Too late.
It slipped from her hands. No it didn't! She opened her hands.
Chapter 6
LANGNER'S SUICIDE NOTE KEPT TICKLING THE BACK OF Isaac Bell's mind.
He used his pass from the Navy Secretary to reenter the Gun Factory, opened the Polhem padlock on the design-loft door again, and searched Langner's desk. A stack of special hand-laid stock that Langner apparently reserved for important correspondence matched the paper on which the suicide note was written. Beside it was a Waterman fountain pen.
Bell pocketed the pen, and stopped at the chemist's laboratory where Van Dorn maintained an account. Then he took a streetcar up Capitol Hill to Lincoln Park, a neighborhood that was flourishing as Washingtonians moved up the Hill from the congested swampy areas around the Potomac River, which turned foul in the summer heat.
Bell found the Langner home directly across the street from the park. It was a two-story brick row house with green shutters and a wrought-iron fence around a small front yard. The Van Dorn auditor investigating Arthur Langner's financial affairs had uncovered no evidence of a private income. Langner would have had to purchase this new house on his Gun Factory salary, which, the auditor had noted, equaled that of top managers in private industry.
The house looked newly built-as did all but a handful of old wooden structures on the side streets-and boasted tall windows. The brickwork was typically ornate, flaring skyward to an elaborate dentated cornice. But inside, Bell noted in a glance, the house was anything but typical. It was decorated in a spare, modern manner, with built-in cabinets and bookshelves, electric lamps, and ceiling fans. The furniture was up-to-date, too, and very expensive-airy yet strong pieces made by the Glaswegian Charles Rennie Mackintosh. Where, Bell had to ask, did Langner get the money to pay for Mackintosh furniture?
Dorothy was no longer dressed in black but in a silvery gray color that complemented her eyes and her raven hair. A man trailed her into the foyer. She introduced him as My friend Ted Whitmark.
Bell pegged Whitmark as a hail-fellow-well-met salesman sort. He looked the picture of success, with a bright smile on his handsome face, an expensive suit of clothes, and a crimson necktie speckled with Harvard College's insignia.
More than a friend, I'd say, Whitmark boomed as he shook Bell's hand with a hearty grip. Closer to a fiancE, if you get my drift, he added, tightening his grip emphatically.
Congratulations, said Bell, squeezing back.
Whitmark let go with an easy smile, and joked, That's some shake. What do you do in your spare time, shoe horses?
Would you excuse us for a moment, Mr. Whitmark? Bell asked. Miss Langner, Mr. Van Dorn asked me to have a word with you.
We have no secrets here, said Whitmark. At least, none that are any business of a detective.
That's all right, Ted, said Dorothy, laying a hand on his arm and giving him a kind smile. There's gin in the kitchen. Why not mix us cocktails while Mr. Bell reports?
Ted Whitmark didn't like it but he had no choice but to exit, which he did with a grave Don't be keeping her too long, Bell. The poor girl is still recovering from the shock of her father's death.
This will just take a minute, Bell assured him.
Dorothy slid the pocket doors shut. Thank you. Ted gets flatteringly jealous.
I imagine, said Bell, he has many good qualities to have captured your hand.
She looked Bell straight in the face. I am not rushing into anything, she informed him in what the tall detective could not help but interpret as a blunt and flattering statement of interest from a very appealing woman.
What line is Ted in? Bell asked, diplomatically changing the subject.
Ted sells foodstuffs to the Navy. In fact, he's leaving soon for San Francisco to get ready to provision the Great White Fleet when it arrives. Are you married, Mr. Bell?
I am engaged.
An unreadable smile danced across her beautiful lips. Pity.
To be perfectly honest, said Bell, it is not a pity. I am a very lucky man.
Perfect honesty is a fine quality in a man. Are you visiting today for more important reasons than to not flirt with me?
Bell took out the fountain pen. Do you recognize this?
Her face clouded. Of course. That's my father's pen. I gave it to him for his birthday.
Bell handed it to her. You may as well hold on to it, then. I took it from his desk.
Why?
To confirm that he had used it to write his letter.
The so-called suicide letter? Anyone could have written that.
Not quite anyone. Either your father or a skillful forger.
You know my position on that. It is not possible that he killed himself.
I will keep looking.
What about the paper the letter was written on?
It was his.
I see . . . And the ink! she said, suddenly eager. How do we know it was written with the same ink as in his pen? Perhaps it wasn't this pen. I bought it in a stationer's shop. The Waterman Company must sell thousands.
I've have already given samples of the ink in this pen and on the letter to a chemistry laboratory to ascertain whether the ink is different.
Thank you, she said, her face falling. It's not likely, is it?
I'm afraid not, Dorothy.
But if it is his ink, it still doesn't prove he wrote that letter.
Not beyond all doubt, Bell agreed. But I must tell you frankly that while each of these facts must be investigated, they are not likely to give us a definitive answer.
What will? she asked. She seemed suddenly bewildered. Tears glinted in her eyes.
Isaac Bell was touched by her suffering and confusion. He took her hands in his. Whatever it is, if it exists, we will find it.
The Van Dorns never give up? she asked with a brave smile.
Never, Bell promised, although in his heart he had less and less hope that he could lay her pain to rest.
She clung to his hands. When she finally let them go, she stepped closer and kissed his
