Read Online The Voyage of Lucy P. Simmons by Barbara Mariconda - Free Book Online

constant.
    â€œYou,” Grady exclaimed, taking Georgie by the shoulder. “How ’bout this week we’ll try ye out as the timekeeper, markin’ every half hour by the bell, one ring for each? Yer sister and Miss Addie can help.” This perked Georgie up considerably. He ran to the bell to give it a ring. The rest of us dispersed, to chores, to rest, or to keep watch.
    I made my way back to my cabin, needing some time alone. Besides taking my part in the inevitable washing down of the decks, chipping rust from the ironworks, coating them with red lead and white paint, pumping the bilge, and airing and repairing sails stored in the lazaret, there were my own personal tasks of another nature altogether. The first of these was to figure out how to open Father’s safe and discover whatever clues it might hold that would help us locate Pru. I had a strong, inexplicable intuition that told me this was not only important, but imperative. I had to discover the combination!
    Inside the cabin I climbed into my bunk and reached for a tablet of paper and pencil from the built-in shelf beside me. I flipped back the cover and chewed the pencil thoughtfully. The combination would be three numbers. The locking mechanism was circled in increments, from 1 to 39. I drew two vertical lines down the page, creating three columns. In the left column I wrote the number 1; in the middle column, 2; the right-hand column, 3. Then I drew a horizontal line below that first possible (though unlikely) combination. I would simply continue switching the number in the first column, increasing it each time by one. Then, I’d do the same thing with column two, and finally, column three.
    Feeling quite smug at my clever systematic approach, I quickly filled thirty-nine rows and a page and a half, crossing out any combinations with duplicate numbers side by side: 1-2-3 . . . 2-2-3 . . . 3-2-3 . . . 4-2-3, and so on, until finally—39-2-3. Then I began the next group of numbers, altering just column two: 1-1-3 . . . 1-2-3 . . . 1-3-3 . . . 1-4-3 . . . all the way up to 1-39-3.
    Five pages in, when I’d completed the third sequence of numbers, ending with: 1-2-39, a terrible thought occurred to me. Creating three columns of numbers, each beginning with 1 , would not be enough! Hitting upon every possible combination—such as 39-17-20—would require that I create three combinations beginning with each number from 1 to 39! Suddenly it was apparent that the variety of combinations was seemingly infinite. In frustration (and embarrassed at my initial foolish optimism), I grabbed hold of my futile scrawlings, tore them from the book, and crumpled them into a ball.
    But wait.
    I’d spent the time and there were, after all, five pages of combinations I could try and then eliminate. I might not discover what the combination was, but at least I would know what it wasn’t. I stood, uncrumpled the pages, and smoothed them until the numbers were once more legible. Wrinkled pages in hand, I headed down the companionway toward the chart room, determined not to be discouraged.
    As I approached the door and reached for the knob, something peculiar happened. As though recoiling from my touch, the door slowly and silently swung inward without so much as a creak or a whisper.
    I hesitated for a moment, and, taking my cue from the door itself, proceeded noiselessly, like a shadow. Halfway in, barely breathing, I stopped short, shocked at what I saw.
    Without a sound I retreated into the corridor and backed against the wall so as not to be seen. I turned my face to the right, affording me a view into the room while remaining somewhat out of sight.
    Quaide squatted in front of the safe, his pants slipping just beneath the absurdly offensive crack of his backside. He inclined his ear toward the lock and spun the dial between chunky fingers, this way and that, this way and that. Then he abruptly