The Titanic Secret (Isaac Bell 11)

“No. Just supposition.”

“Seriously, Isaac, what is this about?”

Bell smiled ruefully. “I wish I could tell you, Henri, but my hands are tied. I can say that I am trying to stop the Société des Mines from pulling off another of their ruthless operations.” He pulled a pint bottle from his coat. In it was a dark amber liquid. On its leaf-shaped label was pictured a quaint wooden shed with smoke pouring from its chimney. It stated that the contents were one hundred percent Vermont maple syrup. “I believe this covers your time.”

Henri showed his brown teeth again in another smile and pocketed the bottle. “A certain politician’s American wife adores this stuff, and I have someone who needs a favor from him.” Favreau stood. “I must take my leave. I have meetings all morning long. I need not tell you, old friend, to be careful. A company comfortable threatening the leader of France will have no qualms silencing an American private detective.”

“Merci, Henri.”

“And if you need anything else from me, just ask. No one here likes you cowboys.”

Favreau put his hat firmly on and made for the exit out to the main lobby. Bell remained at the table. He ordered a real breakfast of eggs with sauce hollandaise, ham, and fried potatoes with onion and tarragon.

11

One of Bell’s skills as a detective was his ability to recall faces in the proper context. Once he saw someone, he could usually remember that person months, and sometimes years, later and the circumstance of their meeting. He didn’t need the picture of a young Marc Massard with his girl at the Eiffel Tower to know how his twin, Yves, would appear, but still he studied the old photo, memorizing the young lady’s features as well as Massard’s.

After his meal, Bell spoke with the concierge. He wasn’t familiar enough with Paris to know all its neighborhoods and arrondissements, and the office address for Yves Massard was in an unknown part of the city. The hotelier told him that it was a safe neighborhood that abutted some industrial zones. Relatively crime-free, but also an area into which few tourists ventured. He suggested that monsieur would be best off not dressing so finely for a meeting in an area like that and to pay the cabman to wait until the conclusion of his business. Just in case.

Bell thanked the man. He took a motorized taxi across the Seine and through half of Paris to drive by the building in question. Like almost every other structure in the city, it was a light gray limestone affair, four stories tall, and probably fifty years old. The mansard roof was sheathed in black iron, and all the windows were trimmed in iron as well. The street was busy, with several open-air markets nearby where trucks and wagons from outside the city were parked and foodstuffs and light manufactured goods were being sold to vendors and then resold to consumers.

The air was sooty—they were not far from a power plant converting coal to electricity—and heavy with the threat of more rain. The streets were washed clean, but dark water bubbled up from one sewer cover from the unseen labyrinth of stormwater tunnels underpinning every corner of the city.

Bell recalled from news reportage at the time that Paris had suffered a severe flood the prior year. The river crested seventeen feet above its normal height, and some city streets were under three feet of water and more. He imagined that with all the recent rain, the authorities must be concerned about a similar catastrophe. He’d spotted several crews working over open sewers on the drive to Massard’s address.

There were no nearby cafés, much to his frustration. They made excellent observation posts, onc

e a daily price for a table is worked out with the owner beforehand. Bell would have to watch Massard’s office as a street loiterer. He could have rented an automobile and waited in that, but beat cops became suspicious if they saw someone sitting in a car hour after hour. Best to stay mobile and avoid the police altogether.

Bell had the taxi drive him back to his hotel. Directly across the street was the Le Bon Marché department store, some say the world’s first such establishment. He entered the store and found the clothing he would need. He bought working-class-style pants and shirt, as well as a black overcoat and a shorter gray jacket, and two different colored hats. He also bought an umbrella, as the one he’d packed was too fine a quality. He figured he’d need to wait outside the building for only three hours, otherwise he would have bought a third coat and hat.

He took his purchases back to his room at the Hôtel Lutetia and changed clothing. He checked himself in the mirror. He could comfortably wear the short jacket under the overcoat and it remained invisible. The brimmed hat completed the picture of a nondescript worker. Once he stripped off the longer coat and replaced the hat for a soft cap, his appearance changed entirely. He now looked like one of the truck drivers from the markets near Massard’s address. He had long since trained himself to use different gaits and postures so to the casual observer he would be two different men moving about the street, seemingly both going somewhere but never actually reaching any destinations.

He donned his proper suit for another meal in the hotel restaurant before changing yet again. This time, he had the cabbie drop him a few blocks from his destination. He paid the man and stepped out. A mist chilled the air. He set off walking, taking note of the expressions on the faces around him and adopting a similar vacantness. These people worked long hours, for little pay, and had few things in their lives to make them brighter. Unlike Bell, to them life was something to be lived through rather than celebrated.

By the time he rounded the corner onto Massard’s block, he was fully in his role. He settled himself next to a building two down from the large Société des Mines edifice, popped open the umbrella, and waited, occasionally pulling out his pocket watch and scanning the pedestrians on the sidewalks as though waiting for someone. No one paid him the slightest interest.

He changed positions every fifteen minutes, and after an hour he went around the corner and quickly shed the long black coat to reveal the gray jacket underneath. He swapped hats and bundled up the coat and trilby hat and umbrella. One of Paris’s many newspaper kiosks sat on the corner, and Bell managed to stash his bundle amid the bundles of old papers not yet hauled away from the establishment. He was back in position in a matter of seconds to watch the building’s front door.

For another hour, truck driver Bell paced up and down the block, moving at the same rate as others on the street but showing impatience and irritation as if his afternoon were being wasted. He watched everyone who came in or out of the Société building. A few times, he thought he’d spotted Yves Massard, but a closer inspection revealed his mistake. He was just about to retrieve his other disguise when the wooden door he’d watched so carefully swung open. Three men emerged in a line and started walking in a group. Bell felt the blood in his veins turn to ice as adrenaline flooded his system. He knew there was no way Yves Massard could recognize him. They had never laid eyes on each other, but Bell’s first reaction was to turn away. The man was an exact copy of the man he’d seen murdered in Colorado. He fought instinct and kept moving naturally as Massard and his two companions walked past. One of the Frenchmen said something and they all laughed throatily.

He let them get twenty paces ahead before he turned around to follow. On the way, he ducked behind the kiosk once again and changed on the fly. Even if Massard turned now, the man tailing them looked and moved nothing like the teamster they’d just passed outside his office building.

Bell reconsidered his assessment of Yves Massard. There was a darkness about him that Marc didn’t seem to have. Marc had been more open, friendlier. This brother looked tense and ready for a fight. Then, he re-reconsidered. His only interaction with Marc had occurred when he was playing the role of Gibbs, Denver journalist. As he had so thoroughly fooled Bell and Tony Wickersham, the man was a skilled actor and linguist and could probably hide his true nature. Bell assumed he was just as dark-souled as this twin.

The trio went to a worker’s café, crowded with tired men quenching a thirst for une bière. This street was lined with such establishments. Bell entered a bar across from Massard’s, got himself a beer, and worked his way to the mullioned window that was so old he could see dimples where the glassmaker’s pipe had been. He figured he had plenty of time. A man with Massard’s fearsome reputation would likely be a big drinker. The bar was crowded and the air gray with cigarette smoke. But it was warm, and Isaac’s feet and hands had been starting to ice up.

Much to his surprise, Yves Massard stepped out from the café after just a few minutes, time enough for a small beer at best. Right behind him, coatless, came Foster Gly. His bald head was covered with a thin sheen of perspiration. He was huge, with shoulders as wide as a hangman’s gallows, a neck like a tree stump, and hands that resembled anvils. He was wearing just shirtsleeves, and Bell could see the muscles of Gly’s chest were like slabs of granite. He and Massard spoke for a moment. As Yves turned to head back down the street, Gly looked directly to where Bell stood in the bar. Bell was back enough that he would be little more than a shadow from this distance, but he could see wheels turning in the Scotsman’s head, as if he could sense he was being watched.

Bell moved farther from the window. The moment stretched out before Gly stepped into his café again. Isaac let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. Being this close to Gly was an opportunity to find Brewster and the others quicker than his original plan since, ostensibly, Gly was the Société’s liaison with the American miners. However, tailing him on his own wasn’t possible. Gly had an animal’s instincts, a cunning that would alert him that he was being followed. To do a proper job, Bell would need at least a half dozen people with access to multiple outfits. That would require transportation, a base of operation, coordination. It was all too much.

Instead, he took off the black trench coat, folded it so it resembled a package, and left the bar. From Gly’s perspective, he’d been a dark silhouette at best. Now he was a guy in a light gray jacket heading home after a quick drink. It was a precaution.

Massard was half a block away, moving easily through the thickening crowds. The rain had started picking up again, icy. Once Bell was certain Gly couldn’t see him from any of the café’s windows, he shook out the overcoat and slipped it on. He also unfurled his umbrella.

Ahead, Yves Massard hunched his shoulders against the rain and walked three more blocks, not once turning around or showing any interest in his surroundings. Bell kept a loose watch on him, getting close and then backing off. He also watched his own back, but there was no bald giant coming up behind him, eager to finish what he’d started in the foothills outside of Central City.

They entered a neighborhood of identical four-story apartment buildings, most with stores or cafés on the ground floor and three stories of flats above. The streets were narrow, giving them a certain claustrophobic feel. Bell stepped up his pace, certain that his quarry would duck into one of the buildings, and he needed to be certain which one. He was thirty feet back and could see Massard through the ranks of pedestrians making their way through the storm.