The Striker (Isaac Bell 6)
Page 2
O’Riordan touched his stick to his helmet again. If a crack private detective chose to canoodle with his own wife in a dark auto on Wall Street in the middle of the night — orders be damned.
“I’ll tell the boys not to disturb you.”
But Bell motioned him closer and whispered, “I wouldn’t mind if they kept an eye out if I have to leave her alone a moment.”
“They’ll be drawin’ straws for the privilege.”
* * *
Backslapping politicians burst from the building and converged on the smaller of the limousines, a seven-passenger Rambler Knickerbocker.
Isaac Bell opened the curtain to hear them.
“Driver! Straight to Grand Central.”
“Don’t love handing the vice presidency to a louse like Congdon, but that’s politics.”
“Money talks.”
The Rambler Knickerbocker drove off. Senior men emerged next. Moving more slowly, they climbed into the second limousine, an enormous Cunningham Model J, hand-built at great expense to Judge James Congdon’s own design. To Bell’s ear they sounded less reconciled than resigned.
“Congdon has most of the delegates he needs, and those he doesn’t, he’ll buy.”
“If only our candidate hadn’t died.”
“Always the wrong man.”
Isaac Bell waited for the Cunningham to turn the corner. A police motorcycle escort stationed on Broadway clattered after it. “If James Congdon captures vice president,” Bell said, “the president’s life won’t be worth a plugged nickel.”
He kissed Marion’s lips. “Thank you for making me look harmless to the cops. Are you sure you won’t go home?”
“Not this time,” she said firmly, and Bell knew there was no dissuading her. This time was different.
Although he was dressed for the theater, he left his silk topper on the backseat and donned a broad-brimmed hat with a low crown instead.
Marion straightened his tie.
Bell said, “I’ve always wondered why you never ask me to be careful.”
“I wouldn’t want to slow you down.”
Bell winked. “Not likely.”
He left his wife with a smile. But as he crossed Wall Street, his expression hardened, and the warmth seeped from his eyes.
Joseph Van Dorn, the large, bearded founder of the agency, was waiting, deep in shadow and still as ice. He stood watch as Bell picked open the lock on the outside door, and followed him in, where Bell picked another lock on a steel door marked Mechanical Room. Inside it was warm and damp. An orderly maze of thick pipes passed through rows of steam-conditioning valves. Van Dorn compared the control wheels to an engineer’s sketch he unfolded from his inside pocket.
Isaac Bell climbed back up to the street and went around to the front of the building. His evening clothes elicited a respectful nod from the doorman. As the politicians said, Money talked.
“Top floor,” he told the yawning elevator runner.
“I thought they were all done up there.”
“Not quite.”
BOOK ONE
COAL