ALWAYS LEARNING
PEARSON
Table of Contents
Book One: Talking Pictures
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
Book Two: Flickers
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
Book Three: Hollywood
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
Book Four: Lights! Camera! Speed!
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
Epilogue
THE CUNARD FLYER MAURETANIA CROSSING THE BAR
“HEAR THAT?”
“Hear what?” asked Archie.
“Fast motorboat.”
“You have ears like a bat, Isaac. All I hear is the ship.”
Isaac Bell, a tall, lean man of thirty with a golden head of hair and a thick, impeccably groomed mustache, strode to the boat deck railing and stared intently into the dark. He wore the costume of a sober Hartford, Connecticut, insurance executive: a sailing day suit of Harris tweed, a low-crowned hat with a broad brim, made-to-order boots, and a gold watch chain draped across his narrow waist.
“It’s not the ship.”
They were sailing home to America on the Cunard flyer Mauretania, the fastest liner in the world, bound for New York with twenty-two hundred passengers, eight hundred crew, and six thousand sacks of mail. Down in the fiery darkness of her stokehold, hundreds of men labored, stripped to the waist, shoveling coal to raise steam for a four-and-a-half-day dash across the Atlantic Ocean. But she was still creeping quietly in the channel, crossing the Mersey Bar with mere inches of tide beneath her keel and a black night ahead. Six decks above her furnaces and five hundred feet ahead of the nearest propeller, Isaac Bell heard only the motorboat.
The sound was out of place. It was the crisp rumble of a thirty-knot racer powered by V-8 gasoline engines—an English-built Wolseley-Siddeley, Bell guessed. But such exuberant noise spoke of a Côte d’Azur regatta on a sunny day, not a pitch-dark night in the steamer lanes.
He looked back. No boat showed a light. All he saw was the dying glow of Liverpool, the last of England, eleven miles astern.
Next to the ship, nothing moved in the invisible intersection of inky water and clouded sky.
Ahead, the sea buoy flashed intermittently.
The sound faded. A trick of the wind gusting in from the Irish Sea perhaps, rattling the canvas that covered the lifeboats suspended outside the teak rail.
Archie opened a gold cigar case with a ceremonial flourish. He extracted two La Aroma de Cubas. “How about a victory smoke?” He patted his vest pockets. “Forgot my cutter. Got your knife?”
Bell drew a throwing knife from his boot in a flicker of motion quicker than the eye and cut the Havanas’ heads as cleanly as a guillotine.
Archie—redheaded Archibald Angell Abbott IV, a socially prominent New Yorker—looked like a well-off man-about-town, a gilt-edged disguise he adopted when he traveled with his young wife, Lillian, the daughter of America’s boldest railroad tycoon. Only the ship’s captain and chief purser knew that Archie was a private detective with the Van Dorn Agency and that Isaac Bell was Van Dorn’s chief investigator.