The middle telephone, the one marked with a chorus girl's rouge, rang, and the nightman snapped it up. Yes, sir, Mr. Van Dorn! . . . As a matter of fact, he's right here. The nightman passed Bell the telephone, mouthing: Long-distance from Washington.
Bell pressed the earpiece to his ear and leaned into the mouthpiece. You're working late.
Setting an example, Van Dorn growled. Anything I should know before I turn in?
Archie's coming home.
About time. Longest honeymoon I ever heard of.
Bell filled him in on the rest. Then he asked, How did you make out with your pal at the State Department?
That's why I'm telephoning, Van Dorn said. Canning crossed off most of our list's foreigners and added a couple he's got suspicions about. One that catches my eye is some kind of visiting art curator at the Smithsonian Institution. Named Yamamoto Kenta. Japanese. Just like Falconer says. Might be worth getting a line on him.
Have you got someone down there you can send to the Smithsonian?
Van Dorn said he did, and they rang off.
Bell stifled a yawn as he shrugged into his coat. It was well past midnight.
Watch your step passing sewers, said the nightman.
I imagine by now Mr. Snake is swimming in the Hudson River.
THE MEN'S CLUBS ON West 44th Street shared the block between Sixth and Fifth avenues with stables and parking garages, and Isaac Bell was too busy sidestepping manure and dodging town cars to worry about snakes. But when he arrived at the limestone-and-brick, eleven-story Yale Club of New York City, he found the entrance blocked by three ruddy-faced, middle-aged men, considerably worse for wear from a night on the town, swaying arm in arm on the front steps.
Clad in blazers and Class of '83 reunion scarves, the Old Blues were singing Bright College Years at the top of their lungs. Isaac Bell lent a sleepy baritone to the chorus and tried to get around them.
We're taller than the Harvard Club, they cried, gesticulating derisively at a squat clubhouse across the street.
Come up to the roof with us!
We'll hurl bouquets down upon the Crimsons.
The doorman came out and cleared a path for the tall detective. Out-of-town members, he marveled.
Thanks for the escort, Matthew. Never would have made it inside without you.
Good night, Mr. Bell.
There was more Yalesian song coming from the Grill Room in back, though not as loud as the revelers out front. Bell took the stairs instead of the elevator. The grand, two-story lounge was typically empty this late at night. He lived on the third floor, which contained twelve spartan bachelor rooms, six on each side of the hall, with the bathroom at the end. A steamer trunk sat in the hall, partly blocking his door.
Apparently a member had just got off the ship from Europe.
Yawning sleepily, Bell reached to push the trunk out of his way as he stepped around it. He was surprised it felt light-already empty. The staff usually cleared trunks the instant they were unpacked. He gave it a closer, second look. It was a battered old trunk, with faded labels from the Hotel Ritz in Barcelona and Brown's of London and the Cunard liner Servia. He could not recall the last time he had seen that name; the ship had probably been out of service since the turn of the century. Among the faded luggage check labels, a bright new one caught his eye. The Cumberland Hotel, New York.
Funny coincidence, last-known residence of Mr. Snake. He wondered why a member of the Yale Club of New York would stay at the Cumberland before moving to the private but austere bachelor quarters. Most likely a decision to stay long-term in New York, as the rates were considerably lower at the club, even counting the cost of dues.
He unlocked his door and took a step into his room. An odd odor tweaked his nostrils. It was so faint, it was almost indiscernible. He paused, his hand already outstretched, feeling for the wall switch to turn on the overhead light. He tried to identify the gamy aroma. Almost like a sweaty pigskin fencing suit. But his was around the corner on 45th Street, hanging in his locker with his foils and saber at the Fencers Club.
The light from the hall spilled over this shoulder. Something on the bed glinted.
Isaac Bell was suddenly wide awake. He bounded sideways into the room so at not to present a silhouette in the open door. Flattened against the wall with all his senses on high alert, he whipped his Browning pistol from his shoulder holster and hit the light switch.
On the narrow bed was a box made of glass, so heavy that it pressed deep into the chenille spread. It was cube-shaped, about twenty-four inches on each side. Even the lid was glass. It was open. It dangled from sprung hinges as if whoever had opened it had hastily dropped the heavy slab, which had bent the metal hinges, and run for his life.
Bell felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck.
He shot a swift look around the small room. The dresser top was empty but for a box of his cuff links. On the night table was a reading lamp, a Pocket Guide to New York, Mahan's The Influence of Sea Power Upon History, and Burgoyne's Submarine Navigation. The door to the closet was closed and the small safe in the corner where he stored his weapons locked. Still pressing his back to the wall, Bell peered again at the glass box itself. The interior was mostly obscured by reflections on the glass. Slowly, he moved his head to view it from different angles.
The box was empty.
Bell stood still as a hunter. There was only one place the snake could be hiding and that was under the bed in the dark space hidden by the overhanging bedspread. Suddenly he saw
