The Gray Ghost (with Robin Burcell) by Clive Cussler

Author:Clive Cussler [Cussler, Clive]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Thriller
ISBN: 9780735218734
Amazon: B075HY5MJK
Publisher: G.P. Putnam’s Sons; Penguin Group
Published: 2018-05-29T05:00:00+00:00

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MY DELIGHT over the prospect of calling on Miss Atwater was tempered by my reluctance to entertain the notion that my cousin was responsible for the theft of the Grey Ghost.

Isaac Bell still believed that Reginald had masterminded the theft while he and I were employed at Rolls-Royce Limited.

If so, was he also the masked man who’d held up the train and killed the engineer and brakeman? The embezzlement, I could almost believe—the work of a brash man who’d gotten in over his head with gambling debts—especially after Isaac had found proof that the books had been altered. Someone had stolen the money. But murder? All to facilitate the theft of engine parts that Mr. Rolls and Mr. Royce were counting on to finish the half-built Silver Ghost in order to enter it into the Olympia Motor Show instead of the stolen Grey Ghost?

As preposterous as it sounded, I dared not mention it to my father, his health being delicate. I tried to put it from my head that night as I called on Miss Atwater, ignoring the strange palpitations of my heart when I thought of her.

We ate dinner and took in an operetta, both enjoying ourselves enough that Miss Atwater agreed I could call on her again. She lived in the caretaker’s cottage behind the orphanage with her brother and his wife. Neither of us wanted the night to end, so I dismissed my carriage, deciding to walk her home. As we strolled down the sidewalk, I sensed the presence of someone behind me. When I looked back, I saw nothing but shadows.

“Is something amiss?” she asked.

Emboldened by the possession of my father’s brass-handled cane, and wanting no harm to come to Miss Atwater, I gathered my courage. “Wait here. I’ll be but a moment.”

I left her at the corner, certain that what I saw in her blue eyes was unwavering trust. Turning back, I gripped the heavy cane and retraced my steps, hoping to discover the source of my unease. Whatever had caught my attention was nowhere to be found, and I chided myself for being so jumpy, certain that my imagination had conjured sounds where there were none. “’Twas nothing,” I said, turning back to her.

But the street was empty.

I ran to the corner, searching frantically, looking at the railroad tracks, wondering if she’d crossed over to the orphanage. “Miss Atwater?” I called out.

I heard a rustling and started to turn. And then I felt a sharp pain as someone hit me over the head.

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