The Titanic Secret (Isaac Bell 11)

It was less than a minute after that that a figure dressed as Bell had just described ran past the vestibule. He saw the two men out of the corner of his eye and stopped jogging. His shoulders slumped and then went back up again when he saw that one of his quarry not only had detected him but held a pistol on him as well. The man was in his early thirties, dark-haired, with dark eyes behind round metal-framed glasses. He was clean-shaven and rather baby-faced, with an earnestness about him that made Bell think of an academician rather than a laborer. He’d blanched at the sight of the gun, and his mouth fell open slightly. His teeth were tobacco-stained.

Bell could see that neither of the stranger’s hands was pocketed or holding anything, so he relaxed and was confident that he had the situation well in hand and there would be no surprises.

“Only one question for you, friend, and I think you know what it

is,” Bell said, his gun steadily pointed at the man’s midriff.

“Ah, Mr. . . . Ah, Mr. B . . . B . . . B . . .” the man stuttered, then stopped.

“Bell,” Isaac offered.

“Mr. Bell. I am so sorr . . . sorr . . . sorry.”

Bell recognized that the man was truly terrified at having a gun held on him, but the detective wasn’t rookie enough to put it away until he knew who the stranger was and why he was tailing him. “Talk.”

The stalker took several deep breaths and studiously avoided looking at the gun. “Mr. Bell. My name is William Gibbs. I’m a reporter with the Rocky Mountain News. When I heard you were headed here to Central City, I decided to follow you. Just in case you made another important bust like you did at the Denver post office.”

“How’d you hear I was coming to Central City?” Bell asked.

“I, ah . . . I have an informant at the Brown Palace Hotel. You were heard speaking with the owner of the Little Angel Mine.”

It seemed reasonable, but it was also an annoyance that a hotel with the Brown’s reputation would allow staff to discuss the comings and goings of guests with newspapermen.

“Is there a story for me, Mr. Bell?” Gibbs asked.

Bell had always had a love/hate relationship with the press. At times, their ability to reach thousands of households per day made things like manhunts and kidnapping resolutions much easier. But, on the other hand, it made the quiet sleuthing, which was so much of what he did, more difficult. There were no shadows to hide in when the papers were shining lights on everything.

“I’m afraid not, Mr. Gibbs.” Bell slid the .45 back into its shoulder holster. “I was asked to look into a few anomalies concerning the accident at the mine, but it appears the only people who know anything died in the collapse.” Bell mixed enough truth with the lie to satisfy the reporter.

Gibbs couldn’t help but look a little crestfallen. “I doubt my editor will reimburse me for the train fare.”

“You’re in time to catch the last train back to Denver,” Tony Wickersham offered. He checked his pocket watch. “It leaves in a half hour. This way, you’re not out the cost of a hotel room as well.”

“Thanks for the tip. I guess this was a bust. Sorry if I gave you a scare, Mr. Bell.”

Isaac touched the bulge under his arm that was his .45. “Likewise.”

Gibbs took off in the direction of Central City’s train depot, while Bell and Wickersham returned to their hotel for the night.

5

The following morning dawned clear but very cold. Shaving in the communal bathroom down the hall from his room, Isaac Bell shuddered at the prospect of diving into the icy water that continued to gush from the mouth of the Little Angel Mine. He hoped that his instructions to Alex Hecht, his friend in San Francisco who built rebreathers, had been detailed enough for some extra gear to be sent along with the dive pack.

After their breakfast, Bell and Wickersham made a few stops for provisions before climbing into his new chain-drive REO Model H Power Wagon truck. The vehicle was little more than a flat platform atop a chassis with high sides so cargo wouldn’t fall out. It had a gate at the back and a high bench seat for the driver and one passenger. The engine, a nine-horsepower one-cylinder affair, was mounted under the drive compartment. Usually, there was an open-sided canvas cover over the cab to protect the occupants from the elements, but conditions were so harsh up in the Colorado mountains that the minimal protection it afforded wasn’t worth the effort of deploying it. The wheels were wood-spoked and sprung on heavy metal leaves, but Bell knew from countless hours behind the wheel of all manner of vehicles that no one other than Rolls and Royce in England had yet developed a smooth-riding suspension.

Tony straddled the steering wheel that rose out of the cab’s floor and manipulated the controls springing from the steering shaft. Bell stood in front of the truck, and when the young Englishman nodded, he thrust down on the engine crank. The engine fired immediately and within seconds was running as smoothly as any motor Bell had ever heard.

“Fine piece of machinery,” he commented, climbing in next to Wickersham.

“It belongs to Mr. Bloeser, but I’m the only one that uses it. I inspect all the properties he’s invested in and investigate others of interest. She’s rated to carry fifteen hundred pounds, but in these hills I won’t load more than a half ton.”

“Still, that’s impressive.”

“Mr. Olds knows what he’s doing.”

“Olds, as in Oldsmobile?”

“Yes. He sold that company and started REO. Stands for Ransom E. Olds.”