“The hinge makes it a lever. When I move this lever, it will open a valve that will deliver a scalding hot three-hundred-and-fifty-degree blast of steam straight from the central boiler plant on Cortlandt Street to your skin, Best Detective Clay.”
Henry Clay eyed the holes in the floor and the ceiling.
“Scalding jets of high-pressure steam will cook you to death in seconds. The longest and worst, most painful seconds of your life.”
“It will kill you, too.”
“I’ll be unscathed. The jet holes are calculated to deliver just enough for you.”
“O.K.,” said Clay, “you caught me flat-footed. If you throw that lever, I’m dead.”
“Painfully dead.”
“Painfully dead.”
Hand firmly on the lever, James Congdon recognized a certain unique quality in Henry Clay: If the fellow felt fear, Congdon could not see it. In fact, it appeared that if Clay had one strength above all others, it was the strength to recognize the inevitable and accept it without complaint. A controlling interest in such a man could be a solid investment.
“If I were to give you unlimited operating funds, private information, rail passes, and specials, how would you use them?”
“The details are mine alone to know.”
Congdon frowned. “You’re a brave man to stand your ground in your precarious situation. Or a fool.”
“A determined man,” Clay shot back. “The only thing you can count on in this world is determination. I’m offering determination. I repeat: The details are mine alone to know.”
“Assume, for the moment, that tactics are up to you,” Congdon conceded. “What is your strategy?”
“You need a story to destroy the unions. The newspapers are already on your side. They will tell your story. I will give you your story.”
“What story?”
“The owners upon whom God has seen fit to bestow property will protect property and liberty from murderous agitators.”
“How will you tell it?”
“By starting a war in the coalfields.”
“How?”
“Are you familiar with the accident at Gleason Mine No. 1?”
“Runaway coal train, some hands killed, and production interrupted for four days. Are you telling me you started that?”
“And finished it. Before the miners returned to work, they burned down Gleason’s jail and the courthouse. I’d call that a war.”
“I’d call it a good beginning,” Congdon conceded. “A veritable Harry O’Hagan one-man triple play.”
“A quadruple play, counting the fire.”
“Yes indeed you outdid O’Hagan. But I am deeply disappointed.”
“Why, sir?”
James Congdon answered with a wistful sigh. “My lunatic stopper will have to wait for another lunatic.”
He let go the steam lever and gestured for Henry Clay to take a seat beside him.
12
CRACKERJACK ARMY MR. VAN DORN GAVE YOU, KID: TWO spavined geezers and an amiable drunk.”
Isaac Bell defended his friend. “Wish goes long stretches when he never touches a drop.”
Wally Kisley, who looked less like a private detective than an aging harness salesman in a sack suit patterned bright as a checkerboard, grinned at his old partner, ice-eyed Mack Fulton. Fulton, somber in gray and black, looked the deadly sort that no sensible man would inquire about his business.
“Say, Mack, what is the difference between a drinking man and a drowning man?”
“Beats me, Wally. Didn’t know there was a difference between a drinking man and a drowning man.”
“The drowning man sinks in water. The drinking man sinks in whiskey.”
“Say, Wally,” asked Mack, “here comes a passerby, strolling by the sea, what does the drowning man yell?”
“Throw me a rope.”
“What does the drinking man yell?”
“Throw me a bottle.”
They looked to Bell for a laugh.
Stone-faced, Isaac Bell said, “I worked with Wish Clarke in Wyoming and New Orleans. He’s sharp as they come.”
“So’s a busted bottle.”
“I also remember when you ‘spavined geezers’ took over my apprenticeship from Mr. Van Dorn, you taught me plenty. And you weren’t so spavined that you couldn’t clear a saloon of Harry Frost’s boys.”
“Your recent apprenticeship,” Kisley and Fulton chorused.
Bell saw that the old detectives were not joking but deadly serious and with a purpose. Kisley stared hard at him. Mack Fulton got down to brass tacks.
“Who’s ramrodding this outfit?”
“It’s my case,” said Isaac Bell. “I am.”
Kisley said, “It was not long ago we was changing your diapers in Chicago.”
“I’ve got the hang of it since.”
The partners shot back obstinate glowers and Mack said, flatly, “The man bossing an outfit has to change everyone’s diapers and still stay on top of the case.”
“You’re looking at him.”
“I’m looking at a kid who started shaving yesterday,” Fulton shot back.
“Spouting highfalutin French,” Kisley piled on. “Provocateur? Whatever happened to good old agitator?”
“Or provoker?”
“Or instigator?”
Isaac Bell was constitutionally incapable of punching a man twice his age, but he was getting tempted.
Suddenly, Aloysius Clarke was standing in the doorway.
He was a big, red-faced fellow who moved quietly.
Bell said, “Hello, Wish.”
Clarke nodded. “Kid.”
“We was just discussin’ who ramrods this outfit,” said Mack Fulton.
Wish Clarke stood silent. He had small blue eyes buried so deeply in drink-swollen, purple-veined cheeks that observers who associated whiskey with dulled wits and melancholy would miss the glow of intelligence and laughter. He smiled unexpectedly and answered the question on all minds. How long had Wish Clarke been standing there and how much had he overheard?
“It’s Isaac’s case. The kid’s the boss.”
Wally Kisley shook his head. “Them coal miners ain’t the only ones who need a union.”
“And to close another subject,” said Wish Clarke, a self-educated man who revered the English language, “Provoker is too general a word, agitator is a misspelling of adjutator, which means ‘a representative,’ and instigator is vague. But provocateur, short for agent provocateur, describes exactly what Isaac suspects we’re up against—a smart fellow who’s hoodwinking not-so-smart fellows into committing crimes that will discredit them.”
“For what reason?”
“For reasons,” said Wish Clarke, “we have not yet detected, Detective Kisley.”
Isaac Bell raised his voice. “Saddle up, gents!”
He pulled tickets from his vest and passed them out.
“Train’s leaving for West Virginia. All aboard!”
• • •
LOCOMOTIVE HEADLAMP
