The Spy

by Clive Cussler; Justin Scott

  “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.

  Bell took the spy’s taunting note from his pocket and read it again.

  EYE FOR AN EYE, BELL.

  YOU EARNED WEEKS SO WE WON’T COUNT HIM.

  BUT YOU OWED ME FOR THE GERMAN.

  The spy was boasting that both Weeks and the German had worked for his ring. Which struck Bell as reckless behavior in a line of business where discretion was survival and victories should be celebrated in the quietest manner. He could not imagine the cool Yamamoto or even the supercilious Abbington-Westlake writing such a note.

  The spy also seemed deluded. Did he really believe that Isaac Bell and the entire Van Dorn Agency would ignore his attack? He was practically begging for a counterpunch.

  Bell went to the dining car for the second seating.

  The tables were arranged in place settings of four and two, and the custom was to be seated wherever there was room. He saw Bennett and his Chinese had an empty chair at their table for four. As earlier in the observation car, the witty writer was regaling nearby tables while his solemn charges sat quietly. The German, Shafer, was eating in stiff silence across from an American drummer who was failing miserably to make conversation. The Australian was at another table for two speaking earnestly with a table mate dressed as if he could afford to buy a gold mine. At another two, Laurence Rosania was deep in conversation with a younger man in an elegant suit.

  Bell slipped the diner captain money. “I would like that empty seat at Mr. Bennett’s table.”

  But as the captain led him toward the writer’s table, Bell heard another diner call out from a table he had just passed.

  “Bell! Isaac Bell. I thought that was you.”

  The gem merchant Erhard Riker rose from his table, brushing a napkin to his lips and extending his hand. “Another coincidence, sir? We seem to repeat them. Are you alone? Care to join me?”

  The Chinese could wait. The passenger list showed them connecting through to San Francisco, whereas Riker was changing trains in the morning to the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe’s California Limited.

  They shook hands. Riker indicated the empty chair across from him. Bell sat.

  “How’s our diamond hunt going?”

  “I’m closing in on an emerald fit for a queen. Or even a goddess. It should be waiting for us when I get back to New York. We can only pray the lady will like it,” he added with a smile.

  “Where are you headed?”

  Riker looked around to ensure they weren’t overheard. “San Diego,” he whispered. “And you?”

  “San Francisco. What’s in San Diego?”

  Again Riker looked around again. “Pink tourmaline.” He smiled self-disparagingly. “Forgive my taciturnity. The enemy has spies everywhere.”

  “Enemy? What enemy?”

  “Tiffany and Company are attempting to corner the tourmaline supply in San Diego because Tz’u-hsi, Dowager Empress of China—an eccentric despot with all the wealth of China at her disposal—loves San Diego’s pink tourmaline. Uses it for carvings and buttons and the like. When she fell head over heels for pink tourmaline, she created a whole new market. Tiffany is attempting to seize it.” He lowered his voice further. Bell leaned closer to hear. “This has created splendid opportunities for an independent gem merchant who is able to snap up the best samples before they do. It’s dog-eat-dog in the gem line, Mr. Bell.” He added a wink to his smile, and Bell was not sure whether he was serious.

  “I don’t know anything about the jewelry business.”

  “Surely a detective comes across jewels, if only stolen ones.”

  Bell looked at him sharply. “How did you know I was a detective?”

  Riker shrugged. “When I agree to hunt for a significant gem, I first investigate whether the client can afford it or is merely wishing he can.”

  “Detectives aren’t rich.”

  “Those who inherit Boston banking fortunes are, Mr. Bell. Forgive me if I seemed to intrude on your privacy, but I think you can understand that gathering information about my customers is a necessary part of doing business. I have a small operation. I can’t afford to spend weeks hunting stones for a client who turns out to have eyes bigger than his stomach.”

  “I understand,” said Bell. “I presume you understand why I don’t bandy it about?”

  “Of course, sir. Your secrets are safe with me. Though I did wonder when I discovered who you are how a successful detective keeps out of the limelight.”

  “By avoiding cameras and portraitists.”

  “But it would seem that the more criminals you catch the more famous you will be.”

  “Hopefully,” said Bell, “only among criminals behind bars.” Riker laughed. “Well said, sir. Come, here I am talking a blue streak. The waiter is hovering. We must order our dinner.”

  Behind him, Bell heard Arnold Bennett announcing, “This is the first time I ever dined à la carte on any train. An excellent dinner, well and sympathetically served. The mutton was impeccable.”

  “There’s an endorsement,” said Riker. “Perhaps you should have the mutton.”

  “I’ve never met an Englishman who knew a thing about good food,” Bell replied, and asked the waiter, “Are we still in shad season?”

  “Yes, sir! How would you like it cooked?”

  “Grilled. And may I reserve some roe for breakfast?”

  “It will be a different diner in the morning, sir. Hitched on at Elkhart. But I’ll leave some on ice with the Pullman conductor.”

  “Make that two portions,” said Riker. “Shad tonight, shad roe in the morning. What do you say, Bell, shall we share a bottle of Rhine wine?”

  After the waiter left them, Bell said, “Your English is remarkable. As if you have spoken it your entire life.”

  Riker laughed. “They beat English into me at Eton. My father sent me to England for preparatory school. He felt it would help me get on in the business if I could mingle with more than just our German countrymen. But tell me something—speaking of fathers—how did you manage to stay out of your family’s banking business?”

  Aware from the Van Dorn reports that Riker’s father had been killed during the Boer War, Bell answered obliquely in order to draw him out. “My father was, and still is, very much in charge.” He looked inquiringly at Riker, and the German said, “I envy you. I had no such choice. My father died in Africa when I was just finishing university. If I had not stepped in, the business would have fallen to pieces.”

  “I gathered from the way that jeweler spoke that you’ve made quite a go of it.”

  “My father taught me every trick in the book. And some more he invented himself. Plus, he was well liked in the factories and work-shops. His name still opens doors, particularly here in America, in Newark and New York. I would not be surprised to bu
mp into one of his old comrades in San Diego.” He winked again. “In that event, Tiffany’s buyers will be lucky to get out of California with the gold fillings still in their teeth.”

  THE SPY HAD COMPLETELY recovered from the initial shock of seeing Bell jump aboard the 20th Century Limited at Grand Central. Katherine Dee would soon be working her wiles in Newport while he would turn the detective’s unexpected presence on the train to advantage. He was accustomed to jousting with government agents—British, French, Russian, Japanese—as well as the various naval intelligence officers, including the Americans, and he had a low opinion of their abilities. But a private detective was a new wrinkle that he had come to realize belatedly deserved careful observation before he made a move.

  He was glad he had ordered Detective John Scully killed. That shock would take a toll on Isaac Bell, although the tall detective hid it well, striding about the train like he owned it. Should he kill Bell, too? It seemed necessary. The question was, who would replace him? Bell’s friend Abbott was back from Europe. An aggressive adversary, too, from what he could gather, though not quite in Bell’s league. Would the formidable Joseph Van Dorn himself step in? Or stay above the fray? His was a nationwide agency with a diverse roster. God knows who they had waiting in the shadows.

  On the other hand, he thought with a smile, it was unlikely even God knew everyone he had waiting in the shadows.

  35

  WE’RE STILL CHECKING ON THE CHINESE TRAVELING with Arnold Bennett. But it will take a while. Same for Shafer, the German. Research can’t find anything on him, but like you said, Mr. Bell, it seems odd that the embassy booked tickets for a salesman.”

  The Van Dorn agent was reporting hurriedly in the privacy of Bell’s stateroom while the train stopped in Syracuse to take on a fresh engine and drop the dining car.

  “Sing Sing confirmed Rosania’s story.”

  Rosania had not taken it on the lam but had been released, as he claimed, by the governor. The self-dubbed Australian gold miner was actually a Canadian con man who usually worked the gold mine game on the western railroads, where he could show the mark worthless claims “salted” by blasting rock walls with shotgun pellets made of gold.