The Spy (34 page)

“Did he say what’s he’s protecting them from?”

“Remember that murder last month in Philadelphia? The girl, and all that white-slaving talk in the papers? The police are shadowing Chinamen hot and heavy.”

Train conductor Dilber continued down the list. “I don’t know this German gentleman. Herr Shafer. His ticket was booked by the German Embassy.”

Bell, make a note.

“Here’s one
I
know,” the detective said. “Rosania—if he’s traveling under his own name. But he can’t be—a natty dresser of about forty?”

“That’s him. Snappy as a magazine ad.”

“What are you carrying in the express car?”

“The usual stocks and banknotes. Why do you ask?”

“The fellow is a regular wizard with nitroglycerine.”

“A train robber?” the conductor asked less unflappably.

Bell shook his head. “Not as a rule. Rosania generally favors mansions he can talk his way into to blow the jewelry safes after everyone goes to bed. Master of his craft. He can detonate an explosion in the library that they’ll never hear upstairs. But last I knew, he was at Sing Sing State Prison. Don’t worry, I’ll have a word with him and see what’s up.”

“I would appreciate that, sir. Now, this Australian. Something told me he was trouble—not that he did anything, but I overheard him discussing the sale of a gold mine and caught a tone of the bunco man in his palaver. I’ll watch him close in the club car if he joins any of the card games.”

“And here’s
another
I know,” Bell said. “Funny.” Bell pointed at the name.

“Herr Riker. Oh, yes.”

“You know him?”

“The diamond merchant. He’s a regular, every couple of months or so. Is he a friend of yours?”

“We met recently. Twice.”

“I believe he is traveling with his bodyguard. Yes, this fellow here. Plimpton. Big bruiser in a Pullman berth. Riker’s got his usual stateroom. I reckon there’s something locked up in the express car that’s Riker’s.” He followed down the list. “No mention of his ward.”

“What ward?”

“Lovely young lady. But, no, she’s not listed this trip. Pity.”

“What do you mean.”

“Nothing, sir. I just mean, one of those girls that isn’t hard on the eyes.”

“Riker seems young to have a ward.”

“She’s just a student—oh, I see what you mean. Don’t you doubt it, sir. I see every sort of couple you could imagine on the Limited. Riker and his ward are completely on the up-and-up. Always separate staterooms.”

“Adjoining?” asked Bell, who always booked two staterooms when he traveled with Marion.

“But it’s not what you think. You get an eye for this on the 20th Century, Mr. Bell. They’re not that sort of couple.”

Bell resolved to check on that. Research had made no mention of a ward.

“What is her name?”

“I only know her as Miss Riker. Maybe he adopted her.”

The train was flying at a clip of sixty miles to the hour, and mile-posts were flashing by the windows. But just as he and the conductor were finishing up the passenger list, forty minutes out of New York, Bell felt the engine ease off.

“Harmon,” the conductor explained, checking the time on his Waltham watch. “We’ll exchange the electric for a steamer and then we’ll fly, better than four miles in three minutes.”

“I’ll have a word with my old nitro acquaintance. Find out what he’s got planned for your express car.”

While they changed engines, Bell telegraphed Van Dorn, inquiring about the German, the Australian, the Chinese traveling with Arnold Bennett, and Herr Riker’s ward. He also sent a wire to Captain Falconer:

A single glimmer of justice in a joyless day. The death of Yamamoto might comfort Dorothy Langner, but it was hardly a victory. The case, already thrown into turmoil by Scully’s murder, was completely unhinged by the death of the Japanese spy who had come so close to handing Bell his true quarry.

He climbed back aboard the 20th Century.

The high-wheeled Atlantic 4-4-2 steam locomotive swiftly gathered speed and raced northward along the banks of the Hudson River. Bell walked to the head of the train. The club car was fitted with comfortable lounge chairs. Men were smoking, drinking cocktails, and waiting for their turn with the barber and manicurist.

“Larry Rosania! Fancy meeting you here.”

The jewel thief looked up from a newspaper blazing headlines about the Great White Fleet approaching San Francisco. He peered over the tops of his gold wire-rimmed reading glasses and pretended not to recognize the tall, golden-haired detective in the white suit. His manner was polished, his voice patrician. “Have we been introduced, sir?”

Bell sat down uninvited. “Last I heard, my old pals Wally Kisley and Mack Fulton leased long-term lodgings for you at Sing Sing.”

At the mention of Bell’s friends, Rosania dropped the façade. “I was saddened to hear about their demise, Isaac. They were interesting characters and honest detectives in a world short of both.”

“Appreciate the thought. How’d you get out? Blow a hole in the prison wall?”

“Haven’t you heard? I got a pardon from the governor. Would you like to see it?”

“Very much so,” said Isaac Bell.

The suave safecracker pulled from his coat a finely tooled wallet. From it he drew an envelope embossed with gold leaf and from the envelope unfolded a sheet of vellum with the seal of the governor of New York State on top and Rosania’s name illuminated as if drawn by monks.

“Assuming for the moment that this is not a forgery, do you mind me asking what you did to get this?”

“If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.”

“Try.”

“When I was twelve years old, I helped a little old lady cross the street. Turned out she was the governor’s mother—before he was governor. She never forgot my kindness. I told you you wouldn’t believe me.”

“Where are you headed, Larry?”

“Surely you’ve combed through the passenger list. You know perfectly well that I’m bound for San Francisco.”

“What do you intend to blow up there?”

“I’ve gone straight, Isaac. I don’t do safes anymore.”

“Whatever you’re doing, you’re doing it well,” Bell observed. “This train doesn’t come cheap.”

“I’ll tell you the truth,” said Rosania. “You won’t believe this either, but I met a widow who believes that the sun and the moon rise and set on me. As she inherited more money than I could steal in a lifetime, I am not disabusing her of the thought.”

“Can I inform the train conductor that his express car is safe?”

“Safe as houses. Crime doesn’t pay enough. What about you, Isaac? Heading for Chicago headquarters?”

“Actually, I’m looking for someone,” said Bell. “And I’ll bet that even reformed jewel thieves are close observers of fellow passengers on luxury railroad trains. Have you noticed any foreigners I might be interested in?”

“Several. In fact, one right here in this car.”

Rosania nodded toward the back of the club car and lowered his voice. “There’s a German pretending to be a salesman. If he is, he’s the nastiest drummer I ever saw.”

“The stiff-necked one who looks like a Prussian officer?” Bell had noticed Shafer on his way into the club car. The German was about thirty years old, expensively dressed, and exuded a fiercely unfriendly chill.

“Would you buy anything from him?”

“Nothing I didn’t need. Anyone else?”

“Look out for the carney Australian selling a gold mine.”

“The conductor noticed him, too.”

“There’s no fooling a good train conductor.”

“He didn’t tip to you.”

“Told you, I’ve gone straight.”

“Oh, I forgot,” Bell grinned. Then he asked, “Do you know a gem importer named Erhard Riker?”

“Herr Riker, I never messed with.”

“Why not?”

“For the same reason I would never dream of blowing Joe Van Dorn’s safe. Riker’s got his own private protection service.”

“What else do you know about him?”

“From my
former
point of view, that was all I needed to know.”

Bell stood up. “Interesting seeing you, Larry.”

Rosania suddenly looked embarrassed. “Actually, if you don’t mind, I go by Laurence now. The widow likes calling me Laurence. Says it’s more refined.”

“How old is this widow?”

“Twenty-eight,” Rosania replied smugly.

“Congratulations.”

As Bell turned away, Rosania called, “Wait a minute.” Again he lowered his voice. “Did you see the Chinamen? There’s two of them on board.”

“What about them?”

“I wouldn’t trust them.”

“I understand they’re divinity students,” said Bell.

Laurence Rosania nodded sagely. “The preacher man is ‘The Invisible Man.’ When I worked the divinity student game, and the old ladies took me home to meet nieces and granddaughters, the gentlemen who owned the mansions looked through me like I was furniture.”

“Thanks for the help,” said Bell, fully intending when the train changed engines at Albany to send Sing Sing’s warden a telegram recommending a head count.

He walked back through the club car, eyeing the German. Skillful European tailoring mostly concealed a powerful frame. The man sat bolt upright, erect as a cavalry officer. “Afternoon,” Bell nodded.

Herr Shafer returned a cold, silent stare, and Bell recalled that Archie had told him that in Kaiser Wilhelm’s Germany citizens, both male and female, were required to surrender their train seats to military officers. Try that here, Bell thought, and you’ll earn a punch in the snoot. From men
or
women.

He continued toward the back of the train through six Pullman and stateroom cars to the observation car, where passengers were drinking cocktails as the setting sun reddened the sky across the Hudson River. The Chinese divinity students were dressed in identical ill-fitting black suits, each with a bulge indicating a bible near his heart. They sat with a bearded Englishman in tweed whom Bell assumed to be their protector, the journalist and novelist Arnold Bennett.

Bennett was a rugged-looking man with a stocky, powerful build. He appeared a bit younger than Bell had assumed him to be based on the articles he had read in
Har per’s Weekly
. He was holding forth to a rapt audience of Chicago businessmen on the pleasures of travel in the United States, and as Bell listened he got the distinct impression that the writer was practicing phrases for his next article.

“Could a man be prouder than to say, ‘This is the train of trains, and I have my stateroom on it.’”

A salesman with a booming voice like Dorothy Langner’s Ted Whitmark brayed, “Finest train in the world, bar none.”

“The Broadway Limited ain’t nothing to sneeze at,” remarked his companion.

“Old folks ride the Broadway Limited,” the salesman scoffed. “The 20th Century’s for up-and-up businessmen. That’s why Chicago fellows like it so.”

Arnold Bennett corralled the conversation again with practiced ease. “Your American comforts never cease to amaze. Do you know I can switch the electric fan in my bedchamber to three different speeds? I expect that it will provide through the night a continuous vaudeville entertainment.”

The Chicagoans laughed, slapped their thighs, and shouted to the steward for more drinks. The Chinese men smiled uncertainly, and Isaac Bell wondered how much English they understood. Were the slight young men frightened in the presence of large and boisterous Americans? Or merely shy?

When Bennett flourished a cigarette from his gold case, one student struck a match and the other positioned an ashtray. It looked to Bell like Harold Wing and Louis Loh filled dual roles as wards of the journalist and as manservants.

Approaching Albany, the train crossed the Hudson River on a high trestle bridge that looked down upon brightly lighted steam-boats. It halted in the yards. While the New York Central trainmen wheeled the engine away, then coupled on another and a dining car for the evening meal, Isaac Bell sent and collected telegrams. The fresh engine, an Atlantic 4-4-2 with drive wheels even taller than the last, was already rolling when he swung back aboard and locked himself in his stateroom.

In the short time since he had sent his wires from Harmon, Research had not learned anything about the German, the Australian, the Chinese traveling with Arnold Bennett, or Herr Riker’s ward. But the Van Dorns who had raced to Grand Central had started piecing together witnesses’ accounts of Scully’s murder. They had found no one who reported actually seeing the hatpin driven into John Scully’s brain. But it appeared that the killing had been coordinated with military precision.

This was now known: A Chinese delivery man bringing cigars to the departing trains reported seeing Scully rush up to the 20th Century platform. He seemed to be looking for someone.

Irish laborers hauling demolition debris said that Scully was talking to a pretty redhead. They were standing very closely as if they knew each other well.

The police officer hadn’t come along until the crowd had formed. But a traveler from upstate New York had seen a mob of college students surround Scully and the redhead, “Like he was inside a flying wedge.”

Then they hurried away and Scully was on the floor.

Where did they go?

Every which way, like melted ice.

What did they look like?

College boys.

“They set him up good,” Harry Warren had put it in his telegram to Bell. “Never knew what hit him.”

Bell, mourning his friend, doubted that. Even the best of men could be tricked, of course, but Scully had been sharp as tacks. John Scully would have known that he had been fooled. Too late to save himself, sadly. But Bell bet that he’d known. If only as he took his last breath.

Harry Warren went on to speculate whether the girl seen with Scully was the same redhead he had seen in the Hip Sing opium den where the detectives had inadvertently bumped into each other. The witnesses’ descriptions at Grand Central were too general to know. A pretty redheaded girl, one of a thousand in New York. Five thousand. Ten. But descriptions of her clothing did not jibe with the costume worn by the girl Harry had seen in the Chinatown gambling and drug parlor. Nor had she been wearing thick rouge and paint.