“I couldn’t put it better myself,” said Bell. “Something is amiss at Imperial.”
“But I can’t believe that Irina would be part of anything that would hurt me. Besides, you don’t know that Imperial isn’t on the up-and-up.”
“Imperial’s finances are deeply suspect.”
“Everyone’s business finances in moving pictures are deeply suspect. It’s a brand-new business. Nobody knows what’s really going on. We’re all making it up as we go along. That’s why the bankers lend money for only one picture at a time.”
“Are you sure you’ve noticed nothing unusual while taking pictures for The Iron Horse? Nothing out of the ordinary? Nothing different than you’d expect or have seen on other jobs?”
Marion pondered his question. “Only one thing. There’s a film-stock shortage. Everyone in Los Angeles is talking about it. For a month or so, film’s become hard to get and very expensive. Yesterday, Billy and Dave came to me with long faces. Their stock was old. It smelled awful, and they said the pictures would be terribly overexposed. I telephoned Irina. In less than one hour a truck raced up with more than we could use of the most pristine stock you could ask for. It was precisely perforated and smelled fresh as a meadow. You should have seen Billy and Dave rubbing their hands like Silas Marner counting his gold.”
“Where did it come from?”
“It was Eastman Kodak stock, straight from the factory.”
“But Imperial is independent. Eastman made a deal with the Edison Trust: they won’t sell to independents.”
“Where they got it, I don’t know. But for Imperial, at least, there is no shortage.” Anyway, if you’ll limp into the dining room, I’ll bring dinner.”
“What is our first married home-cooked meal?”
“The same as our first-ever home-cooked meal. Do you remember what I made you?”
“I remember you invited me to dinner and cooked pot roast and vegetables. It was splendid, though I have a vague memory that we got sidetracked before dessert— Marion, I’ll bet you’ve some cowboys in The Iron Horse.”
“Bunkhousesful.”
“Got room for one more?”
“Texas Walt?”
Bell nodded. “Just to be on the safe side.”
“If that will make you feel better, of course.”
“I would feel much better knowing my good friend the deadly gunfighter was looking out for you.”
Marion smiled. “Walt may not be a deadly gunfighter much longer. Movie people are all talking about ‘the tall Texan’ playing cowboy parts. Some people think he could be a star.”
“Please don’t turn his head until we’re sure you’re safe and sound.”
PAULINE GRANDZAU HAD BEEN MEMORIZING the St. Germain section of her Baedeker on the train when suddenly she had to run from a gendarme who demanded her papers at a station stop. The last few miles of what should have been a twelve-hour train ride stretched to another full day clinging to the underside of a slow-moving coal car that finally dumped her near an open-air market in Paris in the rain. Thanks to the tourist guidebook and the foldout map, she found the Rue du Bac as night fell, climbed a steep flight of stairs, and staggered into the Van Dorn Detective Agency’s Paris field office, exhausted, wet, and hungry.
An enormous man seated next to a bright light asked, “What do you want here, miss?”
At least that’s what it sounded like. He spoke French. She did not. But she saw in his eyes what he assumed: a street urchin with dirty hands and face and stringy braids and a snuffling nose had sneaked into the building either begging for money or running from the police.
He asked her again. The light was so bright it was blinding her. He stood up, and the entire room, which had a linoleum floor and a desk and a chair and an interior door that led somewhere, started spinning.
“Is this the Van Dorn Detective Agency Paris field office?” she asked.
He looked surprised she spoke English.
“Yes, it is,” he replied with an accent like Detective Curtis’s. “What can I do for you, little lady?”
“Are you Detective Horace Bronson?”
“I’m Bronson. Who are you?”
Pauline Grandzau pulled herself up to her full five feet two inches. “Apprentice Van Dorn detective Pauline Grandzau reporting from Berlin.”
She tried to salute, but her arm was heavy, and her legs were rubbery. She saw the linoleum rushing at her face. Bronson moved with surprising speed and caught her.
“CABLE FROM THE PARIS FIELD office, Mr. Bell.”
It was from Bronson.
It was long and detailed.
Isaac Bell read it twice.
A hunter’s gleam began burning in his eyes. A smile of grim satisfaction lighted his stern face like the sun glancing off a frozen river, and he vowed to Fritz Wunderlich, to Krieg Rüstungswerk, to Kaiser Wilhelm II, and especially to Imperial Army General Major Christian Semmler that Van Dorn Detective Arthur Curtis had not died in vain.
“TELEGRAPHER! ON the jump!” ISAAC BELL summoned the man who sent and received Morse code on the field office’s private telegraph.
“Wire Mr. Joseph Van Dorn: ‘Inquire U.S. Army and State Department German General Major Christian Semmler. Show them Wunderlich sketch.’
“Wire Research Chief Grady Forrer, New York: ‘Who is German General Major Christian Semmler? Obtain photograph or newspaper sketch.’
“Cable Horace Bronson, Paris Office: ‘Who is German General Major Christian Semmler? Obtain photograph or newspaper sketch.’
“Wire Detective Archie Abbott, New York: ‘Ask Lord Strone about German General Major Christian Semmler. Show Wunderlich sketch.’
“Send them. On the jump!”
OF THE RESPONSES THAT FLOODED in over the next twenty-four hours, the one that intrigued Bell most came from the boss. Joe Van Dorn had discovered that General Major Semmler was married to Sophie Roth Semmler, the sole heiress of the Krieg Rüstungswerk fortune. Such wealth and power explained the lone operator’s ability to operate far more independently than a typical German Army officer.
But Joseph Van Dorn’s informants in the Army and diplomatic corps knew almost nothing else about Semmler. The general major did not seek the limelight. A U.S.
