The Spy (Isaac Bell 3)

“What is it?” asked Bell. “You all right, son?”

The boy opened his mouth. He looked around and suddenly grabbed his box and ran, dodging shoppers, and disappeared around the corner. Bell shrugged, and entered another jewelry store, Solomon Barlowe, a smaller establishment on the ground floor of a five-story, Italianate-style cast-iron-clad building. Barlowe sized him up with piercing brown eyes as shrewd as a police magistrate’s.

“I want to buy an engagement ring. I think it should be a diamond.”

“Were you considering a solitaire setting or incluster?”

“Which would you recommend?”

“If expense were an object, of course-”

“Assume it is not,” Bell growled.

“Ah! Well, I can see that you are a man of taste, sir. Let us look at some stones for your approval.” The jeweler unlocked a case and laid a black velvet tray on the counter between them.

Bell whistled amazement. “I’ve seen kids shooting marbles smaller than these.”

“We are fortunate in our supplier, sir. We import our own. Ordinarily, I would have more stock to show you, but the bridal months are upon us, and the choice gems have already been snapped up.”

“In other words, buy now before it’s too late?”

“Only if you need something immediately. Is your wedding impending?”

“I don’t think so,” said Bell. “We’re neither of us children and both rather busy. On the other hand, I would like to nail things down.”

“A large solitaire diamond of a unique hue has a way of doing that, sir. Here, for instance-”

The door opened and a well-dressed gentleman about Bell’s age walked into Barlowe’s shop flourishing a gold-headed cane studded with gems. He looked vaguely familiar, but the detective could not quite place him. It was rare his memory for faces failed, and he suspected it would be a case of seeing someone completely out of context, as if they had last met in a Wyoming saloon or been seated side by side at a Chicago prizefight. He was clearly not a desperate bachelor. There was nothing of the tentative buyer in his demeanor, which was supported by a confident smile.

“Mr. Riker!” Barlowe exclaimed. “What a wonderful surprise.” To Bell he said, “Excuse me, sir. I’ll just be a moment.”

“No, no,” said Riker. “Don’t let me interrupt a sale.”

Barlowe said, “But I was just discussing you with my customer, who is in the market for something special and has a bit of time to look for it.”

He turned to Bell. “This is the very gentleman I mentioned to you, our gem supplier. Mr. Erhard Riker of Riker and Riker. We’re in luck, sir. If Mr. Riker can’t find your stone, it doesn’t exist. He is the foremost supplier of the finest gemstones in the world.”

“Good Lord, Barlowe,” Riker smiled. “Your generosity of spirit will mislead your customer into believing I am a miracle worker instead of a simple merchant.”

Riker spoke with an English accent similar to Abbington-Westlake’s aristocratic drawl, but the color of his coat suggested to Bell that he was German. It was a Chesterfield, with the traditional black velvet collar. An Englishman’s or American’s Chesterfield would be cut of a navy or charcoal gray fabric. Riker’s was a dark green loden cloth.

Riker removed his gloves, slipped his cane into his left hand, and extended his right. “Good day, sir. As you have just heard, I am Erhard Riker.”

“Isaac Bell.”

They shook hands. Riker had a strong, firm grip.

“If you would allow me the honor, I will look for the perfect gem for your fiancée. What color are the lady’s eyes?”

“Coral-sea green.”

“And her hair?”

“Her hair is blond. Pale as straw.”

“By the smile on your face, I have a picture of her beauty.”

“Multiply it by ten.”