He found Clyde Lynds sprawled facedown on the spare anchor, coughing and retching the poison fumes out of his lungs and gulping water from a bucket held by a pair of black and greasy stokers, who pounded him on the back and poured more water into him, shouting, “Good lad. Spit it up, lad. Spit it up. You’ll be right as rain.”

They told Isaac Bell that they had just sneaked out for a breath of fresh air on the dark foredeck when they heard his frantic pounding on the hatch. “Undogged the hatch, he did, but it was too heavy for him to lift. Good luck we was there to help him out. And we opened it just in the nick. The lad’s a bloomin’ hero, he is. Saved the ship. Spit it up, lad! Spit it up.”

LATE THAT NIGHT, ISAAC BELL interviewed Archie Abbott, Clyde Lynds, the Mauretania’s chief purser, and finally the bosun’s mate, who had operated the winch that had loaded cargo and luggage down the forward hatch the day they sailed from Liverpool. He reported privately to Captain Turner on the bridge.

“As you know, the entire contents of the forward baggage room were incinerated. Nothing remains but ash, so hot was the fire. But I can tell you with some confidence that the fire was caused by the spontaneous explosion of a large shipment of deteriorating celluloid film stock. I’m sure you’re aware that film-stock smugglers profit by going around the Edison Trust to sell to independent manufacturers who can’t buy direct from Eastman Kodak.”

The mariner was livid. “I will personally hang them from Mauretania’s foremast if I ever got my hands on them. This has happened time and again in the past year, endangering ships at sea.”

“There were as many as eight wooden crates disguised as a shipment of rare books destined to a bibliophile in Reistertown, Maryland—a gentleman whom I strongly doubt was expecting more than a single crate. The books were a clever device as they’re very heavy, much like film stock.”

“Damned smugglers! Have they no regard for the lives of three thousand souls?”

CAPTAIN TURNER AGREED WITH the stokers that Clyde Lynds was a hero. In a brisk early-morning ceremony on the flying bridge—while down on the forepeak seamen in a paint party were touching up the blackened hatchway—he pinned a medal on Clyde’s chest. “For quick thinking and brave action that prevented a catastrophic explosion. I’ll lend you one of mine for the moment until the line strikes a proper one for you.”

“The stokers who helped me deserve medals, too.”

“I’ve already presented theirs, not to worry, lad.”

Clyde looked questioningly at Bell, and the detective thought that the normally brash scientist seemed uncharacteristically reluctant to accept the honor. “What do you think, Mr. Bell?”