The Striker

“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 preconceptions. 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 Cinci

Bell stopped at Western Union on his way to meet Ke

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 Cinci

He found Court Held at the Queen City Club bar. The shipyard heir greeted him like an old friend and invited him and Ke

“We better eat on the train.”

“Pittsburgh in one hour,” a

“Why so long?” Ke

“Sorry, Mr. Bloom, we have to stop for water outside Steubenville.”

“Why outside? Jeez, my head is aching. Can’t we just go straight?”

“As I mentioned earlier, the dispatcher had to shunt us around Steubenville for a mail train. We didn’t lose more than ten minutes.”

“But now we have to stop for water.”

“Or don’t stop and blow up the locomotive,” said Bell, and Ke

The train slowed and stopped by a dark water siding.

The conductor, who was doubling as brakeman, jumped down to the tracks to throw the switch. His name was Bill Kux, and he’d been hankering after a job on the New York Central’s 20th Century Limited — or, better yet, way out west on the Overland Limited — and this Cinci