The Assassin

“Good-bye, Mr. Rockefeller.”

“You can’t leave me defenseless. You took a job and signed a contract to protect me. What if Matters surfaces and tries to kill me?”

“I’ve assigned Wish Clarke to escort you home to Cleveland. There, your bodyguards will be provided by Van Dorn Protective Services.”

“Van Dorn? Are you going back to Van Dorn?”

“I never left.”

“What? You never left Van Dorn’s employ?”

“Never.”

“You’re still working up the Corporations Commission case! You tricked me.”

The trace of a smile moderated Bell’s stern features. “You are not familiar with detective affairs, Mr. Rockefeller. It’s my job to trick suspects. In fact . . . you could call it a habit.”

Rockefeller’s eyes flickered as if he were trying to recall how much information he had given away. But when he spoke, all he said was, “How long will these guards protect me?”

“Until you feel safe.”

“How will I ever feel safe from that murderer?”

“You will feel safe when he is hanged.”

“What makes you so sure he will be?”

“Another Van Dorn habit. We never give up.”

True to form, John D. Rockefeller did the unexpected. He laughed. “That’s a good one.” He thrust out his hand. “I prefer friendships founded on business. I’m glad we’ve done business, Mr. Bell.”

—

The grim atmosphere in the Van Dorn Detective Agency’s New York field office reminded Isaac Bell of the night riots broke out in Baku. “Himself” was back in town, Joseph Van Dorn, hulking like a bad-tempered sphinx in the back of the bull pen where Bell, who had just raced from the ferry pier, had summoned his assassin squad to bring him up to date.

Archie Abbott looked miserable and was sporting a black eye. The anxious glances he kept shooting at Van Dorn told Bell that Archie had learned nothing about the Army deserter who won the President’s Medal.

Grady Forrer, directing head of the gunsmith hunt, was watching Van Dorn as if the Boss were a rotund cobra.

Wally and Mack typically were not intimidated; the old guys had known Van Dorn too long and the self-satisfied Weber & Fields grins on their gnarly faces gave Bell hope. They looked more confident than their grasping-at-straws cable report about Spike Hopewell’s so-called tricks up his sleeve. Maybe good news.

Bell glanced at Van Dorn and stepped out the door. The Boss lumbered after him.

“What’s up?”

“You’re spooking my boys.”

“Your boys aren’t delivering.”

“Why don’t you let me buy you a drink at the Normandie after I straighten them out?”

Bell returned to the bull pen alone.

“When I left for Baku, you were pursuing various leads on the Army sharpshooter, the gunsmith who improved the assassin’s Savage 99, the exhumation of Averell Comstock’s body, and the tricks that Spike Hopewell claimed to have up his sleeve. That no news awaited me in Constantinople or Berlin or Bremerhaven on my way home suggests unfruitful pursuits. Did the situation improve while I steamed across the Atlantic?”

Wally and Mack gri

“Archie. How’d you make out with the general’s daughter?”

“No dice.”

“Who gave you the shiner?”

“She took a swing at me.”

“Why?”

Wally Kisley laughed. “The young lady took insult, misled that Princeton, here, was romancing her. Just when the spooning should commence, Princeton says he has business with her father.”

Archie hung his head. “I misinterpreted her motive for inviting me to visit when he was out of the house.”

“Boom!” said Wally. “Smack in the eye.”

“When I went back to try again, the butler said she was ‘not at home.’ So what I’m thinking, Isaac, is maybe it’s time for me to get back to work in Chicago. Rosania is—”

Bell said, “Write down her name and address for me.”

He turned to the head of Van Dorn Research. “Grady. How did you do with Dave McCoart?”

“We’ve eliminated every gunsmith in the country except for two in Hartford and one in Bridgeport. But none of those fellows have pa

“None of them ever worked on a 99?”

“None that admit it. I’m fairly convinced that the Hartford gunsmiths are in the clear. Fairly convinced. But the detective I sent to Bridgeport—a pretty good contract man we’ve used in Co

“I’ll go,” said Bell. “How did we do with the New York coroner?”

“He won’t exhume Mr. Comstock without a court order. The court refused on legalistic grounds that essentially came down to the judge’s belief that an eighty-three-year-old should have been dead anyway.”

“But what about Mrs. McCloud in the fire and her son in the river?”

“The judge expressed no faith in the likeliness of co

“Sounds like we need another judge.”

“The next judge concurred with the former’s incredulity.”

Bell turned to Weber & Fields. “Wally and Mack, you look pleased with yourselves.”

“Always, Isaac, always,” said Wally.

“It’s hard not to be,” said Mack, and the two broke into Weber & Fields mode. “A very pretty girl who was promised by refiner Reed Riggs that he . . .”

“. . . and therefore she . . .”

“. . . by extension . . .”

Bell said, “Gents, I’m losing patience with your antics. What did you find?”

“. . . would be rich soon.”

“Riggs was an independent oil man,” said Bell. “They all think they’ll be rich soon.”

“Not like this. He told the girl that a certain party highly placed at Standard Oil was going to, quote, ‘Pungle up big.’ Not only would he get a bunch of money, his refinery would be bought with Standard Oil stock.”

“What certain party?” Bell asked.

“She wouldn’t say.”

“Wouldn’t or couldn’t?”

“Wouldn’t.”

“Why would this party shell out big money?”

“Blackmail. The girl said Riggs had something big on him.”

“Why would he tell a girl? Who was this girl? Where did they meet?”

“Miss Dee’s on North Wichita Street, Wichita, Kansas,” said Mack.

“Arguably the finest ‘female boardinghouse’ in the state,” said Wally.

“Which is saying a lot for a state that’s home to Topeka and Kansas City,” said Mack.

“Not the sort of ‘ten-dollar parlor house’ the likes of me and Mack could afford without Mr. Van Dorn covering our expenses,” said Wally. “But you of the silver spoon could be familiar with it.”

Grady Forrer rumbled deep and dangerously in his barrel chest, “You are reporting that Riggs got drunk and bragged to a pretty girl in a brothel? A girl whose income depends on keeping you two happy?”

Mack Fulton returned a look of ice. “Listen closely, young fellow, and one day you’ll grow up to be a detective, too.” He turned back to Bell. “The lady didn’t think Riggs was bragging. She thought he felt guilty. Like blackmail wasn’t something Riggs would do if he weren’t pressed to the wall. He was having second thoughts when he fell under the train.”

“Are you sure about her?”

“Positive. She did not want to talk.”

“She was kind of sweet on Riggs,” said Mack.

“How’d you get her to talk?”

“We had to spend a full week at Miss Dee’s,” said Mack.

“Never gave up,” said Wally.

Archie Abbott rolled his eyes. Grady Forrer furrowed his brow. Isaac Bell said, “But after a week she still wouldn’t tell you the name at Standard Oil?”

“That would be a job for younger men than we are,” said Mack.

“Archie,” said Bell. “Go to Wichita.”

“Wichita? Sure you don’t want to go, Isaac?”

“Get on the fastest mail train. Wire me the second you know whether Reed Riggs was blackmailing Bill Matters . . . Wally and Mack! Go find Matters’ private railcar.”