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?”
“Correct!” Shafer barked. “First, I sell. Then the company sends German workman with organs to assemble the pieces. They know best how to put together the best organs.”
“Church organs?” asked Bell.
“Churches, concert halls, stadiums, universities. German organs, you see, are the best organs in the world. Because German music is the best in the world. You see.”
“Do you play the organ?”
“No, no, no, no. I am a simple salesman.”
“How,” asked Isaac Bell, “did a cavalry officer become a salesman?”
“What? What cavalry officer?” Shafer glanced at Riker, then back at Bell, his expression hardening. “What do you mean, sir?”
“I couldn’t help but notice that your hands are calloused from the reins,” Bell answered mildly. “And you stand like a soldier. Doesn’t he, Riker?”
“And sits like one, too.”
“Ah?” A bright flush rose in Shafer’s neck and reddened his face. “Ja,” he said. “Of course. Yes, I was once a soldier, many years ago.” He paused and stared at his powerful hands. “Of course, I still ride whenever I find the time in this my new occupation as salesman. Excuse me, I will return.” He started to bolt away, paused and caught himself. “Shall I ask the steward for another round of drinks?”
“Yes,” said Riker, hiding a smile until Shafer had entered the f acilities.
“In retrospect,” he said, his smile broadening, “my father is beginning to seem a wiser and wiser man—as your Mark Twain noted about his. Father was right to school me in England. We Germans are not comfortable in the presence of other nationalities. We boast without considering the effect.”
“Is it common in Germany for Army officers to go into trade?” asked Bell.
“No. But who knows why he left the service? He is far too young to have retired, even on half pay. Perhaps he had to make a living.”
“Perhaps,” said Bell.
“It would appear,” smiled Riker, “that you are not on holiday. Or are detectives always on the case?”
“Cases tend to blur into each other,” said Bell, wondering whether Riker’s statement was a challenge or merely fellow train traveler’s comradery. “For example,” he said, watching closely for Riker’s reaction, “in the course of an unrelated investigation I learned when I boarded the train that you often travel with a young lady who is believed to be your ward.”
“Indeed,” said Riker. “You learned the truth.”
“You are young to have a ward.”
“I am. But just as I was unable to dodge taking responsibility for my father’s firm, so was I not excused from the obligation of caring for an orphan when tragedy struck her family. Happenstance will sneak up on even the most footloose man, Mr. Bell . . . when he least expects it. But I will tell you this: the events we don’t plan for are sometimes the best that ever happen to us. The girl brings light into my life where there was darkness.”
“Where is she now?”
“At school. She will graduate in June.” He pointed across the table at Bell. “I hope you can meet her. This summer she will sail with me to New York. As she was reared in a cloistered manner, I make every effort to broaden her horizons. Meeting a private detective would certainly fall into that territory.”
Bell nodded. “I look forward to it. What is her name?”
Riker seemed not to hear the question. Or, if he did, chose not to answer it. Instead, he said, “Equally broadening will be her opportunity to meet a woman who makes moving pictures. Mr. Bell, why do you look surprised? Of course, I know your fiancée makes moving pictures. I already told you, I don’t engage in business blindly. I know that you can afford the best, and I know that she will cast a clear eye on the best I have to offer.
Together, you present quite a challenge. I only hope that I am up to it.”
Shafer returned. He had splashed water on his face. It had spotted his tie. But he was smiling. “You are very observant, Mr. Bell. I thought when I removed my uniform I had removed my past. Is that a habit of the insurance man, to notice such discrepancies?”
“When I sell you insurance, I am taking a chance on you,” Bell replied. “So I suppose I am always on the lookout for risk.”
“Is Herr Shafer a good bet?” asked Riker.
“Men of steady habits are always a good bet. Herr Shafer, I apologize if I seemed to pry.”
“I have nothing to hide!”
“Speaking of hiding,” Riker said, “the steward appears to be. How the hell does one get a drink around here?”
Bell nodded. A steward came running and took their orders.
Arnold Bennett announced to his Chinese companions, “Gentlemen, you look sleepy.”
“No, sir. We are very happy.”
“Expect little sleep on a train. Luxuries may abound—tailor’s shop, library, manicurist, even fresh and saltwater baths. But unlike in Europe where the best trains start with the stealthiness of a bad habit, I have never slept a full hour in any American sleeper, what with abrupt stops, sudden starts, hootings, and whizzings round sharp corners.”
Laughing Chicagoans protested that that was the price of speed and worth every penny.
Isaac Bell addressed his German companions—Erhard Riker, who seemed so English, even American, and Herr Shafer, who was as Teutonic as Wagnerian opera. “In the company of not one but two of the Kaiser’s subjects, I must ask about the talk of war in Europe.”
“Germany and England are competitors, not enemies,” Riker answered.
“Our nations are evenly balanced,” Shafer added quickly. “England has more battleships. We have by far the greater Army—the most modern and advanced, the strongest in the world.”
“Only in those parts of the world that your Army can march to,” Arnold Bennett called from the next table.
“What is that, sir?”
“Our American hosts’ Admiral Mahan put it most aptly: ‘The nation that rules the seas, rules the world.’ Your Army is worth spit in a bucket if it can’t get to where the fight is.”
Shafer turned purple. Veins bulged on his forehead.
Riker cautioned him with a gesture, and answered, “There is no fight. The talk of war is just talk.”
“Then why do you keep building more warships?” the English writer shot back.
“Why does England?” Riker retorted mildy.
The Chicagoans and the Chinese seminary students swiveled eyeballs between the Germans and the English like spectators at a tennis match. To Isaac Bell’s surprise, one of the silent Chinese answered before the writer could.
“England is an island. The English see no choice.”
“Thank you, Louis,” Arnold Bennett said. “I could not have put it better myself.”
Louis’s dark almond eyes grew wide, and he looked down as if embarrassed to have spoken up.
“By that logic,” said Riker, “Germany has no choice either. German industry and German trade demand a vast fleet of merchant ships to sail our goods across every sea. We must protect our fleet. But, frankly, it is my instinct that sensible businessmen will never go to war.”
Herr Shafer scoffed, “My countryman is gullible. Businessmen will have no say in it. Britain and Russia conspire to obstruct German growth. France will side with England, too. Thank Gott for the Imperial German Army and our Prussian officers.”
“Prussians?” shouted a Chicagoan. “Prussian officers made my grandfather emigrate to America.”
“Mine, too,” called another, red in the face. “Thank ‘Gott’ they took us out of that hellhole.”
“Socialists,” Shafer commented.
“Socialists? I’ll show you a Socialist.”
The Chicagoan’s friends restrained him.
Shafer took no notice. “We are besieged by England and England’s lackeys.”
Arnold Bennett leaped up, spread his legs in a burly stance, and said, “I don’t at all care for your tone, sir.”
Half the observation car was on their feet by now, gesticulating and shouting. Isaac Bell glanced at Riker who looked back, eyes alight with amusement. “I guess that answers your question, Mr. Bell. Good night, sir, I’m going to bed ahead of the riot.”
Before he could rise from his chair, Shafer shouted, “Besieged from without and undermined within by Socialists and Jews.”
Isaac Bell turned cold eyes on Shafer. The German drew back, mumbling, “Wait. When they finish us off, they’ll go after you.”
Isaac Bell drew a deep breath, reminded himself why he was on the train, and answered in a voice that carried through the car. “After Admiral Mahan demonstrated that sea powers rule the world, he said something to a bigot that I’ve always admired: ‘Jesus Christ was a Jew. That makes them good enough for me.’”
The shouting stopped. A man laughed. Another said, “Say, that’s a good one. ‘Good enough for me,’ ” and the car erupted in laughter.
Shafer clicked his heels. “Good night, gentlemen.”
Riker watched the cavalryman retreat toward the nearest steward and demand schnapps. “For a moment there,” he said quietly, “I thought you were going to floor Herr Shafer.”
Bell looked at the gem merchant. “You don’t miss much, Mr. Riker.”
“I told you. My father taught me every trick in the book. What got you so riled?”
“I will not abide hatred.”
Riker shrugged. “To answer your question—truthfully—Europe wants a war. Monarchists, democrats, merchants, soldiers, and sailors have been at peace too long to know what they’re in for.”
“That is too cynical for my taste,” said Isaac Bell.
Riker smiled blandly. “I’m not a cynic. I’m a realist.”
“What about those sensible businessmen you were talking about?’
“Some will see the profit in war. The rest will be ignored.”
THE SPY WATCHED Isaac Bell watching his “suspects”:
The detective cannot know whether I am here in this very car.
Or already asleep in my bed.
Or even on the train at all.
Nor can he know who on this train belongs to me.
Get some sleep, Mr. Bell. You’re going to need it. Bad news in the morning.
36
YOUR SHAD ROE AND SCRAMBLED EGGS, MR. BELL,” announced the diner steward with a broad smile that faded as he saw the expression on Bell’s face change from pleasurable anticipation to rage. Two hours from its destination, the 20th Century Limited had picked up Chicago morning newspapers left by an eastbound express. A crisp edition folded at each place setting greeted the passengers at breakfast.
EXPLOSION IN U.S. NAVY TORPEDO
STATION AT NEWPORT
TWO OFFICERS BLOWN TO ATOMS
NEWPORT, RHODE ISLAND, MAY 15TH.—An explosion that caused death and destruction occurred in the Naval Torpedo Station at Newport. It killed two naval officers and wrecked a production line.
Isaac Bell was stunned. Had he gone in the wrong direction?
“Good morning, Bell! You haven’t touched your roe. Has it turned?”
“Morning, Riker. No, it smells fine. Bad news in the paper.”
Riker opened his as he sat. “Good Lord. What caused it?”
“It doesn’t say. Excuse me.” Bell went back to his stateroom.
If not an accident but sabotage, then the spy’s reach was as broad as it was vicious. In the course of a single day his ring had executed a traitor in Washington, murdered a detective hot on his trail in New York, and blown up a heavily guarded naval station on the Rhode Island coast.
ISAAC BELL SET UP temporary headquarters in the back of the LaSalle Station luggage room within minutes of the 20th Century steaming into Chicago. Van Dorn detectives from the Palmer House head office
had already blanketed the railroad station. They followed his suspects as they scattered.
Larry Rosania promptly vanished. A veteran Chicago detective was reporting embarrassedly when another rushed in. “Isaac! The Old Man says to telephone long-distance from the stationmaster’s private office. And make sure you’re alone.”
Bell did so.
Van Dorn asked, “Are you alone?”
“Yes, sir. Was either of the officers killed Ron Wheeler?”
“No.”
Bell breathed a huge sigh of relief.
“Wheeler snuck off to spend the night with a woman. If he hadn’t, he’d be dead, too. It was his people who were killed.”
“Thank the Lord he wasn’t. Captain Falconer says he’s irreplaceable.”
“Well, here is something else irreplaceable,” Van Dorn growled. Six hundred miles of copper telephone wire between Chicago and Washington did not diminish the sound of his anger. “This is not in the newspapers, and it won’t ever be—are you still alone there, Isaac?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Listen to me. The Navy has suffered a terrible loss. The explosion started a fire. The fire destroyed their entire arsenal of experimental electric torpedoes that had been imported from England. Wheeler’s people had apparently improved their range and accuracy vastly. More important—much more important—Wheeler’s people figured out a way to arm the warheads with dynamite. The Navy Secretary told me this morning. He is distraught. So much so, he is threatening to offer the President his resignation. Apparently the use of TNT would have given U.S. torpedoes ten times more power underwater.”
“Can we assume it was not an accident?”
“We have to,” Van Dorn answered flatly. “And even though the Navy is nominally in charge of guarding their own facility, they are extremely disappointed with Van Dorn Protection Services.”
Isaac Bell said nothing.
“I don’t have to explain the consequences of being a government entity’s target of blame, deserved or not,” Van Dorn continued. “And I am not entirely sure what you were doing in Chicago when the spy attacked in Newport.”