someone else close to the family was involved. “What’s your gut instinct?”
“Given that I’m reporting directly to her brother,” Bill said, “a past abusive relationship would certainly explain her behavior. Especially if she doesn’t want Oliver to know they’re back together. Sad to say, this wouldn’t be the first time I’ve seen this happen.”
When Remi reached over, casually placing her hand on top of Sam’s, he knew immediately what she wanted. The concern etched on Oliver’s face seemed to magnify in the few short minutes they’d been on the phone. As if the man needed more to worry about, on top of his uncle’s arrest. “I know you have your hands full with this investigation,” Sam said, “but is there any chance we could impose on you to keep an eye on Allegra and Trevor?”
“I wouldn’t want to overstep my bounds, Mr. Fargo,” Bill replied. “So long as you’re aware it may not have anything to do with Albert Payton’s case . . .”
“We’re willing to pay the extra cost,” Sam said. “I think we’ll all rest easier, knowing she and Trevor are safe.”
“I’ll see to it, Mr. Fargo. If there’s nothing else, I’ll get back to work.”
Oliver looked relieved once the call ended. “I don’t know how we’re ever going to pay you back for all you’ve done.”
“No need,” Remi said. “You’re family. You’d do the same, I’m sure of it.”
“Remi’s right,” Sam said, as his cell phone buzzed on the tabletop. “Having your sister and Trevor looked after means we can concentrate on how best to help your uncle.” He looked at the caller ID, surprised and a bit alarmed to see Selma making a video call, since, according to California time, it was just after two in the morning.
Nothing good ever happened at that hour.
38
Is everything okay?” Sam asked calmly, not wanting to alarm Remi. It wasn’t all that long ago that someone had tried attacking them in their home at Gold Fish Point, nearly destroying it in the
“Fine, Mr. Fargo,” Selma said, her face filling the screen, as she peered at him over the tops of her dark-framed glasses. Lazlo was hovering in the background. “Just another all-nighter. We were looking into the possibility that Isaac Bell was given a forty-fifty. If so, there’s no record that he shipped the car to America. If he sold it in England, we haven’t found anything.”
“It’s also possible,” Lazlo added, leaning into view of the screen, “that he gave it away. Apparently, he was extremely wealthy.”
“Of course,” Selma said, “we’re assuming the car he received from Rolls-Royce for his part in the recovery of the Gray Ghost is a forty-fifty. Is there a possibility it was a different model?”
Oliver couldn’t say for sure. “Does it make a difference what car he was given?”
“It could,” Selma said.
“In retrospect,” Oliver said, “I assumed it was a forty-fifty, because that was the car gifted to my family. It’s highly possible that Rolls-Royce gave him a different car. Maybe a thirty hp. Especially when you consider the forty-fifties were still in the prototype stage then.”
“If we’re lucky, it’s in the journal,” Sam said. “You should be getting it tomorrow.”
“They found it?”
“At Allegra’s.”
Selma’s brows went up, but she kept her comments about that revelation to herself, merely saying, “We’ll have a look when it gets here . . . Not the reason for our call, however.”
“You have our full attention,” Remi said.
“During our research, we found a Rolls-Royce forum that mentioned an early-model Silver Ghost about to be auctioned somewhere in Italy. The timing of when this rumor appeared fits in with the theft of the Gray Ghost.”
“I’m hoping you’ve narrowed that down a bit,” Sam said. “That’s a lot of country to cover.”
“Unfortunately, no. Like I said, it’s a rumor only, but enough of one that several people are talking about it. We thought it worth investigating. I sent an email to your friend Georgia Bockoven in case she’s heard anything.”
“Good thinking,” Remi said. At one time, Georgia and her husband, John, traveled the globe photographing cars and writing articles for Sports Car Market. They’d long since retired to Italy, buying a villa and small winery in the hills near Chianti, which they turned into a bed and breakfast destination. Even so, they were still involved in the car world. “Have you heard back from her?”
“Just got the email,” Selma said, “which prompted my call. Mind you, according to Georgia, this is a friend of a friend of a friend—in other words, the reliability of the information is questionable.”
“Noted,” Sam said. “What was the info?”
“He, apparently, knows of a dealer in Italy who sells high-end jewelry and art. Usually recognizable names. Fabergé, Rembrandt, Bierstadt. But he’s also brokered the occasional classic car.”
“Fine art on wheels,” Remi said, repeating what Sam had told her in Pebble Beach.
“An apt description,” Lazlo replied.
“The rumor that comes in to play,” Selma continued, “is the dealer’s occasional foray into rare stolen art. Georgia’s working on it from her end, and we’re working on it from ours.”
“We’re sure about this auction?” Sam asked.
“If the rumor’s true, it’s this weekend. One of the many things we don’t know is, exactly which car.”
Sam thought about how long the Ghost was missing. Long enough, perhaps, to make it to some secret auction to be sold?
“Can they really turn over a stolen car that fast?” Remi asked.
“It’s possible,” Sam said.
“It’s also possible,” Selma added, “that whoever stole it did so for that very purpose. To sell it.”
“Quite right,” Lazlo said. “Done all the time in the underworld. Someone with enough money puts in an order, and the broker facilitates the theft. The money paid is astronomical, and the piece sold is usually never seen again.”
“The point being,” Selma continued, “that the timing of this secret auction this weekend, and the rumor of an early-model forty-fifty coming on the market is worth looking into. If you do, Georgia wanted me to let you know that you’re welcome to stay with her at the villa.”
“Thanks for looking into that,” Sam said. “Anything else?”
“Just wondering how your Faux Ghost trade for Chad’s mother worked out?”
“It was one of Remi’s finest ideas. However, let’s just say it wasn’t our finest moment,” Sam replied.
Remi laughed. “We almost needed rescuing from the woman we rescued.”
“One good thing came out of it,” Sam said. “Now that she and her sister are safely off, there’s nothing holding us back from doing a full-out search for the missing Ghost. Dig up what you can on this broker. I think a trip to Italy’s in order. I’d like to take a closer look at him.” He looked over at Oliver and Chad. “We can certainly use your help if you’d like to come with us.”
Oliver’s eyes widened at the suggestion. “You can’t seriously think that someone who’s dealing in stolen goods is going to let you just walk in and demand to see the car, do you?”
“Maybe not. But if someone there knows where the Ghost is, we’re certainly not going to wait for an invitation.”
39
Remi, absorbed in reading the journal entry on her tablet, barely noticed the two-and-a-half-hour flight until they started their descent into Ciampino Airport. Outside, the blacktop of the tarmac rippled with heat waves, the summer sun beating down as the Fargos’ jet landed, taxied toward the hangar they’d rented for their stay. By the time Sam, Remi, Oliver, and Chad cleared customs and immigration, then picked up the rental car, the four were grateful for the air-conditioning in the car during the two hours it took to drive to the villa.
Remi eyed the acres of vineyards and the long, winding drive shaded on both sides by tall sycamore trees. At the top of the hill, a wide wrought iron gate blocking their passage now swung open. Georgia, a tall woman with short dark hair, wearing a flowing white linen dress, stepped out onto the terra-cotta-tiled porch as they got out of the car.
“Remi, darling! So good to see you!” She gave Remi a kiss on each cheek, and turned to Sam. “Handsome as ever.”
“Georgia,” Sam said. “As beautiful as the day we first met. I swear, you don’t age.”
“You’re such a wonderful liar.” She smiled as Sam introduced her to Chad and Oliver. “The Viscount’s nephew,” she said, shaking Oliver’s hand. “Did I understand that you and Sam are actually related?”
“Cousins,” Oliver replied.
Georgia turned, with amused expression, in Sam’s direction. “Had I only known, I’d have thrown a very large party.”
“Cousins,” Sam said, “several times removed.”
“Don’t let him fool you, Georgia,” Remi said. “Sam’s only five hundredth or so in line to the throne.”
Georgia laughed, as she beckoned them inside. “No living with you now, is there, Sam?”
“Trying not to let it go to my head.” He looked past her into the house. “Where’s John?”
“Winemaking. Never-ending job. He should be up in a little while.”
They stepped into the cool interior, the same terra-cotta tiles from the porch on the floor inside. Georgia showed them to their rooms, pausing as she was about to leave. “Had I known earlier you were coming, I’d have canceled the group renting the villa this weekend, and you wouldn’t have to rush out.”
“We’ll be fine,” Remi said.
Georgia smiled. “I’m not sure I will. College students on summer
“If we’re lucky, we’ll find what we need in a day or two.”
Georgia’s face clouded with anxiety. “I don’t suppose there’s any way I can convince the four of you to give up this search? I’ve heard this dealer can be dangerous. There are rumors that he’s connected to the Mafia.”
“We at least have to look into it,” Sam said.
Her smile was grim. “I do hope you’ll change your mind. Even so, I’m glad we’ll have a chance to catch up. You haven’t made dinner plans, have you?”
“None.”
“Then I’ll see you after you have a chance to freshen up. We’ll dine on the veranda around eight. I’m looking forward to having you try our Chianti with dinner.”
Remi joined Georgia before the men returned from their tour of the wine cellars beneath the house, hoping for a chance to catch up with her friend. The veranda overlooked the vineyards they’d seen on the drive up, the evening sun painting the rolling hills with a golden glow. A light breeze rippled through the vines, rustling the broad leaves.
Remi sighed. “It must be wonderful looking out at this each night. I’m a bit envious.”
“Don’t be. We’re actually considering selling.”
“Why? I thought you loved it here.”
“What’s not to love? Unfortunately, while it was one of those ideas that look good on paper, the reality is that running a boutique winery isn’t nearly as profitable as we’d hoped. Hence, the bed and breakfast angle.”
Remi looked over at Georgia, noting the worried look in her eyes. “If you need help with anything, you’ll let us know.”
Georgia gave a slight shrug, smiled. “There’re worse things than being poor. Like not seeing a good friend in years and years. Come, sit.” She led Remi to a glass-topped table, with several wicker chairs set around it. She opened a bottle of prosecco that had been chilling in an ice bucket, poured two glasses. “Now, tell me all about this car you’re hunting for. How very exciting it all sounds.”