The Assassin (Isaac Bell 8)

“Healing fast,” said Bell. He flicked open his coat to reveal a Colt Bisley single-action revolver where he usually holstered his automatic, and Wish nodded. Since Bell could not yet rely on the strength in his hand to work the slide to load a round into his automatic’s chamber, the special target pistol version of the Colt .45 was an accurate, hard-hitting substitute.

“How’d you get your paws on a Bisley?”

“You can buy anything in Baku.”

A sudden gust buffeted the sidewalk. Wish said, “I read somewhere that ‘Baku’ is Persian for ‘windbeaten.’”

They walked until they found a saloon that catered to sea captains who could afford decent food and genuine whiskey. They ate and drank and got comfortable reminiscing. Finally, Bell asked, “What do you think of the lookers?”

Wish had been his partner on tough cases. The two detectives trusted each other as only men could who had been stabbed in each other’s company and shot in each other’s company. Having solved every crime they tackled, they trusted each other’s instincts. Each was the other’s best devil’s advocate—roles they could bat back and forth like competition tennis players.

“Edna is a very serious young lady,” said Wish. “Angrier than you would think, at first, about the way Rockefeller’s ridden roughshod over her father. Nellie’s a show-off. She’d make a great actress. Or a politician. She’ll make a heck of a splash if she can pull off her New Woman’s Flyover stunt.”

He gave Bell an inquiring glance. “Which one did you fall for?”

“Haven’t made up my mind.”

Wish chuckled. “That sounds very much like both.”

“It is confusing,” Bell admitted. “There is something about Edna . . . But, then, there is something about Nellie . . .”

“What?”

“Edna’s deep as the ocean. Nellie dazzles like a kaleidoscope.”

“I don’t see either making a wife anytime soon.”

“I’m not rushing.”

A gust of wind stronger than the others shook the building. Sand blown across the bay rattled the windowpanes like hail.

“Let’s ge

t to the real question,” said Wish. “Who’s the assassin shooting for?”

Bell said, “You know how they call Standard Oil the octopus?”

“Aptly,” said Wish.

“I’m thinking our mastermind is more like a shark. Hanging around this monster-size octopus, thinking if he can just sink his teeth into one or two arms, he’ll have himself the meal of a lifetime. He’s shifting the blame for his crimes to the Standard. If he can pull it off, he reckons to pick up some pieces. If it really goes his way, he figures he’ll control the second-biggest trust in oil.”

Wish nodded. “I’d call that basis for a mighty strong hunch.”

“He could be inside the company or an outsider, an oil man, or a railroad man, or in coal or steel. Even a corporation lawyer.”

“A valuable man,” said Wish, “a man on his way up . . . Say, where are you going? Have another.”

Bell had stood up and was reaching for money. “My ‘boss,’ Mr. Rockefeller, is waiting for me to confirm that Detective Aloysius Clarke is no longer a Van Dorn but a freelance bodyguard for Nellie Matters and E. M. Hock, who are traveling together for safety. And that Detective Clarke gave no hint to me that either knows that Mr. Rockefeller is in Baku.”

“Rockefeller? Never heard of him,” grinned Wish. He glanced at the bottle they were sharing. His gaze shifted to Bell’s arm in his sling. “Hold on,” he said, “I’ll walk you back.”

“Stay there. I’m O.K.”

“In the event you get in a gunfight of such duration that you have to reload, I would never forgive myself if I didn’t give your one hand a hand.”

Outside, the sharp north wind that had cleared the sky of smoke earlier was blowing a gale. The stars had disappeared again, obscured now by the sand that the harsh gusts were sucking into the air. The harbor lights were barely visible. A caustic blast rattled pebbles against walls.

“Look there!”