The Spy

  Bell asked, “If it were true, what the Gramps Patrol reported, why do you suppose a Chinaman would break into the navy yard?”

  “Looking to steal something.”

  “Or after the girls.”

  “What girls?”

  “The officers’ daughters. The ones who live in the yard.”

  Private Little looked around to make sure no one was listening. The only patron close enough was curled up on the floor, snoring in the sawdust. “Commandant’s got a couple of lovelies I wouldn’t mind getting to know better.”

  “I see,” said Bell, suppressing a smile. The idea of an amorous Chinese infiltrating an American Navy base by scaling a ten-foot wall guarded by Marines at every gate and watchmen inside did not suggest a productive path of investigation. But, he reminded himself, while a detective had always to be skeptical, the wise skeptic dismissed no possibility without first considering it. “Who,” he asked, “was this old night watchman who told you this?”

  “He didn’t tell us. He told the sergeant.”

  “His name is Eddison,” said Black.

  “Big John Eddison,” Little added.

  “How old is he?”

  “Looks a hundred.”

  “Big old man. Nearly as tall you, Mr. Bell.”

  “Where would I find him?”

  “There’s a rooming house where the salts hang out.”

  Bell found Eddison’s rooming house on F Street within a short walk of the navy yard. It had a front porch filled with rocking chairs, empty this cold afternoon. He went in and introduced himself to the landlady, who was laying her long table for supper. She had a thick Southern accent, and a face still pretty despite the lines acquired in years of hard work.

  “Mr. Eddison?” she drawled. “He’s a good old man. Never a bit of trouble like certain of his shipmates I could name.”

  “Is he in?”

  “Mr. Eddison sleeps late, being as how he works at night.”

  “Would you mind if I waited?” Bell asked with a smile that flashed his even teeth and lighted his blue eyes.

  The landlady brushed a wisp of gray hair from her cheek and smiled back. “I’ll bring you a cup of coffee.”

  “Don’t trouble yourself.”

  “No trouble, Mr. Bell. You’re in the South now. My mother would spin in her grave if she heard I let a gentleman sit in my parlor without a cup of coffee.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Bell was able to say without stretching the truth too far, “This is the finest coffee I have had since my mother took me to a pastry shop in Vienna, Austria, when I was only knee-high to a grasshopper.”

  “Well, you know what I’ve a mind to do? I’ll put on a fresh pot and ask Mr. Eddison if he’d like to have a cup with you.”

  John Eddison would have been even taller than Bell, the detective saw, had age not bent his back. He had big hands and long arms that must have been powerful in his day, a shock of white hair, pale runny eyes, the enormous nose that old men often grew, and a firm mouth set in sagging jowls.

  Bell extended his hand. “I’m Isaac Bell, Van Dorn investigator.”

  “You don’t say,” Eddison grinned, and Bell saw that the slow movement of age masked a sprightly manner. “Well, I didn’t do it. Though I might have when I was younger. How can I help you, sonny?”

  “I was speaking with Lance Corporal Black and Private Little of the Marine guard, and—”

  “You know what we said about the Marines in the Navy?” Eddison interrupted.

  “No, sir.”

  “A sailor had to accidentally bang his head four times on a low beam to demonstrate that he was qualified to join the Marines.”

  Bell laughed. “They told me that you reported you had surprised a prowler in the navy yard.”

  “Aye. But he got away. They didn’t believe me.”

  “A Chinese?”

  “Not a Chinaman.”

  “No? I wonder where Black and Little got the idea the prowler was Chinese?”

  “I warned you about the Marines,” Eddison chuckled. “You laughed.”

  “What sort of man did the prowler look like?”

  “Like a Jap.”

  “Japanese?”

  “I told those fools’ sergeant. Sounds like their sergeant had Chinamen on the brain. But like I said, I don’t think the sergeant believed I saw anyone at all—Chinaman, Jap—he didn’t believe me, period. Thought I was a stupid old man having visions. The sergeant asked me if I was drinking. Hell, I haven’t had a drink in forty years.”

  Bell couched his next question carefully. He had met very few Americans who could distinguish Japanese from Chinese. “Did you get a close look at him?”

  “Aye.”

  “I was under the impression it was dark.”

  “The moon shone square in his face.”

  “How near were you to him?”

  Eddison held up his large, wrinkled hand. “Any closer, I’d have wrapped these fingers around his throat.”

  “What was there about him that seemed Japanese?”

  “His eyes, his mouth, his nose, his lips, his hair,” the old man fired back.

  Again, Bell framed his skepticism cautiously. “Some people say they have trouble telling the two races apart.”

  “Some people ain’t been to Japan.”

  “And you have?”

  Eddison straightened up in his chair. “I sailed into Uraga Harbor with Commodore Matthew Perry when he opened Japan to American trade.”

  “That’s sixty years ago!” If this wasn’t an ancient mariner’s tall tale, Eddison was even older than he looked.

  “’Fifty-seven. I was a main topman on Perry’s steam frigate Susquehanna . And I pulled an oar in the commodore’s launch. Rowed the Old Man into Yokosuka. We had Japs coming out of our ears.”

  Bell smiled. “It does sound as if you are qualified to distinguish Japanese from Chinese.”

  “As I said.”

  “Could you tell me where you caught the prowler?”

  “Almost caught him.”

  “Do you recall how far that was from the Gun Factory?”

  Eddison shrugged. “Thousand yards.”

  “Half a mile,” Bell mused.

  “Half a sea mile,” Eddison corrected.

  “Even farther.”

  “Sonny, I’ll bet you’re speculating if the Jap had something to do with the explosion in Mr. Langner’s design loft.”

  “Do you think he did?”

  “No way of knowing. Like I say, the Jap I saw was a full thousand yards from the Gun Factory.”

  “How big is the navy yard?” Bell asked.

  The old sailor stroked his chin and looked into the middle distance. “I’d imagine that between the walls and river, the yard must take up a hundred acres.”

  “One hundred acres.” Nearly as big as a northeastern dairy farm.

  “Chockful of mills, foundries, parade grounds. Plus,” he added with a meaningful look, “mansions and gardens—where I intercepted him prowling.”

  “What do think he was doing there?’

  John Eddison smiled. “I don’t think. I know.”

  “What do you know he was doing there?”

  “He was right close by the officers’ mansions. The commandant’s daughters are comely young ladies. And your Japs, they like the l adies.”

  5

  THERE WERE DAYS WHEN EVEN A BOY GENIUS LIKE GROVER Lakewood was glad for time off from the laboratory to clear his head of the intricacies of aiming a gun at a moving target from a moving ship. The fire-control expert spent most days and many nights inventing myriad calculations to counter the effects of roll, pitch, yaw, and trajectory curves. It was absolutely fascinating work, made all the more intense by the fact that Lakewood had to devise ways for ordinary minds to apply his calculations in the midst of battle when guns were thundering, seas breaking, and steel splinters howling through the smoke.

  In his spare time he toyed with futuristic formulas to tackle the challe
nges of cross-rolling—where he imagined his ships firing ahead instead of broadside—and tried to take into account the ever-increasing ranges of big guns and the ever-flattening trajectories of high-velocity shells. Sometimes he had to turn himself upside down like a saltshaker to empty his brain.

  Rock climbing offered such a break.

  A day of rock climbing started with the train ride to Ridgefield, Connecticut, then a drive across the New York state line in a rented Ford auto to Johnson Park in the Westchester estate country, then a two-mile hike to a remote hill called Agar Mountain, all leading to a slow, hard climb up a rock wall to the top of a cliff. The train ride was a chance to just stare out the window for two hours and watch the land change from city to farm. Driving the auto required his full attention to the rutted roads. The hike filled his lungs with fresh air and got his blood going. The climb demanded complete concentration to avoid falling off the cliff and landing a long, long way down on his skull.

  This unusually warm weekend for early spring had brought walkers to the park. Striding purposefully in his tweed jacket, knickers, and boots, Lakewood passed an old lady on her “constitutional,” exchanged hearty “Good morning!”s with several hikers, and observed, longingly, a couple holding hands.

  Lakewood was quite good-looking, sturdily built, with a ready smile, but working six and seven days a week—often bunking on a cot at the lab—made it hard to meet girls. And for some reason, the nieces and daughters that the older engineers’ wives marched in to meet him were never that appealing. It usually didn’t bother him. He was too busy to be lonely, but now and then when he saw a young couple he thought, One day I’ll get lucky, too.

  He hiked deeper into the park until he found himself alone on a narrow path through dense forest. When he saw movement ahead, he was disappointed because he was hoping to have the cliff to himself and concentrate on climbing in peace and quiet.

  The person ahead stopped and sat on a fallen log. When he drew closer, he saw it was a girl—and a petite and very pretty girl at that—dressed for climbing in trousers and lace-up boots like his. Red hair spilled from her brimmed hat. As she turned her head abruptly toward him, her hair flashed in the sunlight, bright as a shell burst.

  She looked Irish, with paper-white skin, a small, upturned nose, a jaunty smile, and flashing blue eyes, and he suddenly remembered meeting her before . . . Last summer . . . What was her name? Let’s see, where had they met . . . Yes! The “company picnic,” hosted by Captain Lowell Falconer, the Spanish-American War hero to whom Lakewood reported his range-finder developments.

  What was her name?

  He was close enough to wave and say hello now. She was watching him, with her jaunty smile, and her eyes were lighting up with recognition. Though she looked as puzzled as he felt.

  “Fancy meeting you here,” she called, tentatively.

  “Hello,” said Lakewood.

  “Was last time at the shore?”

  “Fire Island,” said Lakewood. “Captain Falconer’s clambake.”

  “Of course,” she said, sounding relieved. “I knew I knew you from somewhere.”

  Lakewood searched his memory, goading himself: Lakewood! If you can land a 12-inch, five-hundred-pound shell on a dreadnought steaming at sixteen knots from a ship rolling in ten-foot seas, you ought to be able to remember the name of this Gibson Girl lovely who is smiling at you.

  “Miss Dee,” he said, snapping his fingers. “Katherine Dee.” And then, because his mother had raised him properly, Lakewood doffed his hat and extended his hand and said, “Grover Lakewood. How very nice to see you again.”

  When her smile spread into one of delighted recognition, the sunlight of her brilliant hair seemed to migrate into her eyes. Lakewood thought he had died and gone to Heaven. “What a wonderful coincidence!” she said. “What are you doing here?”

  “Climbing,” said Lakewood. “Climbing the rocks.”

  She stared in what appeared to be disbelief. “Now, that is a coincidence.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, that’s why I’m here. There’s a cliff up that path that I’m going to climb.” She cocked an eyebrow that was so pale as to be almost invisible. “Did you follow me here?”

  “What?” Lakewood flushed and began to stammer. “No, I—”

  Katherine Dee laughed. “I’m teasing you. I didn’t mean you followed me. How would you even have known where to find me? No, it’s a perfect coincidence.” Again she cocked her head. “But not really . . . Do you remember when we talked at the clambake?”

  Lakewood nodded. They hadn’t talked as much as he would have liked to. She had seemed to know everybody on the captain’s yacht and had flitted from one person to another, chatting up a storm. But he remembered. “We decided we both liked to be out of doors.”

  “Even though I have to wear a hat for the sun because my skin is so pale.”

  More pale skin had been visible that summery day. Lakewood remembered round, firm arms bared almost to her shoulders, her shapely neck, her ankles.

  “Shall we?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “Climb the rocks.”

  “Yes! Yes. Yes, let’s.”

  They started along the path, brushing shoulders where it narrowed. Every time they touched, he felt an electric shock, and he was thoroughly smitten by the time she asked, “Do you still work for the captain?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “I seem to recall that you told me something about cannons.”

  “They call them guns in the Navy. Not cannons.”

  “Really? I didn’t know there was a difference. You said ‘they.’ Aren’t you in the Navy?”

  “No, I work in a civilian position. But I report to Captain Falconer.”

  “He seemed like a very nice man.”

  Lakewood smiled. “ ‘Nice’ is not the first word that comes to mind for Captain Falconer.” Driven, demanding, and daunting came closer to the mark.

  “Someone told me he was inspiring.”

  “That, he is.”

  She said, “I’m trying to remember who said that. He was very handsome, and older than you, I think.”

  Lakewood felt a hot stab of jealousy. Katherine Dee was talking about Ron Wheeler, the star of the Naval Torpedo Station at Newport who all the girls fell over. “Most of them are older than me,” he answered, hoping to get off the subject of the handsome Wheeler.

  Katherine put him at ease with a heartwarming smile. “Well, whoever he was, I remember that he called you the ‘boy genius.’ ”

  Lakewood laughed.

  “Why do you laugh? Captain Falconer said it, too, and he was a hero in the Spanish-American War. Are you a Boy Genius?”

  “No! I just started young, is all. It’s such a new field. I got in at the beginning.”

  “How could guns be new? Guns have been around forever.” Lakewood stopped walking and turned to face her. “That is very interesting. But, no, guns have not been around forever. Not like they are now. Rifled guns can fire tremendous ranges no one ever imagined before. Why, just the other day I was aboard a battleship off Sandy Hook and—”

  “You were on a battleship?”

  “Oh, sure. I go out on them all the time.”

  “Really?”

  “On the Atlantic Firing Range. Just last week the gunnery officer said to me, ‘The new dreadnoughts could hit Yonkers from here.’ ”

  Katherine’s pretty eyes grew enormous. “Yonkers? I don’t know about that. I mean the last time I sailed into New York on the Lusitania it was a clear day, but I couldn’t see Yonkers from the ocean.”

  The Lusitania? thought Lakewood. Not only is she pretty but she’s rich.

  “Well, it’s hard to see Yonkers, but at sea you can spot a ship that far. The trick is, hitting it.” They resumed walking, shoulders bumping on the narrow path, as he told her how the invention of smokeless powder allowed the spotters to see farther because the ship was less shrouded in gun smoke.

 
“The spotters range with the guns. They judge by the splashes of shot whether they’ve fallen short or overshot. You’ve probably read in the newspaper that’s the reason for all big-guns ships—all the guns the same caliber—so firing one in fact aims all.” She seemed much more interested than he would expect of a pretty girl and listened wide-eyed, pausing repeatedly to stop walking and gaze at him as if mesmerized.

  Lakewood kept talking.

  Nothing secret, he told himself. Nothing about the latest range-finding gyros providing “continuous aim” to “hunt the roll.” Nothing about fire control that she couldn’t read in the papers. He did boast that he got interested in rock climbing while scrambling up a hundred-foot “cage mast” the Navy was developing to spot shell splashes at greater distances. But he did not say that the mast builders were experimenting with coiled lightweight steel tubing to make them immune to shell hits. He did not reveal that cage masts were also intended as platforms for the latest range-finding machines. Nor did he mention the hydraulic engines coupled to the gyro for elevating turret guns. And certainly not a word about Hull 44.

  “I’m confused,” she said with a warm smile. “Maybe you can help me understand. A man told me that ocean liners are much bigger than dreadnoughts. He said that Lusitania and Mauritania are 44,000 tons, but the Navy’s Michigan will be only 16,000.”

  “Liners are floating hotels,” Lakewood answered, dismissively. “Dreadnoughts are fortresses.”

  “But the Lusitania and Mauritania steam faster than dreadnoughts. He called them ‘greyhounds.’ ”

  “Well, if you think of Lusitania and Mauritania as greyhounds, imagine a dreadnought as a wolf.”

  She laughed. “Now I understand. And your job is to give it teeth.” “My job,” Lakewood corrected proudly, “is to sharpen its teeth.” Again she laughed. And touched his arm. “Then what is Captain Falconer’s job?”

  Grover Lakewood considered carefully before he answered. Anyone could read the official truth. Articles were devoted daily to every aspect of the dreadnought race, from the expense to the national glory to gala launchings to flat-footed foreign spies nosing around the Brooklyn Navy Yard claiming to be newspapermen.

  “Captain Falconer is the Navy’s Special Inspector of Target Practice. He became a gunnery expert after the battle of Santiago. Even though we sank every Spanish ship in Cuba, our guns scored only two percent hits. Captain Falconer vowed to improve that.”