The Thief

Pauline mimicked the field stripping of the little Browning, step by step. Curtis was not surprised. She was as sharp a cookie as he had ever met.

“Good. Remember, always check there’s no bullet in the chamber, or you’ll blow your head off by mistake. O.K. Pick it up. Here’s how you cock it.”

He guided her hands and saw to his relief that she was strong enough to move the slide and chamber a round. “You have small hands, like me. It fits you fine. Keep it clean. Here’s a spare clip.” He took it from the drawer. “O.K. You got fourteen bullets.”

“You’re giving me your gun?”

“If anyone ever tries to take it away from you — they will, because you look like a little girl — here’s what you do. You point the gun at his face. And then you look through him, like he’s not there. Like you can’t see him, like he’s made of glass. Then he’ll believe you’re willing to kill him. Understand?”

She nodded solemnly.

“Still want to be a detective?”

“More than anything.”

“Starting this minute, you are a Van Dorn apprentice detective. Here’s your first assignment: report to the Van Dorn field office in Paris.”

“Paris?”

“On the Rue du Bac. My old pal Horace Bronson ramrods it. He’ll take care of you. He’s a top man. Used to run the San Francisco office. Here. Here’s money, you’ll need it.” He emptied the notes from his billfold and coins from his pockets into her hands. Then he yanked open another desk drawer. “And here’s some French francs. Tell Mr. Bronson you have a message for Van Dorn’s chief investigator in America…” He tried to catch his breath. It was getting hard to get wind into his lungs.

“The message is: ‘Krieg Rüstungswerk GmbH’s agent in America is an Imperial Army general major named Christian Semmler.’ Repeat that!”

Pauline repeated it word for word.

“Second half of the message: ‘Semmler is nicknamed “Monkey.” He’s thirty-five years old, medium height, powerful frame, blond hair, green eyes, long arms. Like a monkey.’ Repeat that!”

She did.

“Now get out of here.”

“But I can’t you leave you.”

“A Van Dorn apprentice always obeys orders.” He clasped her face between his trembling hands and glared into her eyes. “This is vital, Pauline. You are the only one who can solve this case and save men’s lives. Go. Please, go.”

He pushed her away.

Biting her lips, Pauline put on her coat and hat and pocketed the Browning. Curtis turned out the light. To his immense relief, he heard her open the back window. He heard the fire ladder rungs creak. He listened for her footsteps in the alley, but instead heard boots pounding up the stairs.

Arthur Curtis picked up Pauline’s rusted revolver and aimed it at the door, hoping it wouldn’t blow up in his hand. Not that that would make much difference. But the longer he could hold them off, the farther she could run.

“Cablegram from Paris, Mr. Bell.”

Bell took it with an amused smile. The Van Dorn apprentice detective who had delivered the cablegram, a slender youth in immaculate white shirt and trousers and a lavender bow tie, was aping the sartorial magnificence that the Van Dorn Los Angeles field office was famous for. All he was missing was a lavender bowler, for which he was probably banking his salary.

“Wait for my reply, please.”

Isaac Bell slit the envelope:

GERMAN POLICE REPORT ART CURTIS

SHOT DEAD. I’VE SENT MAN TO

BERLIN FOR PARTICULARS.

BRONSON

31

“What’s your reply, Mr. Bell?”

Isaac Bell heard the apprentice as if he were calling from a rooftop. When he turned to him, the boy flinched from his raging eyes.

“Reply, sir?” he repeated bravely.

“Cable this:

RETURN BODY DENVER.

MY EXPENSE.

BELL

“Write it down, son.” The tall detective turned away to hide his grief.

The boy patted his empty pockets in sudden panic.

Bell said, “Son, never go anywhere without a pencil. If you’re going to become a detective, you have to write down your thoughts and observations. What’s your name?”

“Apprentice Detective Adams, sir. Mike Adams.”

“Here, Mike, use mine.” Bell lent him his pencil and gave him a sheet of paper from the desk he had commandeered.

Apprentice Adams wrote the message, read it back, and ran.

Isaac Bell turned to the window and stared down at busy First Street, barely seeing the parade of streetcars, autos, trucks, wagons, and a squad of helmeted police on bicycles.

Joe Van Dorn pushed into the office without knocking.

“I just heard. I’m sorry, Isaac. I know you liked him.”

Bell said, “The evidence of the Acrobat’s ruthlessness was right before my eyes. I saw him throw his own man into the sea to conceal his identity. What made me think he wouldn’t murder Art Curtis for the same reason?”

Joseph Van Dorn shook his head emphatically. “I saw Art once in a gunfight. Most men lose perspective when the lead starts flying. Not Art.”

“I appreciate the thought, Joe. I know Art could handle himself. Nonetheless, he was working for me.”

Van Dorn said, “You are, of course, authorized to pull out all stops until we get who did it.”

“Thank you.”

“Until Bronson learns otherwise in Berlin, we have to presume he was gu

“Or the German Army.”

“Don’t you wonder what he learned that got him killed?” Bronson marveled.

“He learned a name,” said Bell.

“How do you know?”

“He cabled me the day before yesterday asking for more money. He said we’d have the money back — or a name — in two days.”

“What did you cable back?”

“‘Blank check.’”

“Well, if he got the name, he took it to his grave.”

“I’m afraid so,” said Bell.

“Now what?” asked Van Dorn.

“Short of a lucky break walking in that door,” said Isaac Bell, “I’m starting from scratch.”

There was a knock at the door. The front-desk man, wearing a scarlet vest and matching shoulder holster, called, “Mr. Bell — Oh, there you are, Mr. Van Dorn. Police chief’s phoning from Levy’s Cafe, wondering what happened to you?”

Van Dorn tugged out his watch. “Telephone the restaurant I’ll be there in ten minutes. Lunch with the chief,” he explained to Bell and rushed out, saying, “Then I’m on the Limited to Chicago. Keep me posted.”

“Mr. Bell, there’s a fellow to see you. Hebrew gent. Has one of those fu

“It’s called a yarmulke. Send him in.”

Andrew Rubenoff marched in smiling, but when he saw Bell standing by the window, his smile faded. “You do not look well, Isaac.”

“Lost a friend,” Bell answered tersely. “What have you learned?”

The newly minted film-manufacturing banker went straight to the purpose of his visit.

“To my great relief,” he said, “the so-called Artists Syndicate does not exist.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that a syndicate that I knew nothing about, but thought I should, is a sham. It exists only on paper. Its supposed Wall Street investors are ghosts.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“Then who paid for Imperial Film’s ten-story building?”

“I don’t know yet. But it was not the Artists Syndicate.”

“Someone fu

“To be sure. But so far Wall Street has greeted my questions about who that someone might be with a wall of silence.”

“Are the Wall Streeters protecting Imperial?”

“No, no, no. Imperial’s money almost certainly comes from someplace other than Wall Street. Abroad, I suspect.”

“Germany?”

“Perhaps. But English bankers are our biggest source of foreign funds. They invest in American railroads and ranches and ore mines. Why not moving pictures?”