“I should know for sure by morning.”
“How would they know to follow us from your detective agency?”
“They followed us from the hotel, not the agency.” Bell had stashed Clyde for safekeeping in a room at the Knickerbocker next door to the Van Dorn bull pen. The hotel was enormous, and the Krieg agents would have no reason to connect Clyde to Van Dorn.
“How’d they know what hotel?”
“They probably followed us to the Knickerbocker from Edison’s laboratory. I believe you did mention Thomas Edison while discussing your machine with Krieg?”
“Sure. I wanted Krieg to know there were others we could go to.”
“You can bet they’ve been watching the Edison laboratory since the Mauretania landed, waiting for you to show up.”
Bell locked the door and closed his eyes, recalling nights on the 20th Century when he and Marion would drink champagne in the privacy of adjoining staterooms.
At Rochester, the telegraph delivered pay dirt.
GTS TO ATTACHE AT GC.
Isaac Bell broke into a lupine smile.
Translated, the wire read that the “gentleman thugs” who had followed him to the train had reported to a diplomatic attaché whom the Van Dorn detectives covering the Bowling Green Office Building had already identified at the German consulate. In other words, Krieg and the German Army knew that he and Clyde were steaming to Chicago. But they did not know that Bell knew.
He wired the Chicago field office from the next engine stop.
* * *
The “drummers’s table” in the breakfast room at the exclusive Palmer House Hotel in Chicago was like a private club, but any traveling salesman who could afford the best hotel in town was welcome to sit in. The club brothers — valuable men who worked on commission only and paid their own expenses — had expensive suits, florid complexions, and proud bellies, and they laughed louder and told newer jokes than the founders of steel and slaughterhouse fortunes at the surrounding tables.
The top salesman for the Locomobile Company of America was telling a new story he had heard two days earlier at the Bridgeport, Connecticut, front office involving accidentally switched department store deliveries of ladies’ gloves and und
ergarments.
The representative of the Victor Talking Machine Company interrupted. “Hey, here’s Fritz!”
“Hello, Fritz! Haven’t seen you in a coon’s age.”
Men shuffled around to make room for the new arrival, a broad-shouldered, light-on-his feet German in his mid-thirties who traveled America peddling church organs and parlor pianos.
“Waiter! Waiter! Breakfast for Mr. Wunderlich.”
“Only time for coffee. I’m catching the train for Los Angeles.”
Fritz Wunderlich was a funny-looking fellow, with heavy brow ridges, a mighty anvil of a jaw, and long arms like a gorilla, but he had a smile that any drummer would give his eye-teeth for. It opened wide as the prairie and bright as the sun and pulled the customers in like suction from a sinking ship.
Fritz worked hard as a nailer—“Eight days in the week, thirteen months in the year”—and it paid off, judging by the cut of his funereal black suit, his immaculate linen, his fine homburg, his weighty gold watch chain, and the ten-cent polish on his shoes.
“Coffee for Fritz!”
“Mit schlag!”
“Hear that, waiter? Mit schlag.”
“Vat is the story I interrupt?”
The Locomobile drummer started over again, repeating the beginning about the mixed-up ladies’ gloves and undergarments. “So then the lady who received the panties gets a letter from the fellow who sent her his gift of gloves. Here’s what he wrote.”
Fritz broke in with the last line of the joke: “Whoever sees you in these vill admire my good taste and your delicate looks!”