Approaching Albany, the train crossed the Hudson River on a high trestle bridge that looked down upon brightly lighted steam-boats. It halted in the yards. While the New York Central trainmen wheeled the engine away, then coupled on another and a dining car for the evening meal, Isaac Bell sent and collected telegrams. The fresh engine, an Atlantic 4-4-2 with drive wheels even taller than the last, was already rolling when he swung back aboard and locked himself in his stateroom.
In the short time since he had sent his wires from Harmon, Research had not learned anything about the German, the Australian, the Chinese traveling with Arnold Bennett, or Herr Riker's ward. But the Van Dorns who had raced to Grand Central had started piecing together witnesses' accounts of Scully's murder. They had found no one who reported actually seeing the hatpin driven into John Scully's brain. But it appeared that the killing had been coordinated with military precision.
This was now known: A Chinese delivery man bringing cigars to the departing trains reported seeing Scully rush up to the 20th Century platform. He seemed to be looking for someone.
Irish laborers hauling demolition debris said that Scully was talking to a pretty redhead. They were standing very closely as if they knew each other well.
The police officer hadn't come along until the crowd had formed. But a traveler from upstate New York had seen a mob of college students surround Scully and the redhead, Like he was inside a flying wedge.
Then they hurried away and Scully was on the floor.
Where did they go?
Every which way, like melted ice.
What did they look like?
College boys.
They set him up good, Harry Warren had put it in his telegram to Bell. Never knew what hit him.
Bell, mourning his friend, doubted that. Even the best of men could be tricked, of course, but Scully had been sharp as tacks. John Scully would have known that he had been fooled. Too late to save himself, sadly. But Bell bet that he'd known. If only as he took his last breath.
Harry Warren went on to speculate whether the girl seen with Scully was the same redhead he had seen in the Hip Sing opium den where the detectives had inadvertently bumped into each other. The witnesses' descriptions at Grand Central were too general to know. A pretty redheaded girl, one of a thousand in New York. Five thousand. Ten. But descriptions of her clothing did not jibe with the costume worn by the girl Harry had seen in the Chinatown gambling and drug parlor. Nor had she been wearing thick rouge and paint.
Bell took the spy's taunting note from his pocket and read it again.
EYE FOR AN EYE, BELL.
YOU EARNED WEEKS SO WE WON'T COUNT HIM.
BUT YOU OWED ME FOR THE GERMAN.
The spy was boasting that both Weeks and the German had worked for his ring. Which struck Bell as reckless behavior in a line of business where discretion was survival and victories should be celebrated in the quietest manner. He could not imagine the cool Yamamoto or even the supercilious Abbington-Westlake writing such a note.
The spy also seemed deluded. Did he really believe that Isaac Bell and the entire Van Dorn Agency would ignore his attack? He was practically begging for a counterpunch.
Bell went to the dining car for the second seating.
The tables were arranged in place settings of four and two, and the custom was to be seated wherever there was room. He saw Bennett and his Chinese had an empty chair at their table for four. As earlier in the observation car, the witty writer was regaling nearby tables while his solemn charges sat quietly. The German, Shafer, was eating in stiff silence across from an American drummer who was failing miserably to make conversation. The Australian was at another table for two speaking earnestly with a table mate dressed as if he could afford to buy a gold mine. At another two, Laurence Rosania was deep in conversation with a younger man in an elegant suit.
Bell slipped the diner captain money. I would like that empty seat at Mr. Bennett's table.
But as the captain led him toward the writer's table, Bell heard another diner call out from a table he had just passed.
Bell! Isaac Bell. I thought that was you.
The gem merchant Erhard Riker rose from his table, brushing a napkin to his lips and extending his hand. Another coincidence, sir? We seem to repeat them. Are you alone? Care to join me?
The Chinese could wait. The passenger list showed them connecting through to San Francisco, whereas Riker was changing trains in the morning to the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe's California Limited.
They shook hands. Riker indicated the empty chair across from him. Bell sat.
How's our diamond hunt going?
I'm closing in on an emerald fit for a queen. Or even a goddess. It should be waiting for us when I get back to New York. We can only pray the lady will like it, he added with a smile.
Where are you headed?
Riker looked around to ensure they weren't overheard. San Diego, he whispered. And you?
San Francisco. What's in San Diego?
Again Riker looked around again. Pink tourmaline. He smiled self-disparagingly. Forgive my taciturnity. The enemy has spies everywhere.
Enemy? What enemy?
Tiffany and Company are attempting to corner the tourmaline supply in San Diego because Tz'u-hsi, Dowager Empress of China-an eccentric despot with all the wealth of China at her disposal-loves San Diego's pink tourmaline. Uses it for carvings and buttons and the like. When she fell head over heels for pink tourmaline, she created a whole new market. Tiffany is attempting to seize it. He lowered his voice further. Bell leaned closer to hear. This has created splendid opportunities for an independent gem merchant who is able to snap up the best samples before they do. It's dog-eat-dog in the gem line, Mr. Bell. He added a wink to his smile, and Bell was not sure whether he was serious.
I don't know anything about the
