The Spy (27 page)

The kid stared at him. He appeared about to speak.

“What is it?” asked Bell. “You all right, son?”

The boy opened his mouth. He looked around and suddenly grabbed his box and ran, dodging shoppers, and disappeared around the corner. Bell shrugged, and entered another jewelry store, Solomon Barlowe, a smaller establishment on the ground floor of a five-story, Italianate-style cast-iron-clad building. Barlowe sized him up with piercing brown eyes as shrewd as a police magistrate’s.

“I want to buy an engagement ring. I think it should be a diamond.”

“Were you considering a solitaire setting or incluster?”

“Which would you recommend?”

“If expense were an object, of course—”

“Assume it is not,” Bell growled.

“Ah! Well, I can see that you are a man of taste, sir. Let us look at some stones for your approval.” The jeweler unlocked a case and laid a black velvet tray on the counter between them.

Bell whistled amazement. “I’ve seen kids shooting marbles smaller than these.”

“We are fortunate in our supplier, sir. We import our own. Ordinarily, I would have more stock to show you, but the bridal months are upon us, and the choice gems have already been snapped up.”

“In other words, buy now before it’s too late?”

“Only if you need something immediately. Is your wedding impending?”

“I don’t think so,” said Bell. “We’re neither of us children and both rather busy. On the other hand, I would like to nail things down.”

“A large solitaire diamond of a unique hue has a way of doing that, sir. Here, for instance—”

The door opened and a well-dressed gentleman about Bell’s age walked into Barlowe’s shop flourishing a gold-headed cane studded with gems. He looked vaguely familiar, but the detective could not quite place him. It was rare his memory for faces failed, and he suspected it would be a case of seeing someone completely out of context, as if they had last met in a Wyoming saloon or been seated side by side at a Chicago prizefight. He was clearly not a desperate bachelor. There was nothing of the tentative buyer in his demeanor, which was supported by a confident smile.

“Mr. Riker!” Barlowe exclaimed. “What a wonderful surprise.” To Bell he said, “Excuse me, sir. I’ll just be a moment.”

“No, no,” said Riker. “Don’t let me interrupt a sale.”

Barlowe said, “But I was just discussing you with my customer, who is in the market for something special and has a bit of time to look for it.”

He turned to Bell. “This is the very gentleman I mentioned to you, our gem supplier. Mr. Erhard Riker of Riker and Riker. We’re in luck, sir. If Mr. Riker can’t find your stone, it doesn’t exist. He is the foremost supplier of the finest gemstones in the world.”

“Good Lord, Barlowe,” Riker smiled. “Your generosity of spirit will mislead your customer into believing I am a miracle worker instead of a simple merchant.”

Riker spoke with an English accent similar to Abbington-Westlake’s aristocratic drawl, but the color of his coat suggested to Bell that he was German. It was a Chesterfield, with the traditional black velvet collar. An Englishman’s or American’s Chesterfield would be cut of a navy or charcoal gray fabric. Riker’s was a dark green loden cloth.

Riker removed his gloves, slipped his cane into his left hand, and extended his right. “Good day, sir. As you have just heard, I am Erhard Riker.”

“Isaac Bell.”

They shook hands. Riker had a strong, firm grip.

“If you would allow me the honor, I will look for the perfect gem for your fiancée. What color are the lady’s eyes?”

“Coral-sea green.”

“And her hair?”

“Her hair is blond. Pale as straw.”

“By the smile on your face, I have a picture of her beauty.”

“Multiply it by ten.”

Riker bowed in the European manner. “In that event, I will find for you a gem that is
almost
her equal.”

“Thank you,” said Bell. “You are very kind. Have we met before? Your face is familiar.”

“We have not been
introduced
before,” replied Riker. “But I, too, recognize you. I believe it was at Camden, New Jersey, early this week.”

“At the
Michigan
launching! Of course. Now I remember. You gave the shipyard owner the gift he presented to the young lady who sponsored the battleship.”

“I stood in for one of my Newark clients who decorated the pendant with my gemstones.”

“Well, isn’t this a wonderful coincidence?” exclaimed Solomon Barlowe.

“Two coincidences,” Isaac Bell corrected him. “First, Mr. Riker happened along while I was shopping for a special diamond. Second, it turned out we attended the same ship launching in Camden last Monday.”

“As if written in the stars!” Riker laughed. “Or should I say diamonds? For what are diamonds but man-size stars? My hunt begins this instant! Do not hesitate to get in touch, Mr. Bell. In New York I stay at the Waldorf-Astoria. The hotel forwards my mail when I travel.”

“You can find me at the Yale Club,” said Bell, and they exchanged cards.

EVERY VAN DORN, from apprentice to chief investigator, was taught from the first day he went to work that coincidences were presumed guilty until proven innocent. Bell asked Research to look into the gem importers Riker & Riker. Then he turned over his camera, ordered the film to be developed and brought to him immediately, and went down to the hotel’s basement lobby, off of which was snugged a quiet, dimly lit bar.

Abbington-Westlake had arrived ahead of him, a good sign that he had frightened the daylights out of the Naval Attaché with his threat to go to the British Embassy.

Bell decided that he would get more out of him now with a milder approach, and he said, “Thank you for coming.”

He saw immediately it was a mistake. Abbington-Westlake glowered imperiously, and snapped, “I don’t recall being offered a choice in the matter.”

“Your choice of snapshots,” Bell fired back, “would get you arrested if I were a government agent.”

“No one can arrest me. I have diplomatic immunity.”

“Will your diplomatic immunity bail you out of trouble with your superiors in London?”

Abbington-Westlake’s lips shut tightly.

“Of course it won’t,” Bell said. “I’m not a government agent, but I certainly know where to find one. And the last thing you want is for your rivals in the Foreign Office to learn you’ve been caught with your hand in the cookie jar.”

“See here, old boy, let’s not go off half cocked.”

“What did you bring me?”

“I beg your pardon?” Abbington-Westlake stalled.

“
Who
did you bring me? Give me a name. A foreign spy whom I can have arrested instead of you.”

“Old chap, you have an extremely inflated estimate of my powers. I don’t
know
anyone to bring you.”

“And you have an extremely inflated estimate of my patience.” Bell glanced around inquiringly. Couples were drinking at the nearly dark tables. Several men stood alone at the bar. Bell said, “Do you see the gentleman on the right? The one wearing the bowler hat?”

“What about him?”

“Secret Service. Shall I ask him to join us?”

The Englishman wet his lips. “All right, Bell. Let me tell you what I can. I warn you it is very little.”

“Start small,” said Bell coldly. “We’ll work from there.”

“All right. All right.” He wet his lips again and glanced around. Bell suspected that he was starting a lie. He let the Englishman speak without interruption. After tangling himself in it, he would be more vulnerable to pressure.

“There is a Frenchman named Colbert,” Abbington-Westlake began. “He trades in arms.”

“Colbert, you say?” God bless the Van Dorn Research boys.

“Raymond Colbert. And while trading arms is hardly a savory enterprise, it is actually a blind for Colbert’s sinister deeds . . . You are familiar with the Holland submarine?”

Bell nodded. He’d had Falconer fill him in and borrowed a book.

As the Naval Attaché wove his tale, Isaac Bell was struck with admiration—which he concealed—for Abbington-Westlake’s cool nerve. Faced with the threat of exposure, he was turning it into an opportunity to destroy the man who was blackmailing his wife. He rattled on a while about purloined architect drawings and a special gyro to keep the boat on course underwater. Bell let him, until the door opened and a Van Dorn apprentice came in with a large manila envelope. Bell noted approvingly that the kid did not approach until Bell gave him the nod and retreated silently after handing him the envelope.

“As we speak, old boy, Colbert is en route to New York on a Compagnie Générale Transatlantique mail boat. You can nab him the instant she docks at Pier 42. Don’t you see?”

Bell opened the envelope and riffled through the prints.

Abbington-Westlake asked acidly, “Am I boring you, Mr. Bell?”

“Not at all, Commander. I can’t recall a more exciting fiction.”

“Fiction? See here—”

Bell passed a print over their table. “Here is a snapshot of you and the Lady Fiona and the Brooklyn Navy Yard—careful, the paper is a still damp.”

The Englishman sighed, heavily. “You make it abundantly clear that I am at your mercy.”

“Who is Yamamoto Kenta?”

Bell was gambling that, not unlike bank robbers and confidence men, the spies of the international naval race were aware of their rivals and fellow practitioners. He saw it was true. Even in the dim light, Abbington-Westlake’s eyes gleamed as if he suddenly saw a way out of the mess he was in.

“Careful!” Bell warned. “The instant I hear a breath of fiction this photograph goes to that gentleman of the Secret Service, along with copies to the British Embassy and U.S. Naval Intelligence. Do we understand each other?”

“Yes.”

“What do you know of him?”

“Yamamoto Kenta is a highly decorated Japanese spy. He’s been at it for donkey’s ears. And he is number one at the Black Ocean Society, which acts in the Japs’ overseas interests. He was a prime instigator of the Jap infiltration of the Russians’ Asiatic Fleet and a prime reason the Japs now occupy Port Arthur. Since the war, he’s operated in Europe and made an absolute mockery of Britain’s and Germany’s attempts to keep secrets in their ship works. He knows more about Krupp than the Kaiser, and more about HMS
Dreadnought
than her own captain.”

“What is he doing here?”

“I don’t know.”

“Commander,” Bell said warningly.

“I don’t know. I swear I don’t know. But I will say one thing.”

“It better be interesting.”

“It is interesting,” Abbington-Westlake shot back confidently. “It is very interesting because it makes absolutely no sense that a Japanese spy of Yamamoto’s caliber is operating here in the United States.”

“Why?”

“The Japs don’t want to fight you chaps. Not now. They’re not ready. Even though they know you Americans are not ready. It doesn’t take a naval genius to rate the Great White Fleet as a joke. But they damned well know that their fleet is not ready either and won’t be for many, many years.”

“Then why did Yamamoto come here?”

“I suspect that Yamamoto is playing some sort of double game.” Bell looked at the Englishman. There was a certain puzzlement in his expression that looked absolutely genuine. “How do you mean?”

“Yamamoto is working for someone else.”

“Other than the Black Ocean Society?”

“Precisely.”

“Whom?”

“I haven’t the foggiest. But it’s not for Japan.”

“If you don’t know who he is working for, what makes you think it’s someone other than the Japanese?”

“Because Yamamoto offered to buy information from me.”

“What information?”

“He suspected that I had information concerning the new French dreadnought. Offered a pretty penny for it. Expense was obviously no object.”

“Did you have the information?”

“That’s neither here nor there,” Abbington-Westlake answered opaquely. “The point is, the Japs don’t give a hang about the Frogs, old boy. The French Navy can’t fight in the Pacific. They can barely defend the Bay of Biscay.”

“Then what did he want it for?”

“That is the point. That is what I am telling you. Yamamoto intended to sell it to someone who
does
care about the French.”

“Who?”

“Who else but the Germans?”

Bell studied the Englishman’s face for a full minute. Then he leaned closer, and said, “Commander, it is now clear to me that behind a façade of amiable bumbling, you are extremely well informed about your fellow spies. In fact, I suspect you know more about them than the ships you’re supposed to be spying on.”

“Welcome to the world of espionage, Mr. Bell,” the Englishman replied cynically. “May I be the first to congratulate you on your very recent arrival.”