The Spy (35 page)

Bell took the spy’s taunting note from his pocket and read it again.

The spy was boasting that both Weeks and the German had worked for his ring. Which struck Bell as reckless behavior in a line of business where discretion was survival and victories should be celebrated in the quietest manner. He could not imagine the cool Yamamoto or even the supercilious Abbington-Westlake writing such a note.

The spy also seemed deluded. Did he really believe that Isaac Bell and the entire Van Dorn Agency would ignore his attack? He was practically begging for a counterpunch.

Bell went to the dining car for the second seating.

The tables were arranged in place settings of four and two, and the custom was to be seated wherever there was room. He saw Bennett and his Chinese had an empty chair at their table for four. As earlier in the observation car, the witty writer was regaling nearby tables while his solemn charges sat quietly. The German, Shafer, was eating in stiff silence across from an American drummer who was failing miserably to make conversation. The Australian was at another table for two speaking earnestly with a table mate dressed as if he could afford to buy a gold mine. At another two, Laurence Rosania was deep in conversation with a younger man in an elegant suit.

Bell slipped the diner captain money. “I would like that empty seat at Mr. Bennett’s table.”

But as the captain led him toward the writer’s table, Bell heard another diner call out from a table he had just passed.

“Bell! Isaac Bell. I thought that was you.”

The gem merchant Erhard Riker rose from his table, brushing a napkin to his lips and extending his hand. “Another coincidence, sir? We seem to repeat them. Are you alone? Care to join me?”

The Chinese could wait. The passenger list showed them connecting through to San Francisco, whereas Riker was changing trains in the morning to the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe’s California Limited.

They shook hands. Riker indicated the empty chair across from him. Bell sat.

“How’s our diamond hunt going?”

“I’m closing in on an emerald fit for a queen. Or even a goddess. It should be waiting for us when I get back to New York. We can only pray the lady will like it,” he added with a smile.

“Where are you headed?”

Riker looked around to ensure they weren’t overheard. “San Diego,” he whispered. “And you?”

“San Francisco. What’s in San Diego?”

Again Riker looked around again. “Pink tourmaline.” He smiled self-disparagingly. “Forgive my taciturnity. The enemy has spies everywhere.”

“Enemy? What enemy?”

“Tiffany and Company are attempting to corner the tourmaline supply in San Diego because Tz’u-hsi, Dowager Empress of China—an eccentric despot with all the wealth of China at her disposal—loves San Diego’s pink tourmaline. Uses it for carvings and buttons and the like. When she fell head over heels for pink tourmaline, she created a whole new market. Tiffany is attempting to seize it.” He lowered his voice further. Bell leaned closer to hear. “This has created splendid opportunities for an independent gem merchant who is able to snap up the best samples before they do. It’s dog-eat-dog in the gem line, Mr. Bell.” He added a wink to his smile, and Bell was not sure whether he was serious.

“I don’t know anything about the jewelry business.”

“Surely a detective comes across jewels, if only stolen ones.”

Bell looked at him sharply. “How did you know I was a detective?”

Riker shrugged. “When I agree to hunt for a significant gem, I first investigate whether the client can afford it or is merely wishing he can.”

“Detectives aren’t rich.”

“Those who inherit Boston banking fortunes are, Mr. Bell. Forgive me if I seemed to intrude on your privacy, but I think you can understand that gathering information about my customers is a necessary part of doing business. I have a small operation. I can’t afford to spend weeks hunting stones for a client who turns out to have eyes bigger than his stomach.”

“I understand,” said Bell. “I presume you understand why I don’t bandy it about?”

“Of course, sir. Your secrets are safe with me. Though I did wonder when I discovered who you are how a successful detective keeps out of the limelight.”

“By avoiding cameras and portraitists.”

“But it would seem that the more criminals you catch the more famous you will be.”

“Hopefully,” said Bell, “only among criminals behind bars.” Riker laughed. “Well said, sir. Come, here I am talking a blue streak. The waiter is hovering. We must order our dinner.”

Behind him, Bell heard Arnold Bennett announcing, “This is the first time I ever dined
à la carte
on any train. An excellent dinner, well and sympathetically served. The mutton was impeccable.”

“There’s an endorsement,” said Riker. “Perhaps you should have the mutton.”

“I’ve never met an Englishman who knew a thing about good food,” Bell replied, and asked the waiter, “Are we still in shad season?”

“Yes, sir! How would you like it cooked?”

“Grilled. And may I reserve some roe for breakfast?”

“It will be a different diner in the morning, sir. Hitched on at Elkhart. But I’ll leave some on ice with the Pullman conductor.”

“Make that two portions,” said Riker. “Shad tonight, shad roe in the morning. What do you say, Bell, shall we share a bottle of Rhine wine?”

After the waiter left them, Bell said, “Your English is remarkable. As if you have spoken it your entire life.”

Riker laughed. “They beat English into me at Eton. My father sent me to England for preparatory school. He felt it would help me get on in the business if I could mingle with more than just our German countrymen. But tell me something—speaking of fathers—how did you manage to stay out of your family’s banking business?”

Aware from the Van Dorn reports that Riker’s father had been killed during the Boer War, Bell answered obliquely in order to draw him out. “My father was, and still is, very much in charge.” He looked inquiringly at Riker, and the German said, “I envy you. I had no such choice. My father died in Africa when I was just finishing university. If I had not stepped in, the business would have fallen to pieces.”

“I gathered from the way that jeweler spoke that you’ve made quite a go of it.”

“My father taught me every trick in the book. And some more he invented himself. Plus, he was well liked in the factories and work-shops. His name still opens doors, particularly here in America, in Newark and New York. I would not be surprised to bump into one of his old comrades in San Diego.” He winked again. “In that event, Tiffany’s buyers will be lucky to get out of California with the gold fillings still in their teeth.”

THE SPY HAD COMPLETELY recovered from the initial shock of seeing Bell jump aboard the 20th Century Limited at Grand Central. Katherine Dee would soon be working her wiles in Newport while he would turn the detective’s unexpected presence on the train to advantage. He was accustomed to jousting with government agents—British, French, Russian, Japanese—as well as the various naval intelligence officers, including the Americans, and he had a low opinion of their abilities. But a private detective was a new wrinkle that he had come to realize belatedly deserved careful observation before he made a move.

He was glad he had ordered Detective John Scully killed. That shock would take a toll on Isaac Bell, although the tall detective hid it well, striding about the train like he owned it. Should he kill Bell, too? It seemed necessary. The question was, who would replace him? Bell’s friend Abbott was back from Europe. An aggressive adversary, too, from what he could gather, though not quite in Bell’s league. Would the formidable Joseph Van Dorn himself step in? Or stay above the fray? His was a nationwide agency with a diverse roster. God knows who they had waiting in the shadows.

On the other hand, he thought with a smile, it was unlikely even God knew everyone
he
had waiting in the shadows.

W
E’RE STILL CHECKING ON THE CHINESE TRAVELING with Arnold Bennett. But it will take a while. Same for Shafer, the German. Research can’t find anything on him, but like you said, Mr. Bell, it seems odd that the embassy booked tickets for a salesman.”

The Van Dorn agent was reporting hurriedly in the privacy of Bell’s stateroom while the train stopped in Syracuse to take on a fresh engine and drop the dining car.

“Sing Sing confirmed Rosania’s story.”

Rosania had not taken it on the lam but had been released, as he claimed, by the governor. The self-dubbed Australian gold miner was actually a Canadian con man who usually worked the gold mine game on the western railroads, where he could show the mark worthless claims “salted” by blasting rock walls with shotgun pellets made of gold.

The locomotive whistle signaled
Ahead.

“Gotta go!”

Bell said, “I want you to arrange a long-distance telephone connection with Mr. Van Dorn to our next stop at East Buffalo.”

Two hours later when they stopped to change engines in a brightly lighted, cacophonous rail yard in East Buffalo, a Van Dorn detective was waiting to take Bell to the yardmaster’s office. Bell queried him for the latest while the long-distance telephone operators completed the connections.

“Near as we can make out from all the witnesses, Scully was talking to a well-dressed redhead. A football comes flying though the air and hits him on the shoulder. College boys horsing around run up and surround him, apologizing. Someone yells their train is leaving, and they run for it. Scully’s lying on his back like he’s got a heart attack. Bunch of people crowd around to help. Cop comes along, shouts for a doctor. Then you come running up. Then a kid from the New York office. Then you ran after the Limited, and some woman sees the blood and screams, and then the cop is telling everybody to stay where they are. And pretty soon there’s a bunch of Van Dorns running around with notebooks.”

“Where’s the redhead?”

“No one knows.”

“Well-dressed, you say?”

“Stylish.”

“Says who? The cop?”

“Says a lady who’s a manager at Lord and Taylor, which is a very high-tone dry-goods store in New York City.”

“Not dressed like a floozy?”

“High-tone.”

Just when Bell thought he was going to have to run to catch his train, the telephone finally rang. The connection was thin, the wire noisy. “Van Dorn here. That you, Isaac? What do you have?”

“We have one report of a redhead wearing the sort of paint, clothes, and hat you’d expect in an opium den, and another of a redhead dressed like a lady, and both were seen with Scully.”

“Was Scully partial to redheads?”

“I don’t know,” said Bell. “All we ever discussed were lawbreakers and firearms. Did they find his gun?”

“Browning Vest Pocket still in the holster.”

Bell shook his head, dismayed that Scully had been thrown so off balance.

“What?” Van Dorn shouted. “I can’t hear you.”

“I still can’t imagine anyone catching Scully flat-footed.”

“That’s what comes from working alone.”

“Be that as it may—”

“What?”

“Be that as it may, the issue is the spy.”

“Is the spy on that train with you?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“What?”

Bell said, “Tell them to hold on to John Scully’s gun for me.”

Joseph Van Dorn heard that clearly. He knew his detectives well. Now and then, he even thought he knew what made them tick. He said, “It will be waiting for you when you get back to New York.”

“I’ll report from Chicago.”

As the 20th Century Limited roared out of East Buffalo with five hundred twenty miles to go to make Chicago by morning, Bell went forward to the club car. He found it empty but for one draw poker game. The Canadian con man pretending to be an Australian gold miner was playing with some older businessmen. He did not look pleased that conductor Dilber was watching closely.

Bell walked to the back of the speeding train. Though it was after midnight, the observation car was crowded with men, talking and drinking. Arnold Bennett, attended by his solemn Chinese, was entertaining a crowd. Shafer the German salesman was deep in conversation with Erhard Riker. Bell got a drink and made himself conspicuous until Riker saw him and waved him over to join them. Riker introduced the German as Herr Shafer. To Bell he said, “What line did you say you were in, Mr. Bell?”

“Insurance,” he answered, nodding his thanks to Riker for not identifying him as a detective. He sat where he could observe Bennett’s Chinese as well.

“Of course,” Riker nodded back, smoothly continuing the ruse. “I should have remembered. So we’re all drummers, or commercial travelers as the English call us. All selling. I supply gems to American jewelers. And Mr. Shafer here represents a line of organs built in Leipzig. Am I right, sir?”