The Spy (Isaac Bell 3)

“Haven’t you heard? I got a pardon from the governor. Would you like to see it?”

“Very much so,” said Isaac Bell.

The suave safecracker pulled from his coat a finely tooled wallet. From it he drew an envelope embossed with gold leaf and from the envelope unfolded a sheet of vellum with the seal of the governor of New York State on top and Rosania’s name illuminated as if drawn by monks.

“Assuming for the moment that this is not a forgery, do you mind me asking what you did to get this?”

“If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.”

“Try.”

“When I was twelve years old, I helped a little old lady cross the street. Turned out she was the governor’s mother-before he was governor. She never forgot my kindness. I told you you wouldn’t believe me.”

“Where are you headed, Larry?”

“Surely you’ve combed through the passenger list. You know perfectly well that I’m bound for San Francisco.”

“What do you intend to blow up there?”

“I’ve gone straight, Isaac. I don’t do safes anymore.”

“Whatever you’re doing, you’re doing it well,” Bell observed. “This train doesn’t come cheap.”

“I’ll tell you the truth,” said Rosania. “You won’t believe this either, but I met a widow who believes that the sun and the moon rise and set on me. As she inherited more money than I could steal in a lifetime, I am not disabusing her of the thought.”

“Can I inform the train conductor that his express car is safe?”

“Safe as houses. Crime doesn’t pay enough. What about you, Isaac? Heading for Chicago headquarters?”

“Actually, I’m looking for someone,” said Bell. “And I’ll bet that even reformed jewel thieves are close observers of fellow passengers on luxury railroad trains. Have you noticed any foreigners I might be interested in?”

“Several. In fact, one right here in this car.”

Rosania nodded toward the back of the club car and lowered his voice. “There’s a German pretending to be a salesman. If he is, he’s the nastiest drummer I ever saw.”

“The stiff-necked one who looks like a Prussian officer?” Bell had noticed Shafer on his way into the club car. The German was about thirty years old, expensively dressed, and exuded a fiercely unfriendly chill.

“Would you buy anything from him?”

“Nothing I didn’t need. Anyone else?”

“Look out for the carney Australian selling a gold mine.”

“The conductor noticed him, too.”

“There’s no fooling a good train conductor.”

“He didn’t tip to you.”

“Told you, I’ve gone straight.”

“Oh, I forgot,” Bell grinned. Then he asked, “Do you know a gem importer named Erhard Riker?”

“Herr Riker, I never messed with.”

“Why not?”

“For the same reason I would never dream of blowing Joe Van Dorn’s safe. Riker’s got his own private protection service.”