If it were not for the long sculpted lines of smoke hanging above her twin chimneys she might have seemed motionless; the paddleboxes enclosing her side wheels disguised their revolution as the moonlight disguised the brilliant colors of her woodwork. Detective Crown Investigator Abigail Irene Garrett knew The Nation must be fighting the tidal swell up the Hudson Fjord to hold her position, but the paddle boat was like a swan: what rose serenely above the great river’s surface reflected no hint of the steady striving beneath. The little stern-wheeled tug that bore Garrett toward The Nation could not have been more of a contrast—skittering toward the stately passenger-and-freight vessel like an overexcited water bug. Garrett shifted her gloved grip on the railing and lifted her face to the wind. Night was no more than a courtesy. The moon’s shining face would have provided sufficient light to navigate by, especially reflected as it was by the river. But in addition, the lights of New Amsterdam lined the right-hand bank, those of New Jersey the left—and The Nation herself gleamed at the center, bedeviled by gilt and shining with lanterns.
