The Thief

Laughter interrupted the kaiser’s words — nervous laughter, which was choked off abruptly.

Wagner opened his eyes and saw to his horror that even as the kaiser’s words issued from the horns, the picture showed his dachshund barking at the camera. But that couldn’t be. The dog was supposed to bark after the kaiser had finished speaking. Somehow the sound and the picture had jumped apart.

The kaiser leaped from his throne and stormed out, trailed by his generals.

Herma

A palace maid ran after him. “Your hat, Herr Wagner. Your hat!”

She was a tiny little thing with gold braids. Polite even on the worst day of his life, the gentle Herma

“Thank you, Herr Wagner.”

Moments after she curtsied her thanks, Detective Pauline Grandzau slipped out of the palace to cable the good news to Chief Investigator Bell.

Epilogue

The Widow Skelton had taken up with the Widower Farquhar, which pleased everyone in Newcastle upon Tyne except the priest. Mrs. Skelton, who had served as a nursing sister in the Boer War and a matron of military hospitals in the Great War, and was still a raven-haired beauty, owned the Marysmead Arms, a popular pub in the shadows of the Swan Hunter shipyard. Mr. Farquhar was admired as one of “nature’s gentlemen,” a master craftsman and head foreman at the Swan Hunter furnace works where the legendary Cunard flyer Mauretania—which still held the Blue Riband for the fastest on the Atlantic — had returned to her launching place to be converted to burning oil instead of coal.

“I brought you something,” said Mr. Farquhar, coming home from his shift on a wet, blustery evening to their flat above the pub.

“There’s no need,” she said, though pleased. “You should save your money.”

He thrust an oilskin-wrapped packet in her hand. “It didn’t cost a pe

“I’m not surprised.” It was grimy with coal dust.

“Aren’t you going to open it?”

He showed her where he had already unfolded one end. She peeled back the oilskin and found a fancy envelope.

“What is this?”

“The lads found it behind a coal bunker. It must have been there for years. See what’s inside.”

“You didn’t look, yet?’

“No, I saved that for you.”

She turned back the flap and pulled out a thick sheet of lavishly decorated parchment paper. Mr. Farquhar rested a hand on her shoulder as he leaned close.

“That looks like real gold.”

“Gold leaf.”

“What does it say?” He’d gone too farsighted to read without specs, but her stone blue eyes were still sharp.

“It’s an invitation to a wedding. On the ship! They were married on the ship!”

She gazed in wonder and delight, then turned it over.

“What’s that?”

“Wee figures and squiggles. Greek to me.” She slipped the invitation reverently into the envelope and rewrapped the envelope in the oilskin.

“Don’t you want it?” asked Mr. Farquhar. “It’s pretty. I could make a frame for it.”

“Take it directly to Mr. Thomas McGeady at the Cunard office. Tell him that I said to find this couple and send it to them.”

“You know Mr. McGeady?”

“I own a pub, Mr. Farquhar. I know everyone— Hurry! I’ll hold your tea.”

“What’s the rush?”

“Next month is their a

On Nob Hill, in one of the very few mansions to survive the San Francisco earthquake and fire of 1906, Isaac Bell was telling Marion, “It is possible that my eyesight is not as keen as it once was, so if I am to inspect this supposed wrinkle on your cheek you’re going to have to come closer into the light, here on my lap,” when he was interrupted by a child who ran in with the morning mail, dumped it beside them on the sofa, and ran out.

After the supposed wrinkle had been thoroughly debunked, they went through the mail and discovered a large manila envelope from the Cunard Line.

“Captain Turner?” asked Marion, though it couldn’t be. Over the years, Turner used to write on their a

Bell opened it with the knife from his boot.

Inside the manila envelope was a note from a Cunard executive: “The company thought you might enjoy this. It was found by Mr. Alec Farquhar of the Swan Works in Newcastle whilst refitting Mauretania, and sent along by Mrs. Alison Skelton. The chairman joins me in offering the line’s heartiest congratulations on your upcoming a

Isaac and Marion recognized immediately the elaborate envelope that the ship’s printer had run up for their wedding. Moisture had blurred the recipient’s name. “Whose was this?” Marion asked, leaning closer to study the faded letters. Wisps of her golden champagne hair brushed Bell’s cheek. “Oh my gosh, this is Clyde Lynds’s invitation. Oh, poor Clyde.”

Marion pulled out the invitation itself, only slightly less for wear. “This is lovely. Oh, my dear, it’s like being married again.”

Isaac Bell asked, “What’s this on the back?”

Isaac Bell was raising a glass of champagne to the resounding success of the premiere of Marion’s new film, the screwball comedy Listen Here, New York, when he overheard a critic dictating his review from a coin telephone in the lobby:

“Marion Bell’s Listen Here, New York, is a lulu about speakeasies, chorus girls, and gangsters. But while the first electrically recorded sound-on-film high-fidelity talking picture vastly improves The Jazz Singer with actual audible talk, a viewer still observes that the director ordered James Cagney and Edward G. Robinson to park themselves under a microphone before they delivered their snappy lines.”

Isaac Bell put down his glass.

Marion laid a restraining hand on his arm. “Isaac, where are you going?”

“I’m going to punch that man in the nose.”

“Instead of punching a critic in the nose, which might influence reviews of my next movie, let’s toast Clyde, whose plans made my picture possible — even though Talking Pictures was always more complicated than Clyde hoped it would be.”

Marion defused Bell with a smile and a moment later the critic redeemed himself, saying, “Everyone agrees the talking pictures system will improve quickly, which in this critic’s opinion ca

Bell was watching Vox across the lobby. The blond screenwriter was swathed in sable, dripping in jewels, and equipped with a dashing silver-haired escort. The rumors Bell had gathered so far claimed he was her cousin or her husband and either fabulously wealthy or a pe

“Who?”

“She wasn’t a blonde back then.”

“Who?’ asked Marion. She had never met her writer until tonight, having communicated with the famously reticent scenarist by mail, cable, and telephone.