The Gray Ghost by Clive Cussler
Sam tugged on the rope.
Just in time, Chad pulled him up and out of the window. Sam braced his arms on the roof’s edge as Chad held him by the harness. “Hold up,” he whispered, worried about the noise if he climbed up. Allegra and Trevor, arms around each other, were huddled near the chimney, their eyes locked on Sam.
He craned his neck, trying to see below, just as Bruno stuck his head out the window.
“Where’s Fargo?” came a voice, deeper than Oren’s. Colton’s, possibly.
“Not here.” Bruno never looked up. “Must have hid in that other room after he shot Dex.”
“Search the house. Make sure he’s not here.”
Sam heard their retreating footsteps. He signaled for Chad to lower him to the ground, catching sight of Dex on the attic floor as still as death. The man didn’t deserve to live, as far as Sam was concerned, but he’d promised Allegra, and halfway understood why she’d asked to spare his life. Killing the boy’s father while he was perched on the roof, waiting for this to be over, was bound to leave a deep scar. And there was little they could do except try not to make any noise until help arrived or Sam cleared Allegra’s house.
But, right now, his wife was down there—where, he didn’t know—and he was going to make sure she walked out unharmed if it was the last thing he did. He touched down, saw the shattered window glass glittering in the moonlight on the pavement in the tiny patch that was the backyard. Someone had smashed that window from the inside. And since it happened at the same time that Arthur and company had arrived at the door, he knew it was Remi. One thing was clear. She didn’t go out through the window. There were too many glass shards remaining at the base of the sill for anyone to have climbed through. And there were no broken branches in the hedges growing against the fence.
Remi was still inside the house.
Gun out, he made his approach. Time to go in and get her.
82
The odds weren’t in Sam’s favor. Three against one—and that was assuming Dex continued to play dead and Frank really was dead—with no idea where Remi was. If she was hiding anywhere, it was in that windowless space at the back of the stairs that Allegra used for an office, the only place she could get to once she realized she wasn’t making it out that back door.
He had three rounds left in his Smith & Wesson, but he also had Dex’s semiauto, and drew it from his pocket. A Browning 1911-380 with an eight-capacity magazine. He checked, saw it was full, with a round in the chamber. Preferring his more familiar firearm, he was about to tuck the Browning into his waistband but changed his mind. There would be an inquest, and using Dex’s gun to kill anyone would cut down on any questioning about why the permits they’d wrangled the last time they were here had expired.
Both weapons were .38 calibers—a lot harder to match when you were digging bullets out of the floor. The less shots with his gun, the better, and he holstered it, gripped the Browning, flicking the safety off with his thumb.
The backyard was relatively dark—the two floodlights mounted above the small covered porch were off. He was going to have to kick open the back door. He made a wide berth around the broken glass, ducking as he passed the window. Unexpectedly, the floodlights clicked on, blinding him.
A shot rang out, as Sam dove toward the porch, a lance-like pain in his right shoulder catching him by surprise as he hit the ground, diving beneath the porch for cover, out of sight.
Someone had gotten a lucky shot.
Time to switch things around. Not sure where the shot came from, he pressed himself against the bricks near the door, waiting, listening, figuring someone had to be in the kitchen to have turned on those lights. This was going to complicate things.
He heard an audible click above him, and the lights shut off. Motion detector. The graze on his shoulder pulsed with pain, and he reached up, feeling the blood seeping from the shallow wound. Had to be someone at one of the upper windows.
Careful not to trigger the motion detector again, he peered out, just as Bruno’s head emerged from the second-floor window. Sam fired, driving him back, buying time. He kicked the door. It budged about an inch, the nails holding tight. He kicked it again. It flew open, hitting the wall.
A burst of suppressed shots peppered the door, splinters flying.
From the corner of his eye, Sam saw the muzzle blasts coming from the front room. Just a few feet from where Remi had to be hiding.
“Give it up, Fargo!” Colton called out. “You’re only making it worse.”
“For who?” He pressed up against the bricks between the open door and the window, moving the Browning to his left hand. Reaching inside the doorway with his other, he felt the wall, searching for the light switch. There were two. He switched off the motion lights, was about to withdraw, then froze. Finger still on the switch, he moved back as far as he could without losing contact, pointing the Browning with his left hand toward the window. He pressed the switch. A brass light fixture over the dining table lit up, casting light into the front room. Sam sidestepped across the porch, looked in the window, saw two men. Oren near the foot of the stairs, a gun held down, and his hired help, Colton, aiming his gun at the back door.
When Colton realized his mistake, it was too late. Sam fired, grazing his left side. Colton whirled around, ran for the stairs, as Sam fired twice more, driving both men back up the stairs. He fired off a fourth round into the grass as he slipped into the kitchen, to make them think he was at the window. Once inside, he saw Remi’s open briefcase on the table. The kitchen was empty, no cupboards large enough for her to hide in. “You’re surrounded!” Sam called out, though, in this case, who was surrounded was Chad, on the rooftop, with Bill and Oliver listening in the van to direct the police—when they finally got there. “There’s nowhere for you to go.”
Unless they wanted to try to get out the upstairs windows, they were momentarily trapped. His weapon aimed at the stairwell, he quickly looked around, saw what looked like a closet door at the back of the stairs, and crossed the room.
“Remi?” he whispered.
She opened the door, a sight for sore eyes. “Took you long enough.”
He grinned. “Where’s your gun?”
“Briefcase. Barely made it here in time.”
He glanced back toward the table. Getting to it meant risking exposure to the stairwell. Instead, he pulled his Smith & Wesson from his holster and handed it to her, as the faint sound of sirens drifted in from the open door. “Hear that, Oren?” he yelled. “You’re going to lose. The police are on their way.”
It was Colton who responded, shouting from inside the stairwell. “If you want any witnesses alive to testify that Albert’s innocent, you’ll let me walk out of here. The case is ironclad. You need them.”
Before Sam had a chance to respond, they heard Oren’s voice, tense. “Are you insane? You’re just as guilty.”
“Only if they catch me. Drop the guns, both of you, or I’ll blow your heads off . . .” It was a moment before Sam realized Colton wasn’t talking to him. Two handguns landed on the floor at the foot of the stairs. “We’re coming down,” Colton shouted. “If you want your witnesses, you won’t shoot.”
Two hands popped out past the wall, fingers splayed. Bruno said, “Don’t shoot . . .”
Sam and Remi, guns at the ready, watched as Bruno emerged, hands raised. “Stop!” Sam said. “Kick the guns toward me and get down on the ground.”
Bruno shoved one, then the other, toward them across the bare wood landing.
“Facedown,” Sam ordered.
Bruno complied. Oren stepped out next, hands up, with Colton using him as a shield, gun to his head. “Nice and slow,” Colton said, blood running down his shirt. “They’re yours, once I’m out the door.”
“Can’t let that happen,” Sam said.
Remi, finger on the trigger, took aim.
Col
She squeezed.
The shot grazed Colton’s skull. He stumbled back, momentarily stunned, as Oren pulled away, diving for the floor. Exposed, Colton looked at Remi, raising his gun.
Sam fired twice. One to the gut, one to the head.
Colton crumpled to the ground. While Remi covered him, her gun aimed at the other two men, Sam moved in, checking to see if he was dead.
“Show-off,” Remi said, as he picked up Oren’s gun, handing it to her, then picked up the other two weapons from the floor, placing them on the table out of reach, as sirens blared out front.
He nodded at his Smith & Wesson. “We might want to tuck that away for now. In case any of those police are armed.”
She returned the gun to him. “Bad time to mention we need to smooth out that trigger pull? I missed a perfectly good head shot.”
“Or,” Sam said, holstering his .38 before the police walked in, “you knew we wanted to avoid an inquest over bringing firearms into the country?”
She looked at him and laughed.
83
Several days later . . .
Remi read the text from Selma. “Bad news,” she said, as she and Sam sat in the garden at Payton Manor. “Selma and Lazlo have declared the journal a dead end. If there’s some secret treasure, they can’t figure it out.” She looked around the peaceful garden and sighed. “It’d be nice to know what happened to it before we leave. If only to keep anyone else from bothering the Paytons.”
“Since Oliver intends to move the car to a museum, I don’t think it’ll be an issue.” He looked at his watch. “Nearly six. We better get ready for dinner.”
Oliver had decided that a celebratory dinner was in order, now that Uncle Albert was finally released from custody, and all the financial accounts were slowly being released, and life at Payton Manor was returning to normal. Since the Dowager Cottage where Albert usually dined in the evening was far too small to accommodate everyone, they all gathered in the south dining hall of the manor house.
Uncle Albert, Remi noticed, looked the picture of health, considering where he’d been ever since his arrest. He was talking animatedly to Oliver about the roses in the garden. Remi reached over, grasped Sam’s hand under the table. “Oliver seems much happier.”
“With the weight lifted from his shoulders? It has to be a relief to have his uncle back.”
“And to know that he won’t have to sell the Ghost after all.” She smiled happily, watching everyone interact with ease, the stress of the last couple of weeks having faded. Trevor was the one that impressed her the most. For the first few days, after his return to Payton Manor, he’d been quiet, jumping at every little sound. Now, looking at him as he and Chad talked and laughed together, he seemed like any other sixteen-year-old. Chad was definitely having a positive influence on the boy, she thought. Trevor was telling Chad how his mum was always after him about being on the computer and not meeting any nice girls.
Chad laughed, then leaned toward him conspiratorially. “You think that’s bad, Trev? My mum and aunt both go at me. ‘Do you have to work on cars all day?’” he said in falsetto. “‘Comb your hair! How are you going to get a girl looking like that?’” Suddenly aware he was being watched, he looked around the table, saw Allegra, and turned a shade of red when their eyes met. Clearing his throat, he looked back at Trevor. “But you should always listen to your mum, right?”
Trevor looked down at his near-empty plate, his eyes sparkling. “Right.”
“A toast,” Oliver said, lifting his wineglass, looking at Sam and Remi. “I meant to do this at the start of dinner. A toast to the both of you, since we wouldn’t all be gathered here without your help. I don’t know how to thank you except to say, welcome to the family.”
“That,” Sam said, “might be the best thank-you ever.”
Oliver looked around the table. “And, of course, the reason we’re all gathered—to celebrate Uncle Albert’s return.”
Albert lifted his water glass. “Not sure what all the fuss is about. Nice chaps at that place, but they wouldn’t let me come home. I don’t think I want to stay there again.”
Mrs. Beckett smiled at Albert, as she cleared off his empty plate. “I expect you’ll be glad to sleep in your own bed tonight, now that this Ghost business is finally settled.”
“Settled? How?” he asked her.
“It was stolen and now it’s back.”
“The Ghost? Stolen? That car was cursed from the get-go.” His gaze landed on Sam. “Did I tell you that you look like Cousin Eunice?”
“You did,” Sam said.
Albert gave a firm nod. “She and my brother found that old car in the barn when they were about Trevor’s age. One of the Paytons hid it there during the war. Cursed. Didn’t want anyone else to get hurt.”
Trevor sat up with interest. “How do you know it was cursed, Uncle Albert?”
“Things started happening. Don’t remember what they were now . . .” He seemed drawn to Sam, lingering on his face. “Cousin Eunice and my brother found that sheet music after they read the journal. No stopping them after that.”
“Stopping them from what?” Sam asked.
“Searching for the stolen treasure from the train.” Albert looked at Oliver this time, his rare lucidity holding. “Your father used to pretend he was that American detective from the journal.”
“Isaac Bell?” Trevor asked.
“The same. And Cousin Eunice was always miffed because she wanted to be the detective.”
Remi turned with an amused expression toward Sam, whispering, “See? That is where you get your sense of adventure from.”
Trevor’s eyes were glued on Uncle Albert. “Did they ever find it?”
“Find what?”
“The treasure. From the train robbery.”
“No one has, though we all looked. Wasn’t in the Ghost. Wasn’t anywhere. I expect Reginald buried it, expecting he’d be able to come back one day. That’s what I would’ve done.” He looked around the table, his expression one of confusion. “Is it somebody’s birthday?”
Oliver smiled. “We’re celebrating your return home.”
“Are we? I daresay, it’ll be a long time before I decide to stay in a hostel again. Ghastly place. Not sure it’s worth celebrating.”
Mrs. Beckett, hovering nearby, walked over, putting her hand on his shoulder. “It’s getting late. How about we pop over to the cottage for some lemon ice?”
“Jolly good idea,” Albert said, standing. He cocked his head toward the table. “They’re not all coming, are they?”
“No, M’lord,” she said.
“We’ve talked about this ‘M’lord’ thing, haven’t we?” he asked, as she led him from the room.
“Yes, M’lord.”
“Thought so.”
Oliver watched them until they disappeared through the doors. “Well, at least we know he didn’t seem to suffer any lasting damage from his incarceration.”
Allegra stared down at her plate, clearly weighed down by her guilt.
Trevor, however, didn’t seem to notice. “I think Uncle Albert’s wrong about Reginald burying that treasure.”
Everyone turned toward him at once, Oliver asking, “Why do you say that?”
“Because of the journal.” Trevor seemed hesitant to continue. “What I remember of the last entry and what Reginald said about Payton.”
“The lad has a remarkable memory,” Oliver explained. “Like Remi’s. Look at something once and it’s imprinted in his brain.”
Sam glanced at Remi. “You read it. What do you think?”
“Sorry, Fargo. The furthest I read was when Payton, Miss Atwater, and Isaac Bell were coming up with a plan to find out who hired Reginald Oren to steal the Gray G
Almost at once, they turned toward Trevor. Allegra nodded at him. “Go ahead, Trev. Tell them what happened.”
84
JOURNAL OF JONATHON PAYTON, 5TH VISCOUNT WELLSWICK
1906
I noted the time on my gold pocket watch, precisely eleven p.m., before settling back in my seat, ignoring my cousin, who was slumped on the floorboards of the coach, hands tied, mouth gagged, barely stirring the entire time, perhaps because of the laudanum we’d dosed him with. Byron drove the coach, while Mr. Bell stood on the footman’s platform, and Miss Atwater sat across from me, a determined expression on her face. I looked down at my cousin, half tempted to cosh him on the head over the trouble he’d caused. But Mr. Bell said we might find use for him before the night was through, and so I resisted.
When the coach slowed, and I felt Isaac Bell jump off the back, I pulled the curtain far enough to see out, watching, as he walked off, stirring the tendrils of fog that snaked out across the cobblestones.
The vehicle lurched forward, the steady clip-clop of the horses’ hooves picking up speed. We neared the tavern where I’d found myself earlier that night, but then continued on, stopping farther up the road in the shadows to watch and wait. I looked down at Reggie, whom eventually we’d be turning over to the police. Our goal this night, however, was to find the buyer, the one who set out to ruin Rolls-Royce and bankrupt the investors. The only bit of information Mr. Bell had managed to wrest from my cousin was the name of a man who was acting as a liaison between him and the buyer. That, Bell said, was all that he needed.
When the carriage came to a stop, I again pulled the curtain to peer out, seeing that the fog had thickened considerably in the few minutes it had taken us to circle around. I searched for Mr. Bell and saw him lingering beneath a gas streetlamp, the flickering light reflecting off the grey mist around him. A moment later, he stepped inside the tavern, looking for the man that Reggie had said was waiting there to buy the Grey Ghost.