The Gray Ghost Read online

  20

  Maybe more tragic than funny,” Oliver began. “Back in 1906, when the Gray Ghost was stolen, the current viscount, being friends with Rolls and Royce, invested everything in their company. More specifically, in the development of the forty-fifty. He was counting on the return on his investment to pull him out of the debt incurred by his nephew’s gambling. Very much like my uncle’s situation, he was worried about his tenants. And there was an orphanage he supported. And, well, the point is, he was counting on that car making the Olympia show to make him money.

  “It’s been a while since I read the history, and some of the details are fuzzy. Something to do with an American detective, Isaac Bell, from the Van Dorn Detective Agency, on the hunt for two men wanted in New York for bank robbery and murder. Thanks to Isaac Bell, the man and his gang were caught, and Bell was rewarded by the Crown for the recovery of the treasure—well, part of it at least.”

  “Exactly what did that have to do with the Gray Ghost?” Sam asked.

  “As I said, a bit of a tragic story. Especially considering how it was this detective crossed paths with the Payton-Orens and the train robbers.”

  “Payton-Orens?” Remi said.

  “The former family name before the Fourth Viscount had a falling-out with his younger brother, the older taking the name Payton, the younger Oren, the two never talking again.”

  “Must’ve been some argument,” Sam said.

  “Over a woman, I believe. Though, not as bad as what came later. At least no one lost their life over it. In truth, it might be easier if you read about it yourselves rather than trying to glean anything from my faulty memory. The early viscounts all kept a family journal.”

  “You think there’s one from the time period when the Gray Ghost was stolen?”

  “Absolutely. I was duty-bound as the heir to learn family history. Some of the journals were rather dry. That one, however . . .” Oliver stood. “Let’s have a look, shall we?” He led them down the hall into the library, pausing in the doorway. “I’ll get the curtains. It’s a bit dark in here.” He crossed the room and pulled open the drapes, light spilling across a bare parquet floor into a room devoid of all furniture. Floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with books lined all four walls, however. “My uncle couldn’t bear to part with the books . . . Some have been in the family for centuries.”

  “Impressive collection,” Remi said, examining a few.

  He smiled to himself as though remembering happier times, then walked up to one of the shelves, his fingers skimming over the spines of thin leather-bound volumes. “Should be here somewhere . . . Odd,” he said, looking on the shelf above it and the shelf below. “I don’t see it.”

  Sam joined him, searching through the volumes. “Maybe out of order?”

  “They’re numbered,” he said. “Volume five is missing.”

  “Or misfiled,” Remi said.

  They started searching the shelves, though Sam doubted they’d find it. With everything that had happened to Oliver and his uncle so far, no doubt someone had taken that volume. “Any idea what was in it?” Sam asked.

  “Read it a few times, as a lad. Quite the writer, my ancestor. I daresay, a few of his stories were worthy of being published. Less a journal, more like a novel. The story of that detective and how he rescued the Gray Ghost was as exciting to me as any modern-day superhero. But that was many years ago. Some of the finer details escape me.” He stood there, staring at the shelves, then pulled a slim volume out, handing it to Sam. “This might be a good one to start with. It’s the journal right before the theft of the Gray Ghost.” He opened it, quickly turning through the pages until he was close to the end. “This is the next-to-last entry in this volume. And where I think it all started.”

  21

  JOURNAL OF JONATHON PAYTON, 5TH VISCOUNT WELLSWICK

  1906

  Nearly a week after the Ghost was stolen, Mr. Royce called me into his office and handed me an envelope, asking me to take it to the address given, then wait for an answer.

  My being sent on an errand wasn’t unusual, and so no one seemed to notice when I took my overcoat and left. I looked at the envelope, saw it was addressed to a Mr. Isaac Bell at the palatial Midland Hotel, the same establishment where Mr. Rolls and Mr. Royce first met when they decided to form Rolls-Royce Limited. When I arrived, I was met by a tall blond-haired mustachioed man dressed all in white who’d, apparently, been watching for me.

  I handed him the envelope.

  He opened it and read the missive, his eyes moving from the letter to me on occasion. When he finished reading, he tucked the letter and envelope into his breast pocket, telling me that his answer was yes, that he accepted the offer of my assistance . . .

  * * *

  —

  I STARED AT THE MAN, who’d introduced himself as Isaac Bell. “Forgive me,” I said. “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “Your employer didn’t mention that I’m a private detective?”

  “No, sir.”

  “With the Van Dorn Agency. I’m here about the train robbery.”

  The crime had occurred several days after the Grey Ghost was stolen. Three men had been killed, shot by the robbers. A king’s ransom stolen, and, along with it, the machined engine parts that Rolls-Royce hoped to use to put together a working forty-fifty engine in time for the Olympia Motor Show.

  It suddenly occurred to me that one of the dead men had also been a private detective hired by Rolls-Royce to find their stolen car. “I’m so sorry. This man was a friend of yours?”

  “I didn’t know him, but he was an associate, and I have an allegiance to find out who killed him. I’ve been hired to find out who killed the three men and who robbed the train.”

  “Forgive my impertinence, but why am I here?”

  “Your employer has offered your services to assist me in my investigation.”

  “But why?” I asked, certain there must be some mistake.

  “I need someone who knows the area. As such, it’s important that you tell no one that we’re working together. Three men have already been killed. I’d rather not add another to that count.”

  I wasn’t sure what frightened me more: that this Mr. Bell expected me to agree to this working arrangement or that when he talked about death the warmth in his eyes turned to steel. “Why me?” was all I could manage.

  “I asked for someone trustworthy, but also someone whom no one would suspect would have the nerve to work with a detective.”

  I couldn’t help a twinge of embarrassment over that description. Shadows made me jump. No one would suspect me of having the nerve to do anything remotely brave. “Perhaps you misunderstood. I’m certain you’d rather have my cousin, Reggie. He’s the brave one in the family.”

  “You care about Rolls-Royce?”

  “Of course,” I said, not fully realizing that Bell had drawn me outside and into a waiting carriage.

  “Then you’ll do.” Before I knew it, we were halfway down the street, when Bell asked, “What do you know about the train robbery?”

  “The engineers were killed. And a private detective.”

  “He was hired by Rolls-Royce. There were engine parts on that train.”

  A feeling of guilt hit me. “I ordered those parts.”

  “Don’t you find it the least bit odd?”

  “Surely it was a coincidence.”

  “Interesting you’d say that,” Bell replied, “because that’s precisely what I was wondering.”

  Several minutes later, the carriage stopped, the driver letting us out on a street corner next to a brick building about four stories high.

  Bell pointed toward the railroad tracks. “That’s where it happened.”

  I looked in that direction, feeling slightly nauseated at the thought.

  “If I’m not mistaken,” Bell continued, �
�it was just before dawn. The night watchman found a load of lumber spilled at the crossing.”

  “A setup to stop the train?” I asked.

  Bell glanced at me. “You’re a quick study. You’ll do just fine.” We walked closer to the railroad tracks. “The detective who’d been following one of the robbers was killed right here. In the street. Shot in the back.” Isaac stared at the ground for several seconds, then to his right, where wooden stairs led up to a second-story entrance. “Which doesn’t make sense. By all accounts, he was very experienced. Why?”

  “Running for his life?”

  Isaac pulled out a gold pocket watch. “What time was the robbery?”

  “Just before dawn.”

  “I’ll see you then.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Here. Tomorrow. Before dawn.” He started to turn away, then stopped. “If Mr. Royce didn’t inform you, you’re not to tell anyone that we’re working together.”

  * * *

  —

  “WHAT ARE WE LOOKING FOR?” I asked at dawn the next morning. We were standing at the tracks where the robbery had taken place.

  “Wondering who’s out at this hour. Besides us, of course.”

  No one that I could see. The brick-fronted factories were dark. We turned right, the streets empty, no sound but our own footsteps.

  Suddenly Isaac stopped. “Did you hear that?”

  “Hear what?”

  “A tinkling bell,” he said. “This way.”

  We crossed the street, turned the corner, and discovered a bakery open for business. A bell rang as he opened the door, the scent of fresh bread greeting us as we entered.

  A gray-haired shopkeeper was handing change to a young woman, who had several loaves in the basket on her arm. Isaac held the door for her as she left, then introduced himself to the baker, asking if any of his customers had mentioned seeing anything out of the ordinary the morning of the train robbery.

  “Naught but servants out that early,” the shopkeeper said. “None mentioned anything to me.” We thanked him, and started to leave, when he added, “Of course, there’s the boy.”

  “What boy?” Isaac asked.

  “Caught him digging through the rubbish one morning a few weeks back, so I started leaving the burnt loaves by the door. Make it easier for him, poor lad. A few loaves were missing the day of the robbery. None the next few days. Hasn’t been back since.”

  “Any idea where he lives?” Isaac asked.

  “I’d guess, the streets. Skin and bones, that one. Sometimes a younger lad comes with him.”

  The baker showed us the back door that was cracked open wide enough to let out his tabby cat and, next to the door, a wooden crate filled with the burnt bread.

  I stared at the unappetizing rolls with their blackened bottoms, at once saddened and horrified to think anyone could be so hungry as to dig through rubbish or steal into a shop to take the cast-offs. What I wasn’t prepared for was Isaac’s suggestion that we come out each morning to wait for the lad.

  “How will that help?” I asked.

  “The fact he stopped coming after the robbery is telling,” Isaac said. “Perhaps he saw something.”

  We returned the next morning, watching as the baker let out his cat, then he disappeared to the front of the shop as the little bell rang, announcing the first of an early string of customers. At least we were able to sit in the kitchen near the warmth of the ovens instead of the cold alley out back. On the third morning, after the baker opened the door for his cat, Isaac and I again waited. Just as I’d convinced myself this was a waste of time, a soft scrape outside the door caught our attention. In the shop, behind us, the little bell tinkled over the front door, making me wonder if the sound might scare off whoever was out there. I started to move toward the back to peer out, but Isaac lifted his finger, urging me to remain where I was. After several seconds, certain that the arriving customer had scared off our would-be burglar, I saw a small hand reach in, grasping one of the rolls, noting the child’s fingernails curiously clean for so young a thief.

  22

  Oliver cleared his throat as he looked up from the journal. “Perhaps this one starts a little too early. In case you haven’t guessed, Reginald Oren had it in for his uncle and was skimming from the orphanage and sabotaging Rolls-Royce by stealing the Gray Ghost. The next journal goes into more detail on how the Ghost came into my family’s possession. Given to us in thanks.”

  “That’s quite a thank-you gift,” Remi said.

  “Small, when you think about who Reginald was planning to sell the Ghost to. A competing motorcar company wanted the forty-fifty plans. They were trying to put Rolls-Royce out of business.”

  “So the Gray Ghost never made the show?” Sam said.

  “No. They put the Silver Ghost in instead, even though the coachwork hadn’t been completed. And the rest, as they say, is history.”

  “Imagine,” Remi said. “Sitting on a car that valuable all these years and not even knowing it.”

  “Considering the car’s missing and Uncle Albert’s accused of murder,” Oliver replied, “it doesn’t really matter at this point, does it?”

  “We’re going to find it, and whoever’s behind setting up your uncle.”

  Oliver gave a nod. “Let’s hope so.”

  “You were saying something about a reward,” Sam said. “For the recovery of the treasure. Was it significant?”

  “Truthfully, I have no idea. Why?”

  “Right before we flew out, Selma found some reference to the robbery of the King’s Treasury. Something about not all of it being recovered.”

  “What rubbish,” Oliver said. “Someone thinks that treasure’s sitting in the boot of the car?”

  “That, or the reward you were talking about.”

  Oliver shook his head. “As much as I’d love that to be the reason, I was there when we pulled that car from the barn. The only thing we found was decades of dust.”

  “The possibility exists that someone thinks the treasure’s connected to the Gray Ghost.”

  “I suppose it’s worth exploring,” Oliver said. “But the Gray Ghost wasn’t the only forty-fifty that Rolls-Royce gave out as part of the reward. There were two other forty-fifties included,” he said, searching a different shelf for the missing book.

  “Three?” Sam said, looking over at him. “You mean there’s more than one forty-fifty from that time out there?”

  “What? Well, yes. The Gray Ghost, of course, and two others, one to the American detective and one to the Viscount’s friend who helped the night they recovered it.”

  Sam looked over at Remi. “We should have Selma look into those other two cars. Maybe there’s some connection.”

  Remi made the call. When Selma answered, she put her on speaker, and Remi caught her up on what they knew so far.

  Selma was intrigued. “Two other forty-fifties? During the same time?”

  “Any chance you know what the value might be?” Sam asked.

  “Not an exact price. More like hot gossip from the London Motor Show. Thirty to thirty-five million was the average value being tossed around. Lazlo said he heard that if it went up for auction, it might sell for as high as forty million.”

  Sam whistled. “Quite a haul. Especially if there are two others out there.”

  Oliver, who was still searching the shelves for the missing journal, nodded. “In fact, they were all outfitted by Barker and Company.”

  Sam moved to Remi’s side, telling Selma, “Might be a good idea to see what you can find on those two cars. Never know what might turn up.”

  “I’ll get on it,” Selma said. “Who were the original owners?”

  “A detective who helped with the arrest in ’06,” Sam said. “The other person.”

  Oliver’s nose was buried in one of the diarie
s. “I’m just looking it up now. This is the volume after the missing one. Rather boring in comparison, but it does mention something about the cars . . .” He turned a few pages, scanned, turned a few more. “The writing’s difficult to decipher at times. Some of the ink seems to have faded over the years.”

  Sam looked over Oliver’s shoulder, trying to read it himself. “If it’s okay with you, we could overnight this to Selma, let her and her assistants take a look. They do a pretty good job when it comes to restoring documents.”

  “I don’t see why not. As long as we get it back.”

  “We’ll take good care of it,” Selma said. “How many volumes are there?”

  “About twenty,” Oliver said.

  “And one’s missing?”

  “The one detailing the theft of the Gray Ghost.”

  “Any other volumes mention the car?” Selma asked.

  “A couple of them do,” Oliver said, apparently well versed on what they contained. “One’s from World War Two. It details when Uncle Albert’s father hid the car in the barn we found it in.”

  “What about local experts?” Selma asked. “Anyone else who knows the history of your car? Might be worth talking to.”

  “Actually, there is,” Oliver said. “The mechanic who worked on the Gray Ghost. We picked him because of his expertise in Rolls-Royce restoration.”

  “Exactly how much work did he do on the car?” Sam asked.

  “Had the car for a good fortnight before we got it back. Surely he would have mentioned something if he’d found anything important, wouldn’t he?” Oliver glared at the diary, then at them. “Blast it all, I’m being naive about that, aren’t I?”

  Sam glanced at Remi. “Guess we know where we’re off to next.”

  23

  The moment Arthur Oren stepped out of his town house, down the steps, to the front walk, Colton’s black Mercedes rolled up—one of the things he liked about the man: his extreme punctuality. If he said he was going to be somewhere at a certain time, he made it happen.