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“How are you making out with investors?”
“Near fully subscribed— I must run, but here’s my card. Perhaps, we’ll meet, again.”
Fi
Isaac Bell was pacing in the front hall when Van Dorn bustled into the Yale Club at Forty-fourth Street. Even impatiently pacing, Van Dorn thought, the young detective glided like a panther — precision-cocked to spring.
“Sorry, Isaac. Tied up in a meeting.”
Bell led the way to a pair of wing chairs in a quiet corner of the lounge. He related in detail what had happened at the Gleason jail and laid out his suspicions. Van Dorn listened attentively, intrigued again by Bell’s speculation about a provocateur but still dubious about the evidence.
“I’m hoping you can spare me some men to get to the bottom of this, sir.”
“Your own squad?”
“It’s too big for one detective.”
“Not possible,” said Van Dorn. “We are stretched to the breaking. Prince Henry is dragging us around the country like the tail of a kite and now he’s threatening to extend his visit. They love him everywhere he goes and he’s having a ball.”
Bell spoke urgently. “Before I went down in the mine, I did as you suggested and learned everything I could about the coal business. The mines employ half a million men. Hundreds of thousands more work on the railroads and barge tows that transport it. In a nutshell, coal is the most important business in America.”
“That nutshell does not alter the fact that the Van Dorn Detective Agency has other fish to fry,” Van Dorn growled back.
Isaac Bell did not appear to hear him. “Coal is indispensable for heat, for coke to make steel, for smelting ore, for electricity generation for lights, pumps, elevators, and agriculture wells, and for fuel where wood is scarce. Coal powers ocean liners, battleships, and railroad trains.”
Van Dorn nodded impatiently, thinking, All the more reason to invest some part of my savings in Jack Fi
“But such wealth has the potential to stir the worst in men of all stripes,” Bell persisted, “be they labor, owner, or financier.” He took a deep breath. “I could begin my investigation with Wally Kisley and Mack Fulton, and Wish Clarke.”
Van Dorn could not conceal his surprise. “Only them?”
“Kisley is expert in explosives. Fulton’s been working labor cases since the Haymarket Riot. And the boys all say that Wish Clarke is the toughest fighting man in the agency, which I observed to be true when you let me work with him in Wyoming and again in New Orleans.”
“You would be the youngest squad leader in the history of the agency.”
“No, sir. You were younger when you led your first squad.”
“Times were simpler back then…”
“Coincidentally,” said Isaac Bell, “your first squad consisted of Kisley and Fulton and an apprentice named Wish, for ‘Aloysius,’ Clarke.”
It was Van Dorn’s turn to take a deep breath.
“O.K., you can have Weber and Fields,” he said, using the agency nickname for Kisley and Fulton whose jokes reminded everyone of the vaudeville comics. “They’re in Chicago. God knows where Wish Clarke is.”
“I can find him.”
“If you can find him, you can have him.”
“Could I also have Mr. Bronson?”
Joseph Van Dorn’s bushy eyebrows would have shot no higher if Isaac Bell had demanded the combined services of heavyweight champion Jim Jeffries, President Roosevelt and half his Rough Riders.
“Horace Bronson,” the Boss answered coldly, “is engaged in San Francisco.”
Bell was not surprised, but it had been worth a try. He asked, “Is there anyone else currently at large you could spare, sir?”
“You’ll have to make do with what I’ve given you,” Van Dorn said sternly. “You’ll be thin on the ground, so don’t get cocky. Weber and Fields are old hands but no longer spry, to put it mildly. They’re of the years when men age quickly. And Wish… well, enough said.”
“You’ve always said he’s a crack sleuth.”
“When sober,” Van Dorn shot back.
Bell said, “You are right, sir. I will be thin on the ground. Would you consider hiring a particular friend of mine as an apprentice? He’s a handy fellow with his fists — when I met him, he was captain of Princeton’s boxing team.”
“That will stand him in good stead against college men who’ve taken up crime.”
“He’s a whiz at disguises. He wanted to be an actor.”
“If he wanted to be, why isn’t he?”
“His mother forbade it.”
“Obedience to mothers,” Van Dorn responded drily, “is an admirable trait, but not the sort that spawns detectives with the requisite moxie.”
“He’s got plenty of moxie, and Kisley and Fulton will show him what to do with it. Sir, I could really use the extra hand.”
Van Dorn looked dubious. “I’d have to speak with him, size him up.”
“But you already have spoken with him.”
“What? When?”
“I believe you have his card in your vest pocket.”
Van Dorn reached into his vest. “Jack Fi
Isaac Bell kept a straight face. “Based on all I’ve learned about coal for this case, Mr. Van Dorn, I wouldn’t bet the farm on supercoal.”
Van Dorn flushed red as his whiskers. His eyes narrowed to pinpricks of blue flame, and his mighty chest filled like a bull’s. Isaac Bell braced for the explosion. But, at last, the Boss laughed.
“Flimflammed! You flimflammed me.”
“I had to demonstrate his moxie.”
“You did that, all right. Really had me going there— Well, at least I was flimflammed by a brother Irishman.”
Bell could no longer hide his smile.
“Now what are you smirking about?”
“Sorry to disillusion you, sir, but your ‘Irish brother’ is a direct descendant of the English and Dutch founders of New York — Archibald Angel Abbott IV, listed first in Society’s Four Hundred.”
The Congdon Building was more secure than most in Wall Street, tight as a bank.
Henry Clay entered by the basement service entrance, dressed in steamfitter’s overalls and carrying a ball-peen hammer, a pipe wrench, a measuring tape, and an inspection gauge with its thin metal gap gauges modified to pick locks. He knew the guards’ routine and eluded them easily. He picked open a lock, bounded up twelve flights of stairs without sweating or breathing hard, removed his overalls, picked two more locks in utter silence, and stepped suddenly through the back door of Judge James Congdon’s private office.
Clay saw immediate confirmation of the wisdom of his plan. The tough old bird glanced up from his desk startled but not one bit frightened. He had chosen well.
11
James Congdon was intrigued by the intruder.
He could summon help in an instant with a shout into the speaking tube or one of several candlestick telephones on his desk. Better yet, simply shoot him with a revolver from his desk. Or, best of all, he could activate his “lunatic stopper.” But for the moment, Congdon was curious. Why would such an elegant, well-dressed gentleman break in his back door?
As if to prove that he was as cultured as he looked, the intruder complimented the marble sculpture that dominated Congdon’s office with a co
Judge Congdon uncapped the speaking tube. “Antiquities? You’re showing off your ignorance. Auguste Rodin carved that statue two years ago.”
“But unlike the prudish original, this superior copy of Le Baiser that you commissioned depicts the male form complete — in the classical Greek style — rather than draped, as it were, under a modest limb.”
Congdon snorted, “That’s a big-sounding way of saying he’s showing his tackle.”