“Good afternoon,” came the dulcet tones of an operator chosen for her beautiful voice and clear head. “You have reached the Van Dorn Detective Agency. To whom do you wish to speak?”
“Message for Isaac Bell. Tell him Scully said, ‘Grand Central, three-thirty p.m.’ Got that? ‘Grand Central, three-thirty p.m.’ ”
“Yes, Mr. Scully.”
He paid the attendant and hurried toward the track designated for the 20th Century Limited. The terminal was in chaos. Workmen were everywhere, swarming over scaffolds and banging hammers on stone, steel, and marble. Laborers cluttered the hall, wheeling carts and barrows. But at the Limited’s temporary gate, beside which a blackboard said CHICAGO, company employees were respectfully checking tickets, and her famous red carpet was already in place leading out onto the platform. It looked like once a passenger got this close to the fabled Chicago express, his troubles were over.
“Jasper! Jasper Smith!”
Little Miss Knockout Drops from the opera house opium den was rushing toward him in an elegant traveling outfit capped by a broad-brimmed Merry Widow hat. “What a wonderful coincidence. Thank God, I found you!”
“How did you know I was here?”
“I didn’t. I just saw you. Oh, Jasper, I didn’t know if I would ever see you again. You left in such a hurry last night.”
Something was way out of whack. He looked around. Where was her Hip Sing boyfriend? Already on the train? Then he saw cutting through the crowds of hurrying passengers a cigar-delivery cart wheeled by a Chinese. And there were three wagonloads of construction debris hauled by Irish laborers. The cart and wagons were converging on them like wagons circling to fend off the Indians.
“What are you doing here?” he asked her.
“Meeting a train,” she said.
I stood outside that opera house like a sitting duck, thought Scully. Long enough for the Hip Sing to get a line on me.
The Irishmen pulling the wagon were staring at him. Gophers? Or were they watching the pretty girl who was smiling up at him like she meant it?
Or did they tip to me and Harry Warren, recognizing each other inside? The Chinaman wheeling cigars looked his way, expression blank. Tong hatchet man?
The train ticket! She let me find the train ticket. She set me up to be here. Scully reached back for his Vest Pocket pistol. Even the police raid was a phony. Paid the cops to raid so he would run with the girl.
Something whacked him in the head.
A football bounced at his feet, and a big, grinning college boy in coat and tie loped up. “Sorry, sir, we didn’t mean it, just horsing around.”
Saved! Saved by a piece of luck he didn’t deserve.
Six strapping, privileged young men skylarking with a ball as they ran to catch a train had scared off the tong and the Gophers. They trooped over, apologizing and offering to shake his hand, and suddenly he and Katy were surrounded inside a scrum. But only when three of the college boys held his arms and little Katy whipped a ten-inch steel hatpin from the Merry Widow did Scully realize that little Miss Knockout Drops had completely outfoxed him.
ISSAC BELL RUSHED THROUGH the crowded construction site. He spotted a mob of people milling around the gate to the 20th Century Limited. A cop was shouting, “Stand back! Stand back!,” and pleading for a doctor. With an awful feeling he was too late, Bell shoved into the center of the crowd.
The cop tried to stop him.
“Van Dorn!” Bell shouted. “Is that one of my men?”
“Take a look.”
John Scully lay on his back, his eyes staring wide open, his hands folded over his chest.
“Looks like a heart attack,” said the cop. “He yours?”
Bell knelt beside him. “Yes.”
“Sorry, mister. Least he went peaceful. Probably never knew what hit him.”
Isaac Bell spread his hand over Scully’s face and gently closed his eyes. “Sleep tight, my friend.”
A whistle blew. “All aboard!” Conductors shouted. “20th Century Limited to Chicago. Allllllll aboooooard.”
Scully’s hat had fallen under his head. Bell reached for it to cover his face. His hand came away sticky with warm blood.
“Mother of God,” breathed the cop leaning over his shoulder.
Bell turned Scully’s head and saw the shiny brass head of a hatpin sticking out of the soft flesh in the nape of his neck.
“All aboard! All aboard! 20th Century Limited for Chicago. Allllllll aboooooard!”
Bell searched Scully’s pockets. Tucked inside his coat was an envelope with his name on it. Bell stood up and tore it open. Printed in block letters was a note from the killer:
EYE FOR AN EYE, BELL.
YOU EARNED WEEKS SO WE WON’T COUNT HIM.
BUT YOU OWE ME FOR THE GERMAN.
“Mr. Bell! Mr. Bell!” A Van Dorn apprentice raced up, breathless.
“Wire from Mr. Van Dorn.”
Bell read it in a glance.
Yamamoto Kenta had been found floating in the Potomac.
All was lost.
The tall detective knelt beside his friend again and resumed methodically searching his pockets. In Scully’s vest he found a train ticket for the 20th Century Limited with through connections to San Francisco.
“Boarrrrd! All aboa—”
The conductor’s final warning was drowned out by the engineer signaling Ahead with a majestic double blast on his whistle. Isaac Bell stood up, thinking furiously. John Scully must have been following a suspected spy or saboteur who was headed to San Francisco, where the Great White Fleet would replenish before crossing the Pacific Ocean.
He spoke sharply to the Van Dorn apprentice, who was staring with wide-open eyes at the fallen detective. “Look at me, son.”
The boy tore his gaze from Scully.
“There’s a lot to be done, and you’re the only Van Dorn here who can do it. Round up every witness. Those workmen there, those Chinese fellows with the cart, and these folks hanging about. Someone saw something. This officer will help you, won’t you?”
“I’ll do what I can,” said the cop dubiously.
Bell pressed money into his hand. “Hold them here while this young gentleman telephones Van Dorn headquarters for every available agent. On the jump, son! Then straight back here and get to work. Remember, people are glad to talk if you give them the chance.”
The floor shook. The 20th Century Limited was rolling toward Chicago.
Isaac Bell bolted onto the platform, ran the length of the express train’s red carpet, and jumped.
THE FLEET
34
MAY 1, 1908
WESTBOUND ON THE 20TH CENTURY LIMITED
THIS CALLS FOR A DRINK,” SAID THE SPY.
Some special concoction in honor of Isaac Bell.
Just before the telephone line was disconnected when the 20th Century Limited left Grand Central, Katherine Dee had reported that John Scully had gone to that section of kingdom come set aside for Van Dorn detectives. He cradled the instrument and beckoned an observation-car steward.
“Does your bartender know how make a Yale cocktail?”
“He sure does, sir.”
“Does he have the Crême Yvette?” the spy asked sternly.
“Of course, sir.”
“Bring me one, then—oh, and bring these gentlemen what they would like, too,” he added, indicating a pair of pink-jowled Chicago businessmen who were glowering indignantly. “Sorry, gents. I hope I didn’t thwart any important last-minute telephone calls.”
The offer of a free drink was mollifying, and one admitted, “Just calling the office to tell them I’m on the train.”
His friend said, “Guess they’ll figure that out when you don’t skulk back in moping that you missed it.” Traveling men within earshot laughed and repeated the joke to others who hadn’t heard it.
“Look! There’s a fellow who almost did.”
“He must have jumped!”
“Or flew!”
T
he spy glanced toward the back of the car. A tall man in a white suit was gliding in from the rear vestibule.
“Maybe he’s got no ticket, figuring to ride the rails.”
“There goes the conductor—on him like a terrier.”
“Guard my cocktail,” said the spy. “I just remembered I have to dictate a letter.”
The 20th Century Limited supplied a stenographer, free of charge. He moved quickly to the man’s portable desk at the head of the observation car, pulled his collar up and his hat low, and sat with his back to the detective. “How soon will a letter I post leave the train?”
“Forty minutes. It will go off at Harmon when we exchange the electric engine for a steam locomotive.” He reached for an envelope engraved VIA 20TH CENTURY. “To whom shall I address it, sir?”
“K. C. Dee, Plaza Hotel, New York.”
“They’ll have it this evening.” The stenographer addressed the envelope, spread a sheet of 20th Century stationery, and poised his pen.
The train was accelerating up the cut that ran north out of the city. Stone walls cast shadows, darkening the windows, causing the glass to mirror the interior of the crowded car. The spy watched Isaac Bell’s pale reflection pass behind him. The conductor trailed solicitously, and it was clear that, ticket or no, Bell was a welcome passenger.
“Ready when you are, sir,” prompted the stenographer.
He waited for Bell and the conductor to pass through the vestibule to the next car.
“‘My dear K. C. Dee,’” he began. He had miscalculated Bell’s reaction to the killing of his fellow detective and underestimated how quickly Van Dorns moved when aroused. Fortunately, he had left Katherine Dee fully prepared to accelerate events. It was simply a matter of unleashing her early.
“Ready, sir?”
“It appears that our customer did not receive our last shipment,” he dictated. “New paragraph. It is imperative that you make a personal visit to Newport, Rhode Island, tonight to set things straight.”
ISAAC BELL HAD PRESENTED Scully’s ticket for upper berth number 5 in Pullman car 6 and asked to pay the extra fare for a stateroom. Informed that every available room was sold out, he had produced a railroad pass. It was signed by the president of a rival line, but competing titans accommodated one another’s personal whims.
“Of course, Mr. Bell. Fortunately, we do have a company suite empty.”
In the privacy of the rosewood-paneled stateroom, Bell tipped the conductor generously.
“With that special pass, you don’t need to tip for good service, Mr. Bell,” said train conductor William Dilber, his hand nonetheless closing like a rattrap around the gold pieces.
Isaac Bell did not need service. He needed an eager associate. He had less than eighteen hours before the 20th Century Limited reached Chicago to find out who killed Scully. No more passengers would board between New York and Chicago. Except Van Dorn detectives.
“Mr. Dilber, how many passengers is your train carrying?”
“One hundred twenty-seven.”
“One of them is a murderer.”
“A murderer,” the conductor echoed tranquilly. Bell was not surprised. As captain of a crack luxury express train, William Dilber was to remain unflappable in the face of derailments, disgruntled tycoons, and snowbound Pullmans.
“You’ll want to see the passenger list, Mr. Bell. Got it right here.”
He unfolded it from his immaculate blue tunic.
“Do you know many of the passengers?”
“Most. We get a lot of regulars. Most from Chicago. Businessmen back and forth to New York.”
“That will help. Could you point out those you don’t know?”
The conductor traced name by name with a clean, manicured fingernail. He was indeed familiar with most, for the 20th Century Limited was very much a rolling private club. The costly excess-fare express drew on the tiny minority of passengers who were extremely well off, and the train ran a proscribed route between New York and Chicago that was fully booked and rarely took on passengers at intermediate stations. Bell saw well-known names in business, politics, and industry, and some famous touring actors. He noted the names of those few Dilber didn’t know.
“I am particularly interested in foreigners.”
“We’ve got the usual handful. Here’s an Englishman.”
“Arnold Bennett. The writer?”
“I believe he is on a lecture tour. Traveling with these two Chinamen. Harold Wing and Louis Loh. They are missionary students, from an English seminary, I believe. Mr. Bennett made a point of telling me personally that he’s their protector in case anyone gives them trouble. I told him it was all the same to me as long as they pay their fare.”
“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:
INFORM GUNNER’S DAUGHTER MURDERER DEAD.
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?”
The Spy Page 23