The Titanic Secret (Isaac Bell 11)

“Depredation of the U.S. mail,” Bob Northrop said, holding up his badge and sweeping back his coat so Latang could see the Smith & Wesson .38 caliber six-shooter on his hip.

A look of genuine confusion crossed the magician’s face. “Depredation?”

“It means,” Bell said, “you’ve stolen mail from the United States Post Office.”

“I’ve done nothing of the sort. I am here to pick up my trunks.”

Bell gave a disappointed tsk. “I find it odd that as a man who travels with a circus, with its own train cars, as well as trucks and autos, that you would mail items to yourself at some expense, given the weight.”

Latang had a ready answer. “I so happen to do this quite often, as I work as an advance man for the circus. I arrive at the towns a few days early and put on free demonstrations to build crowd interest for the main show.”

“So you’ve got props and costumes and stuff like that in your trunks?”

“Yes.”

“Prove it.”

“I will do no such thing,” he said, raising his voice.

“May I point out,” Northrop interjected, “that you have not taken physical control of your items, so they are technically still under the protective care of the U.S.P.S. and I am a postal inspector.” He let the implication hang in the air.

Latang tried to stare down Northrop and then turned his attention to Bell. If anything, he could hold eye contact for even less time before capitulating. He pulled a key from his pocket and handed it to Northrop. “Fine. Go ahead and search.”

The D.C. inspector used his left hand to fit the key into the big trunk’s brass lock and release it while his right hovered over the butt of his revolver. The two Denver detectives also looked tensed for the unexpected. Bell looked mildly bored.

Inside the trunk were all manner of magic paraphernalia, like chains, a straitjacket, shiny swords, as well as many smaller boxes that Northrop laboriously removed. In them were macabre costumes, makeup, and smaller little trick items designed to separate the gull

ible from their money. In moments, the area around the trunk was littered like the floor of some Near Eastern pasha’s tent.

Northrop looked to Bell, clearly confused, and more than a little angry that he’d crossed three-quarters of the country to be here and make the arrest and there was no evidence of a crime.

“False bottom,” Billy McCallister suggested.

Northrop tapped at the trunk in several places. A postal clerk handed him a wooden yardstick. The D.C. inspector measured the height of the trunk and then set the wooden ruler inside to check its depth. An exact match.

He blew out a defeated breath, and his eyes shot daggers at Isaac Bell. “My apologies, Mr. Latang. We were clearly misinformed.”

The magician began tossing his clothing and equipment back into the trunk with little thought of neatness. He too gave Bell a hard stare. “It is a small matter and only a moment’s delay.” He closed the lid, shoving hard to compress the contents and managing to latch the lock.

Northrop glared at Isaac Bell, who regarded the D.C. man mildly. Northrop said, “I came all this way because of the reputation of the Van Dorn Agency, and quite frankly, Mr. Bell, I now see that the mystique some hold you in is rather misplaced, to put it mildly.”

“Guess this is one time you don’t get your man,” Detective McCallister said, mocking how the Van Dorns supposedly always got their man and had coined their motto to emphasize that fact.

Everyone in the room subconsciously turned a bit away from Bell. This was instinctive shunning behavior that followed mankind upon his descent from his primitive ape ancestors. Bell had expected it, so he had a moment’s privacy even in this crowded space.

Rudolfo Latang was almost out the door, with the aid of a postal worker, when Bell barked his name in a commanding boom. Everyone turned.

Bell stood with his arm outstretched, his long greatcoat askew from where he’d swept it open to reach for the shoulder holster under his left arm. The gun now in his steady fist was something new, something no one in the room had ever seen, a sleek and lethal amalgam of modern industrial design and brutal form following deadly function. The weapon was still in its development phase, but the Army was eager to begin deploying what they’d already designated as the M1911 automatic pistol but which those that had used it simply called the .45.

Isaac Bell had total command of the room. “Mr. Latang, I am going to fire two shots. One into each of your smaller trunks. One bullet will blow a hole through a stack of cash that had been shipped here from the San Francisco Mint as pay for the mining companies for all the gold and silver they shipped west. The other round will perforate the tender flesh of your stage assistant’s twin—and, might I add, one-legged—sister.”

“What the blazes are you talking about?” Detective McCallister groused. “Put down that weapon immediately.”

“Good God, man, are you daft?” Northrop said. “Those cases are too small for even a child to fit into. Please, Mr. Latang, you are free to go.”

Bell used his thumb to draw back the automatic’s hammer. The sound was one of finality and inevitability, like a line had just been drawn and a challenge offered. Bell and the magician locked eyes, neither man backing down.

The gun’s barrel dropped fractionally and angled ever so slightly farther right. Bell didn’t flinch as just a few ounces of pressure against the weapon’s internal springs sent one of the big lead slugs roaring down the barrel in a flash of dazzling light and a flat crack of sound that left ears ringing.