“Miner hell!” said Mary. “Isaac Bell is a Pinkerton.”
Jim Higgins could not believe his ears. “He can’t be. That’s not possible.”
“I saw with my own eyes.”
“Did he say he’s a Pinkerton?”
“Well, not in so many words. He claimed to be a Van Dorn.”
“There’s a big difference,” Jim argued. “Pinkertons provide strikebreakers to break unionist heads and protect scabs. I’ve never seen Van Dorns doing that. They are a cut above.”
“Have you ever heard of a Van Dorn working for the union?” Mary fired back.
“Bell helped you get out of West Virginia, didn’t he?”
“Bell was spying, brother. Bell tricked us. He’s no better than the rest of them.”
13
“Last stop, gents,” said Isaac Bell as the trolley from Morgantown bounced into Gleasonburg. “Round up what you can before dark. Meet back here. Mr. Van Dorn will buy us supper in that saloon,” he added, indicating Reilly’s, where Mary had wangled coffee.
“What I most enjoy about detecting work is the opportunity to travel,” said Mack Fulton, gazing upon Main Street’s unpainted company houses, goats chewing bark from dying trees, piles of broken rock and coal dust, and muddy hillsides logged to ragged stumps for propping timber.
“To see new sights,” said Wally Kisley.
“Broadening our horizons— Get the bags, Archie.”
Wish Clarke passed their bags to the redheaded apprentice but held on to the heaviest, an usually long, reinforced carpetbag that made a muted clank when he set it on the ground.
“Looks like they burned down the jail.” He winked at Isaac Bell. “Most of the courthouse, too. Is that how you cut loose of the lynch mob?”
“I had some help from a lady— O.K., gents, let’s get moving.”
Mack Fulton asked, “Who gets Archie?”
“You two,” answered Bell, and said to Archie, “Help them up stairs and crossing streets.”
Wish Clarke headed for the company store.
Isaac Bell went to the mouth of Gleason Mine No. 1. No longer disguised as a miner, he presented the Pinkerton in charge of the guards a letter of introduction he had not yet used that identified him as a Van Dorn Agency detective working for Gleason.
“What the hell is this supposed to mean? We don’t need no detectives. We’re the detectives.”
“It’s signed by Black Jack himself, and it means you’re ordered to give any Van Dorn who asks for one a safety light and get out of his way. I’m asking for one.”
They brought him the light. They were edgy, he thought, less cock of the walk, less inclined to bully. “Where you going with this?”
“A walk,” said Bell. “Come along if you like,” knowing the Pinkerton would never enter the mine.
“The miners are talking strike.”
“When did that start?” Bell asked, recalling Jim Higgins’s promise
“Damned fools are takin’ the bit in their teeth. Whole town’s about to blow sky-high. Wouldn’t be surprised if some of them took a swing at you.”
“I’ll run the risk,” said Bell. He carried the light through the timbered portal and hurried straight down the haulageway.
The ventilators were running, and he could hear the clatter of hundreds of miners picking in the galleries, the muffled screech of electric drills, and the occasional heavy crump of dynamite tearing open the seam. He recognized the doorboy he had helped out after the wreck and waved. The child did not know Bell in his sack suit and fedora and looked frightened that he had drawn the attention of a detective.
Bell stopped and pressed a small gold piece into the boy’s grimy hand. He stared at it with a combination of disbelief and terror. “It’s O.K.,” Bell assured him. “My grandfather left me a few bucks. You can keep it or give it to your mother and father.”
“I don’t got no father.”
“Give it to your mother.”
He started down. The boy called after him, “Are you a Pinkerton, mister?”
“No. I’m a Van Dorn.”
“Wow,” said the boy, willing, Bell noted ruefully, to accept a distinction that Mary Higgins had not.
He continued down the sloping passage to the end. The wrecked train had been removed and the tunnel dug deeper into the seam. Bell worked his way back up to the lowest gallery, then counted up four props and felt behind the fourth for the crack where he had hidden the broken bridle link.
Wally Kisley was deep in conversation with a miner for whom he had bought a schooner of beer in the dirtiest saloon he could recall when the man suddenly clammed up. Young Archie, who was doing a good job of standing around not appearing to be on lookout, rapped a warning on the bar, and Kisley looked up to see a pair of Gleason company cops sashay in like they owned the place.
They walked straight up to him, said “Get out of here” to the miner, who scooted away without finishing his beer. Then one said to Kisley, “That’s the ugliest suit of clothes I ever seen on a man.”
Wally Kisley studied his checkerboard coat sleeve as if seeing it for the first time.
The second cop said, “Looks like a clown suit.”
Wally Kisley remained silent. The first cop noticed Archie Abbott and said, “What the hell are you looking at?”
The tall, young redhead answered slowly and distinctly, “I am looking at absolutely nothing.”
“What did you say to me?”
“Let me revise that, if I may,” said Archie, staring back. “If it were possible to look at less than nothing, then you would provide the opportunity to look at less than nothing.”
Wally Kisley laughed. “Kid, you’re a blessing in disguise.”
“What?” said the cop.
The barkeep, who had been listening anxiously, left the room.
Wally replied conversationally, “My young redheaded friend sees the joke in the fact that a man who is so ugly his face would stop a clock would criticize the appearance of my garb.”
The cop pulled a blackjack, and his partner pulled his.
“Enough,” said Mack Fulton, materializing from a chair in a dark corner with a Smith & Wesson rock- steady in his hand. “Vamoose!”
Four Gleason cops and two Pinkerton detectives caught up with the Van Dorns in Reilly’s Saloon.
Kisley and Fulton and Wish Clarke and Archie Abbott were sharing a bottle while waiting for Isaac Bell. Archie was playing the piano, a dusty upright not too badly out of tune, and Mack and Wally were harmonizing in full-blown Weber-and-Fields style on the new Chicago hit, “If Money Talks, It Ain’t On Speaking Terms With Me.”
The cops and detectives walked in with pistols drawn.
Reilly vanished into his back office. The miners at the plank-and-barrel bar, who had been talking boldly about rumors of a strike, tossed back their whiskeys and hurried out the door.
Wally and Mack kept singing: “If money talks, it ain’t on speaking terms with me…”
Wish Clarke said, “If you boys are waving those firearms at us, you seem to be forgetting that the Van Dorn Agency is working for the Gleason Consolidated Coal & Coke Company, hired personally by Black Jack Gleason, who feared, with ample evidence to back him, that you boys were not up to detecting saboteurs.”
“Not for long,” a beefy West Virginia company cop drawled back. “Word is, company’s fixing to fire you all
