The Emerald Key - By Christopher Dinsdale Page 0,67
had sold his old Celtic book at the bookseller on St. James. This must be revenge for his brother! I can guarantee that when you find my boat, he will be the one behind it! I want him arrested and the keys to his cell thrown away!”
Seeing his customer distracted, the ticket man cleared his throat. “The Europa has a first-class berth available, and she is leaving Montreal for London in three days’ time. Can I interest you in purchasing a ticket?”
“Perhaps in a moment,” said Wilkes, excusing himself from the line.
Captain Chamberlain, the mention of Irish children, and the theft of a boat was simply too much of a coincidence. Jamie Galway survived? Surely the girl had died from the fall, but perhaps the boy had survived the fire with the priceless text still intact! Wilkes made his way to the side of the ticket booth, found the door into the office, and stepped through the doorway. He approached the heated argument continuing between the captain and the company man.
“The authorities are already alerting all of the ports and shipping lines along the St. Lawrence. It’s not like a ship the size of the Carpathia II can hide anywhere. We will find it, and when we do, we will arrest the perpetrators, and she will once again be all yours.”
“You’ll find her half-sunk on a shoal, that’s what you’ll find when you catch up with her,” yelled Chamberlain. “My ship captained by children! This is outrageous!”
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” interrupted Wilkes.
“And who in blazes are you?” stormed Chamberlain.
“My name is Jonathon Wilkes. I’m a private investigator.”
Wilkes pulled out his wallet, shuffled through the various fake business cards and pulled out the one he was looking for. Jonathon Wilkes. Private Detective for Hire. London. Paris. New York. He passed it to the director.
The company man glanced down at the card. “My name is Walter Reeves, director of operations for Western Star Shipping Lines”.
“I just finished a case here in Montreal,” lied Wilkes, “and I happened to overhear your conversation regarding a missing ship. I feel that I can be of assistance in tracking down and retrieving the Carpathia II.”
“As if anyone needs help tracking down a stolen three-hundred-passenger steamship!” scoffed Chamberlain.
“I’m sorry,” said Reeves, “but I feel it’s a situation that is best left to the authorities.”
“Have you not been following the newspapers, sir?” Wilkes countered. “The authorities are completely overwhelmed at the moment. If they’re not dealing with the spread of sickness throughout the country, they are having to control angry mobs, such as the one that burned down your own parliament building two nights ago. I’m afraid that a search for a stolen ship might simply overtax their already strained capabilities.”
Reeves considered the argument while Chamberlain simply huffed in irritation. “And what’s your fee, Wilkes?” asked Reeves.
“Our agreement will be simple. I will not accept any form of an upfront fee. Payment for services will only take place upon the reacquisition of the Carpathia II. However, I will require access to all of the information you receive regarding tips as to the location of the Carpathia II, plus coverage of any transportation costs that I might incur as I track down the ship’s location. My finder’s fee will be a flat fifty pounds plus a royal suite ticket to London, England, on a Western Star ship. Are these terms acceptable?”
“Are you saying I will not have to pay anything until you find my ship?” repeated Reeves, surprised.
“That’s correct.”
“I can certainly live with those terms. Welcome aboard, Mr. Wilkes.”
The men shook hands.
“Now then,” said Wilkes, leading Reeves and Chamberlain back into the office, “let’s see what information you already have that will help me track down your naughty little Irish children. I’m very good at my job, Mr. Wilkes, and tracking down missing items is my speciality.”
Big John Rice spun the wheel to the right and pointed the nose of the Kentson toward the busy harbour of Kingston. Tall masts and steamer smokestacks rose from the shore-side docks like the posts of an enormous fence protecting the skyline of the bustling waterfront town. Only the impressive dome of an elegant stone building rose above the collection of moored ships. Grey smoke from a departing steamboat fogged the calm morning air. The Chippewa churned its single paddle east toward the mouth of the St. Lawrence River. Big John knew the captain well and waved to him as the two ships passed.
Looking over his other shoulder, Big John could see the Flying