The Spy (36 page)

“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.

Y
OUR 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

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?”