The Titanic Secret (Isaac Bell 11)

im dead so you couldn’t question him.”

“Figured.”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

Bell said, “Tell me who you are, and what this is all about, and I’ll tell you how I know he was French.”

“I’m Colonel Greggory Patmore, U.S. Army, and you have stumbled onto something you definitely shouldn’t have. I’ve been monitoring this area since we faked the accident, just hoping and praying no one came sniffing around.” He paused to survey the forlorn scenery. “I knew the frog-eaters were here, making sure just like me, but I was so high up the mountain they had no idea I was watching them while they were watching you. When all hell broke loose today, I was too far away to do much good. But truth be told, part of me was hoping these men succeeded in punching your tickets because you and your pal just became wrinkles I don’t know how to iron out. And if I don’t think of something quick, the nine men who pretended to die in that old mine are going to die for real.”

Bell was a fast study of situations and people. He knew immediately that Patmore was someone to be trusted. He held out his hand. “My name is Isaac Bell and I am the senior detective for the Van Dorn Agency and maybe I can help you figure something out.” Patmore clasped Bell’s hand, respect in his eyes, for he knew, like so many, of the fearsome reputation enjoyed by the Van Dorns.

8

Gregg Patmore hiked back up to where he’d spent the past few days watching over the Little Angel Mine to get his vehicle. For his part, Bell was too anxious about Tony Wickersham to wait for the Colonel, so the two men agreed to meet at the Teller House back in Central City. If Patmore was delayed or if Tony needed immediate transport to Denver, they had a contingency plan to rendezvous at the Brown Palace. Patmore said he’d also take the time to bury the dead man.

The sun was going down, and the REO’s headlights left a lot to be desired. Adding to his miseries, Bell was still borderline hypothermic, and exhaustion made his eyes feel gritty, the lids swollen and leaden. He was a man who knew his body’s limits because he’d asked it to perform beyond them many times in the past. He felt he was coming up fast against a new limit now. It was only his concern for Tony—a stranger yet a friend—that drove him out of the mountains toward the slumping boomtown far down the road. The weight of responsibility was an added burden.

He finally reached town just as the sun slipped over the top of the Rockies, bringing on almost full dark with surprising suddenness. He parked near the Teller House, but left the engine running, and went into the hotel. The manager himself was behind the counter, and when Bell asked the location of Central City’s doctor, the man came around and offered to escort him since it was around the block.

Together, the two men strode back out, Isaac invigorated by the manager’s obvious concern. He killed the REO’s motor on the way past the truck.

Around the corner, the manager rushed ahead to open a door for Bell, saying in a loud voice, “Hey, Doc, I got a patient for you. He looks to be in need of your help.”

“Good God, man,” Bell said indignantly. “I’m not here for myself but for a friend hurt in a hunting accident.”

The hotel manager looked shocked that Bell wasn’t in need of medical attention and embarrassed that he’d insulted one of his guests.

“A thousand pardons, Mr. Bell. I just . . . ah . . .”

“Don’t worry yourself. I’m sure I look like death’s apprentice. Or worse.”

A voice from another room called out, “What’s the problem? I’m rather busy.”

“No problem, Doc. A little misunderstanding.”

Bell took over the conversation. “Doctor, my name is Isaac Bell. I’m a detective with the Van Dorn Agency. Mr. Wickersham was assisting me when he was shot accidentally. How is he doing?”

“C’mon back and see for yourself.”

Bell followed the voice through a curtained doorway, down a short hallway, and into a brightly lit room with clean tile floors and antiseptic-white walls. A table sat in the middle of the room, with an arc lamp overhead, and there were countless metal tables on rollers covered with surgical devices and other tools of the medical trade. A counter ran along the back wall and had its own washbasin with fresh water. There, a nurse was washing out bloody towels. In all, it was thoroughly modern, and not what Bell expected from a small Colorado mining town.

Tony Wickersham was atop the table while the doctor stood over him wearing a blood-smeared white coat over his suit pants and vest. He wore no tie. Tony was cocooned under a bladder of red rubber filled with hot water held in place by towels swaddled around him as though he were an infant. His color had retuned somewhat, but he was still paler than normal. He was also fast asleep.

“Once he started warming up,” the doctor said, “I had to give him a few whiffs of chloroform to keep him from getting up off the table and rushing back to help you. I’m Paul Brinkerhoff, but everyone calls me Doc.” He showed Bell the blood on his palm as reason to not shake hands.

“How is he?”

“No ill effects from the hypothermia. Blood vessels all seem to be undamaged, and under that water bottle he’s pinking up nicely. The shoulder’s another story. The arm can stay, but only time will tell how much function he’ll have. The bullet did a lot of damage.”

“Is there anything to be gained by taking him to Denver? Specialists? That sort of thing.”

“The surgery’s already done. The channel of the wound dictated what needed to be repaired, so that’s that. He will certainly benefit from physiotherapy. A specialist will work the shoulder using proven techniques to increase motion, mobility, and strength. It’s a tough road, but he’s young and strong. But that’s a little bit down the road. I’ll want to keep him here for a few days and then send him back to Denver.”

Bell nodded, encouraged. “As soon as we’re back at the hotel I’m going to telephone his employers and let them know what’s happening.” Bell was thinking he’d contribute to the fund for Tony’s upcoming rehabilitation, and he felt certain men like the Bloesers would also help pay.

“How about you, Mr. Bell? Are you sure you’re physically okay?”

“Nothing a hot bath and a few stiff drinks won’t cure, Doc. Thanks for your concern.” Bell laid a hand on Tony Wickersham’s good shoulder as a good-bye gesture and shook the doctor’s hand anyway before heading back to the hotel with the manager.