My father deliberately established the Gun Factory to be more civilian than naval, Dorothy Langner replied. It is a businesslike operation.
And yet, Van Dorn ventured cautiously, as I understand it, civilian factories have recently taken over many of its duties.
Certainly not! Fours and 6s, perhaps. But not the dreadnought guns.
I wonder whether that shift troubled your father.
Father was accustomed to such shifts, she answered drily, adding with a faint smile, He would say, The slings and arrows of my misfortunes are the tugs and pulls of Congress and local interests.' He had a sense of humor, Mr. Van Dorn. He knew how to laugh. Such men don't kill themselves.
Of course, Van Dorn said gravely.
The Kellogg rang again.
Saved by my Bell, Van Dorn thought to himself. He stepped to the wall where the instrument was mounted, picked up the earpiece, and listened.
Send him in.
To Dorothy Langner he said, I asked Isaac Bell, my best operative, to step down from an important bank robbery case in order to look into the circumstances of your father's death. He is ready to report.
The door opened. A man in a white suit entered with an economy of motion unexpected in one so tall. He was well over six feet, leanly built-not more than one hundred seventy-five pounds-and looked to be about thirty years old. The full mustache that covered his upper lip was gold, as was his thick, neatly trimmed hair. His face had the robust appearance of an outdoorsman who was no stranger to sun and wind.
His large hands hung still at his sides. His fingers were long and precisely manicured, although an observer keener than the grieving Dorothy Langner might have noticed that the knuckles of his right hand were red and swollen.
Miss Langner, may I present chief investigator Isaac Bell? Isaac Bell assessed the beautiful young woman with a swift, penetrating glance. Mid-twenties, he estimated her age. Intelligent and self-possessed. Desolated by grief yet extraordinarily attractive. She turned to him beseechingly.
Bell's sharp blue eyes softened in an instant. Now they were tinged violet, his inquiring gaze veiled with tenderness. He took off his broad-brimmed hat in deference to her, saying, I am so sorry for your loss, Miss Langner, and swept a drop of blood from his hand with a pure white handkerchief in a motion so graceful as to be invisible.
Mr. Bell, she asked. What have you learned that will clear my father's name?
Bell answered in a voice pitched low with sympathy. He was kindly yet direct. Forgive me, but I must report that your father did indeed sign out a quantity of iodine from the laboratory store.
He was an engineer, she protested. He was a scientist. He signed for chemicals from the laboratory every day.
Powdered iodine was an essential ingredient of the explosive that detonated the smokeless powder in his piano. The other was ammonia water. The porter noticed a bottle missing from his cleaning closet.
Anyone could have taken it.
Yes, of course. But there are indications that he mixed the chemicals in his private washroom. Stains on a towel, a volatile powder on his toothbrush, residue in his shaving mug.
How can you know all this? she asked, blinking away angry tears. The Navy won't let me near his office. They turned away my lawyer. They even barred the police from the Gun Factory.
I gained admittance, said Bell.
A male secretary wearing a vest, bow tie, banded shirtsleeves, and a double-action Colt in a shoulder holster entered urgently. Beg your pardon, Mr. Van Dorn. The commandant of the Washington Navy Yard is calling on the telephone, and he's hopping mad.
Tell the operator to switch the line to this telephone. Excuse me, Miss Langner . . . Van Dorn here. Good afternoon, Commandant Dillon. How are you today? . . . You don't say?
Van Dorn listened, casting Miss Langner a reassuring smile.
. . . Well, if you'll forgive me, sir, such a general description could fit half the tall men in Washington . . . It could even describe a gentleman right here in my office as we speak. But I assure you that he does not look like he's been at fisticuffs with the United States Marines-unless the Corps turns out a lesser breed of Leatherneck than in my day.
Isaac Bell put his hand in his pocket.
When Joseph Van Dorn next replied to the caller, it was with a benign chuckle, though if the commandant had seen the chill in his eyes he might have retreated hastily.
No, sir. I will not produce' an employee of mine on your sentries' assertion that they caught a private detective red-handed. Clearly the man in my office was not caught' as he is standing here in front of me . . . I will register your complaint with the Navy Secretary when we lunch tomorrow at the Cosmos Club. Please convey my warmest regards to Mrs. Dillon.
Van Dorn replaced the earpiece on its hook, and said, Apparently, a tall, yellow-haired gent with a mustache knocked down some navy yard sentries who attempted to detain him.
Bell displayed a row of even white teeth. I imagine he'd have surrendered quietly if they hadn't tried to beat him up. He turned back to Dorothy Langner, his expression gentler. Now, Miss Langner. There is something I must show you.
He produced a photographic print, still damp from the developing process. It was an enlarged photograph of Langner's suicide note. He had snapped it with a 3A Folding Pocket Kodak camera that his fiancEe-a woman in the moving-picture line-had given him. Bell shielded most of the photograph with his hand to spare Miss Langner the deranged raving.
Is this your father's handwriting?
She hesitated, peered closely, then reluctantly nodded. It looks like his handwriting.
Bell watched her closely. You seem unsure.
It just looks a little . . . I don't know! Yes, it is his handwriting.
I understand that your father
