The Spy (Isaac Bell 3)

“Herr Riker. Oh, yes.”

“You know him?”

“The diamond merchant. He’s a regular, every couple of months or so. Is he a friend of yours?”

“We met recently. Twice.?

?

“I believe he is traveling with his bodyguard. Yes, this fellow here. Plimpton. Big bruiser in a Pullman berth. Riker’s got his usual stateroom. I reckon there’s something locked up in the express car that’s Riker’s.” He followed down the list. “No mention of his ward.”

“What ward?”

“Lovely young lady. But, no, she’s not listed this trip. Pity.”

“What do you mean.”

“Nothing, sir. I just mean, one of those girls that isn’t hard on the eyes.”

“Riker seems young to have a ward.”

“She’s just a student-oh, I see what you mean. Don’t you doubt it, sir. I see every sort of couple you could imagine on the Limited. Riker and his ward are completely on the up-and-up. Always separate staterooms.”

“Adjoining?” asked Bell, who always booked two staterooms when he traveled with Marion.

“But it’s not what you think. You get an eye for this on the 20th Century, Mr. Bell. They’re not that sort of couple.”

Bell resolved to check on that. Research had made no mention of a ward.

“What is her name?”

“I only know her as Miss Riker. Maybe he adopted her.”

The train was flying at a clip of sixty miles to the hour, and mile-posts were flashing by the windows. But just as he and the conductor were finishing up the passenger list, forty minutes out of New York, Bell felt the engine ease off.

“Harmon,” the conductor explained, checking the time on his Waltham watch. “We’ll exchange the electric for a steamer and then we’ll fly, better than four miles in three minutes.”

“I’ll have a word with my old nitro acquaintance. Find out what he’s got planned for your express car.”

While they changed engines, Bell telegraphed Van Dorn, inquiring about the German, the Australian, the Chinese traveling with Arnold Bennett, and Herr Riker’s ward. He also sent a wire to Captain Falconer:

INFORM GUNNER’S DAUGHTER MURDERER DEAD.

A single glimmer of justice in a joyless day. The death of Yamamoto might comfort Dorothy Langner, but it was hardly a victory. The case, already thrown into turmoil by Scully’s murder, was completely unhinged by the death of the Japanese spy who had come so close to handing Bell his true quarry.

He climbed back aboard the 20th Century.

The high-wheeled Atlantic 4-4-2 steam locomotive swiftly gathered speed and raced northward along the banks of the Hudson River. Bell walked to the head of the train. The club car was fitted with comfortable lounge chairs. Men were smoking, drinking cocktails, and waiting for their turn with the barber and manicurist.

“Larry Rosania! Fancy meeting you here.”

The jewel thief looked up from a newspaper blazing headlines about the Great White Fleet approaching San Francisco. He peered over the tops of his gold wire-rimmed reading glasses and pretended not to recognize the tall, golden-haired detective in the white suit. His manner was polished, his voice patrician. “Have we been introduced, sir?”

Bell sat down uninvited. “Last I heard, my old pals Wally Kisley and Mack Fulton leased long-term lodgings for you at Sing Sing.”

At the mention of Bell’s friends, Rosania dropped the façade. “I was saddened to hear about their demise, Isaac. They were interesting characters and honest detectives in a world short of both.”

“Appreciate the thought. How’d you get out? Blow a hole in the prison wall?”