Standing before him-gazing up with a warm, impish smile-was a
handsome, dark-haired man in his early forties. He wore an expensive coat with a fur collar and on his head a yarmulka-a small, round disk of a velvet hat that bespoke the Hebrew faith.
“I am perplexed,” said Bell. “Who are you, sir?”
“I am Andrew Rubenoff.” He thrust out his hand. “And you are Isaac Bell.”
Astonished, Bell asked, “How did you know?”
“Sheer coincidence. Not coincidence that I recognize you. Just coincidence that I saw you standing here. Looking perplexed.”
“How did you recognize me?”
“Your photograph.”
Bell made a point of avoiding photographers. As he had reminded Marion, a detective had no use for a famous face.
Rubenoff smiled his understanding. “Not to worry. I have only seen your photograph on your father’s desk.”
“Ah. You’ve done business with my father.”
Rubenoff waggled his hand in a yes-and-no gesture. “On occasion, we consult.”
“You’re a banker?”
“So I am told,” he said. “In truth, when I arrived from Russia, I was not impressed by New York’s Lower East Side, so I took a train across the country. In San Francisco, I opened a saloon. Eventually, I met a pretty girl whose father owned a bank, and the rest is a very pleasant history.”
“Would you have time to join me at lunch?” said Isaac Bell. “I need to talk to a banker.”
“I am already spoken for lunch. But we can have tea in my offices.”
Rubenoff’s offices were around the corner on Rector Street, which the police had blocked off so a grand piano could be hoisted safely from an electric GMC moving van up to the fifth story, where a window had been removed. The open window belonged to Rubenoff, who ignored the commotion as he ushered Bell in. Through the gaping hole in his wall poured first a cold Hudson River wind, then the swaying black piano accompanied by the shouts of the movers. A matronly secretary brought tea in tall glasses.
Bell explained his mission.
“So,” said Rubenoff. “It’s not at all a coincidence. You would have found me eventually after others showed you the door. That I recognized you saves time and trouble.”
“I’m grateful for your help,” said Bell. “I got nowhere at Morgan. The boss was away.”
“Bankers are clannish,” said Rubenoff. “They band together, even though they dislike and distrust one another. The elegant bankers of Boston dislike the brash New Yorkers. The Protestants distrust the German Jews. The German Jews dislike Russian Jews like me. Dislike and distrust make the world go round. But enough philosophy. What precisely do you want to know?”
“Everyone agrees that Osgood Hennessy is impregnable. Is he?”
“Ask your father.”
“I beg your pardon, sir.”
“You heard me,” he said sternly. “Don’t ignore the finest advice you could get in New York City. Ask your father. Give him my regards. And that is all you will hear from Andrew Rubenoff on the subject. I don’t know if Hennessy is impregnable. Up until last year, I would have known, but I have gotten out of railroads. I put my money into automobiles and moving pictures. Good day, Isaac.”
He stood up and went to the piano. “I will play you out.”
Bell did not want to travel to Boston to ask his father. He wanted his answers here and now from Rubenoff, whom he suspected knew more than he admitted. He said, “The movers just left. Don’t you need to tune it first?”
In answer, Rubenoff’s hands flew at the keys, and four chords boomed in perfect harmony.
“Mr. Mason and Mr. Hamlin build pianos you can ride over Niagara Falls before you have to tune them… Your father, young Isaac. Go talk to your father.”
Bell caught the subway to Grand Central Terminal, wired his father that he was coming, and boarded the New England Railroad’s famous “White Train” flyer. He remembered it well from his student days, riding it down to New Haven. They had called the gleaming express the Ghost Train.