“Bell told you that?”
She nodded.
Clay said, “Bell does not know as much as he thinks. They didn’t catch them all. The one who wasn’t caught stole the most money by far. And when he needs more, he can steal more in some other city. He walks into the bank president’s office, wearing his frock coat and his costly hat, remains with the president after hours, and leaves quietly with a full satchel.”
“I want to believe you,” she said.
“It touches me deeply to hear you say that.” It was quite remarkable, he thought, but she did believe him. “You honor me.”
“But nothing we did has amounted to a hill of beans. Our whole plan is destroyed now that the barges are lost.”
“May I ask,” said Clay, “do you hate Isaac Bell for taking the barges?”
“Of course I hate him. He ruined everything.”
“Would you kill him?” Clay asked.
“Never,” she said fiercely.
“Why not? Revenge can be sweet.”
“I would never kill a soul. Not for any reason.”
“Do you want me to kill him?”
She did not answer immediately. He watched her gray eyes rove the room and its costly furniture. They settled back on him. “No. It would be a waste of your energy.”
“What do you want?”
“What I have always wanted. I want to bring down the capitalist class. I want to stop them dead. And I still believe that the way to do that is stop coal.”
“The strike is doing a good job of that already.”
“No. Scab labor is digging more than half a million tons a week. The operators are regaining control of production. And now that the miners have a base at Amalgamated, they will negotiate, and the strike will be settled with a pittance for the miners and no recognition of the union. We must do something to shake all that loose.”
“What?”
“I don’t know. I hope you might.”
Henry Clay said, “I have disruptions in the works. All sorts of turmoil.”
“What turmoil?”
Clay took off his hat and sank into an armchair. “Excuse me,” he said. “I haven’t shut my eyes or changed my clothes in three days. I need to sleep before I can think straight.”
“I’ll come back later.”
“You don’t have to leave. I’ll just close my eyes in this chair.”
“It would be better if I left,” she said primly.
Clay said, “Of course.”
He walked her to the door and shook her hand. Was it trembling? he wondered. Or was his?
• • •
A PRODUCTIVE FIRST STEP, thought Mary Higgins.
But she needed more. A search of his apartment, constrained by fear of it being noticed, had produced no clue to the identity of the man Claggart-Clay served, nothing that would bring her even one inch closer to the enemy.
She said, “I hope you understand that I will demand more from someone with whom I join forces.”
“More what?”
“More than vague promises of ‘turmoil.’”
Claggart surprised her. “I need to sleep. When I wake, you will have your ‘more.’”
“Promises?”
“Do you recall Harry O’Hagan’s triple play?”
“Who doesn’t?” Mary nodded impatiently. There was more in the newspapers about the first baseman’s miracle than the strike.
“I’ll give you results,” he said. “A bigger triple play than O’Hagan’s.”
41
EVEN AFTER A CELEBRATIVE BENDER THAT WENT ON DAYS too long, Court Held still could not believe his luck in selling the Vulcan King. So it seemed beyond conception when another man dressed in white, though taller and younger, walked into his office to inquire whether he had any large steamboats on the property.
“How large were you considering, sir?”
“Floating palace size.”
“I’ve got one left.”
“I was told you had two.”
“I did. I just sold one.”
“To whom, may I ask?”
“I’m not at liberty to say. I am obliged to respect the buyer’s privacy.”
To Held’s surprise, the tall young fellow, who was about his own age, laughed out loud.
“Well, that proves that.”
“Proves what, sir? I don’t know that I follow you.”
“A certain well-fixed gentleman and I engage in friendly competitions. We started in business, buying outfits out from under each other—factories, railroads, banks—and we’ve since moved into more pleasurable contests. We had a yacht race across the Atlantic Ocean. He won. By a nose. We had a train race from San Francisco to Chicago. I won. By fifty lengths. Now he’s gone and challenged me to a steamboat race. Pittsburgh to New Orleans and back.”
“That sounds like a fine idea.”
“Yes, except he obviously planned ahead and bought the only available boat. So now you say you have one that is as good.”
Court Held winked. “I’ll tell you this, sir, he didn’t buy the fastest.”
“Is that a fact?”
“Nope. Though it is the stronger, the Vulcan King is not as fast as White Lady.”
“Why’s that?”
Court Held lowered his voice and looked around the empty shipyard as if to ensure they were alone. “She’s packing a lot of extra weight, seeing as how the government wanted her reinforced to carry cannon.”
“So the Vulcan King is much stronger?”
“Her decks are.” Court lowered his voice to a whisper. “Between you and me, any steamboat is more an idea of boat than a solid boat. They have short lives. Ours are the best you could buy, but none of them lasted that long.”
Bell recalled Captain Jennings’s spit-and-sawdust.
“Before I buy it, I’d like to be sure that he’s already bought his. You understand, we also compete at leg-pulling. I got him good recently. He’s out for revenge. So I want to be darned sure he hasn’t set me up buying a steamboat I don’t need.”
“You could always use her to travel.”
“How long does it take to steam from here to Pittsburgh?”
“I told you, sir, she’s a fast boat. She’ll make Cincinnati to Pittsburgh in two days.”
“My special just took me here in four hours. So I’m not planning any steamboat traveling, but I do intend to be in this race if it is a race. I’m asking you again, who bought your other boat?”
“His name was Smith.”
“Smith?”
“Smith. I know. I worried, too.”
“I don’t think I’d take a check from an out-of-town fellow named Smith.”
“Nor would I, sir. Cash on the barrelhead from any man who calls himself Smith.”
“That’s a lot of cash for an out-of-town fellow to pack with him.”
“He paid with bearer bonds.”
“Bearer bonds?” the gent in white echoed. “They’re a risky proposition. How’d he guarantee they were still good?”
“A New York broker was the issuing agent. Thibodeau & Marzen. He marched me straight to their Cincinnati branch office on East Seventh and I walked out with the cash.”
“What did he look like?”
“Not quite so tall as you. A bit wider. Dark hair, what I could see of it under his hat.”
“Beard?”
“Clean-shaven.”
Bell shook his head. “Maybe he shaved . . . I always kidded him it made him look old. Say, what color were his eyes?”
“Strange-colored. Like copper, like a snake’s. I found ’em off-putting.”
“I’ll be,” said Bell. “It’s not him.”
“What do you mean?”
“His are blue.”
Bell stood up. “I’m sorry, Mr. Held. The louse tried to trick me into buying a boat I don’t need.”
“But maybe he bought his down in Louisville or New Orleans.”
“Well, if I find out he did, I’ll be back.”
Bell put on
his hat and started out the door, feeling a mite guilty for the disappointed look on Held’s face. A funny idea struck him—a scheme that could upend the situation in Pittsburgh and, with any luck, defuse it.
“Mr. Held, I do know some fellows who might like a steamboat.”
“Well, send them to me and I’ll cut you in with a finder’s fee.”
“I couldn’t take a fee among friends. But the trouble is, these fellows don’t have much money.”
“I have a lot sunk into this one.”
“I understand. Would you consider renting it?”
“I might.”
“I’ll tell these fellows about her. Meantime, let me pay you to coal her and get steam up by tomorrow.”
“By tomorrow?”
North Pole light flickered in Isaac Bell’s eyes.
“I’m sure I could, now that I think about it,” said Held. “She’ll be raring to go in the morning.”
Bell paid Court Held for the coal and labor and hopped a trolley back to the business district. He got off at a Western Union office and sent a long telegram to Jim Higgins about the White Lady, recommending that he round up men who had worked on steamboats. Next, he went to East Seventh Street and found the Cincinnati branch office for Thibodeau & Marzen on the ground floor of a first-class building.
He stood outside, reading the gold leaf on the window, while he thought about how Wish Clarke, or Joseph Van Dorn, would pry information about “Smith” from prominent brokers—the leading New York–based broker in Cincinnati, judging by the look of the office—who had every reason not to give it.
He started by presenting a business card from Dagget, Staples & Hitchcock, an old-line New England insurance company. Joseph Van Dorn had made a deal to allow select agents a business disguise in return for discreet investigations of underwriting opportunities and losses incurred. Thibodeau & Marzen’s manager himself was summoned. Behind the broker’s friendly salesman’s smile, Bell detected a serious, no-nonsense executive, a tough nut to crack.
“Dagget, Staples & Hitchcock? Delighted to meet you, Mr. Bell. What brings you all the way from Hartford, Connecticut?”
“The principals have sent me on a scouting expedition.”
“Well, as stockbrokers and insurance firms are potential partners rather than adversaries, I do believe you started scouting in the right place. May I offer a libation in my office?”
They felt each other out over bourbon whiskey, the manager probing for Bell’s status at the venerable Hartford firm, Bell dropping names of school friends’ fathers he had met and men he had read about in Grady Forrer’s newspaper files. Turning down a hospitable refill, he said, “I’ve been asked to look into some bearer bonds that went missing in Chicago.”
“Missing bearer bonds are never a happy story, as whoever possesses them can cash them and whoever lost them can’t. Which, of course, I don’t have to tell a man in the insurance line.”
“Dagget, Staples & Hitchcock would not dream of trying to recover them, or the losses, which as you point out would be impossible. However, we do have a strong interest in the man in whose hands they ended up.”
“If missing bearer bonds have ended up repeatedly in this man’s hands as you are implying,” the branch manager said drily, “I am not surprised you do.”
So far, thought Bell, the branch manager was holding him off adroitly, as if he had been in business long enough to guess what was coming next from this seemingly casual visitor. The young detective said, “I would not be surprised if you have an inkling about the sort of question I am going to ask next.”
“Not one bit surprised,” the manager answered with a cool smile.
“The latest that went missing were railroad bonds. In twenty-five-thousand-dollar denominations.”
“May I ask which railroad?”
“It could have been one of many. The owner—previous owner, I guess we should say—had an affection for railroad bonds and owned a broad range, with various maturity dates and coupon rates of course.”
“Of course.”
“Of those stolen from his safe, we are particularly interested in three that were cashed within the week in a branch office of the issuing agent.”
“My branch office?” said the manager.
“Let me assure you that we are suggesting no impropriety on your part, and certainly not on the part of Mr. Court Held.”
“I should think not.”
“Surely not, in your case. But we do find, rarely but occasionally, that businessmen facing hard times will do very foolish things, so I am extremely happy to say that this has nothing to do with Mr. Held beyond the fact that the man who gave him the bonds in the course of a legitimate transaction might—and I emphasize might—be the man we have been investigating.”
The manager said nothing.
Bell said, “His name is John Claggart.”
“That’s not the man.”
“Sometimes he calls himself Henry Clay.”
“Not this time.”
“May I describe him to you?”
“Go ahead.”
Isaac described Henry Clay, ending with the eyes.
The branch manager of Thibodeau & Marzen said, “He called himself Smith. The bonds were on the New Haven Railroad, maturing in 1908, with a coupon rate of five percent.”
“Thank you,” said Bell, but he was disappointed. He had been half hoping that the manager would try to protect Claggart. With branches throughout the Midwest, Thibodeau & Marzen would make a good front for a private detective, or a provocateur on the run.
“I wonder if there is anything else I should report back about Mr. Smith. Is there anything he did that might help us track him down? I do hope I’ve made it clear that the firm regards him as a determined thief who will strike again.”
“You finally worked your way around to that, young man.”
“Anything. Anything odd?”
The manager stood up abruptly. “No, sir. Nothing I can recall.”
Bell stood up, too. He did not believe him. He had touched a nerve. And he had probably put him in the position he didn’t want to be. He said, “A man I’ve worked with who taught me my trade once told me that the hardest thing in the world is to get a man to do the right thing for the wrong reason.”
“What trade is that, Mr. Bell?”
“I’m actually a private detective.”
“I hope you don’t think I’m shocked by your admission. What agency?”
“Van Dorn.”
“Ah. A reputable outfit . . . Well, you’ve been honest at last. I’ll take a chance and be honest with you. Smith made me uncomfortable. For one thing, who in blazes buys a floating palace steamboat in this day and age? For another . . . Well, for another, my instincts were aroused. On the other hand, there was no legitimate reason not to cash the bonds—and, in fact, an obligation—since our firm was the issuing agent.”
“If the legitimacy of the bonds was not in doubt, what was odd?”
“While he was here, a message came in for him on our private wire.”
Isaac Bell felt an electric jolt. Pay dirt!
42
DID YOU SEE THE WIRE?”
Bell tried to sound casual but doubted he was fooling the manager.
“It was in cipher. Just numbers.”
“Does that imply he works for your firm?”
“No. And I’m quite sure he doesn’t. If he happened to work for the firm, wouldn’t he have introduced himself as such when he arrived?”
“Then how did he gain the use of your private telegraph?”
“The firm extends certain courtesies to good customers—as does any broker. Perhaps sometimes more than we should. By law, outsiders are forbidden to use leased wires. But everyone does it.”
“As I understand it,” said Bell, hoping to encourage his candor, “it’s a matter of business.” He was no stranger to private wires. The Van Dorn Detective Agency leased one. But he wanted the manager’s version untarnished by his pr
econceptions. Something was troubling the man.
“Yes, a matter of business. To send a message on an existing private wire is less costly than the usual commercial message, quicker, and certainly more convenient.”
“And more private,” said Bell.
“Yes, the advantages of a private closed wire include economy, quickness of dispatch, and privacy.”
“Did he send a reply?”
“It was brief. An acknowledgment, I presume, but it, too, was in cipher.”
Bell asked another question to which he knew the answer. “Are ciphers unusual?”
“Not among brokers. It’s only sensible to conceal buy and sell orders just in case the telegrapher violates his oath of privacy.”
“What do you make of it?”
“He is a friend of the firm, shall I put it? A special customer. Of the New York firm, I mean. I don’t know him from Adam. But he knows someone in New York.”
Isaac Bell stood up and offered his hand. “I appreciate your candor.” What was it the manager had said earlier? The firm extends certain courtesies . . . Perhaps sometimes more than we should. “May I ask you one more thing?”
“Go ahead.”
“I am curious why.”
“Why what?”
“What made you candid?”
The manager straightened his shoulders. “Mark Twain says that he intends to move back to Cincinnati on Judgment Day because we’re twenty years behind the times. Fine with me. I’m old-fashioned. I don’t like stock traders who can afford private wires getting a jump on the fellow who has to use the public wire. And Thibodeau & Marzen didn’t used to be the sort of outfit that liked them either.”
• • •
BELL STOPPED at Western Union on his way to meet Kenny Bloom at the Queen City Club and wired a telegram to Grady Forrer:
RESEARCH PRINCIPALS THIBODEAU & MARZEN.
He doubted very much that Henry Clay was communicating on private wires to get a jump on a stock sale as the Cincinnati branch manager suspected. Instead of fraudulent profits, a business with branches scattered around the continent could offer direct private communication with someone in their New York office. In the case of Smith, Claggart, and Henry Clay, Isaac Bell bet that someone was the man who gave the provocateur his orders.
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