“By tomorrow?”
North Pole light flickered in Isaac Bell’s eyes.
“I’m sure I could, now that I think about it,” said Held. “She’ll be raring to go in the morning.”
Bell paid Court Held for the coal and labor and hopped a trolley back to the business district. He got off at a Western Union office and sent a long telegram to Jim Higgins about the White Lady, recommending that he round up men who had worked on steamboats. Next, he went to East Seventh Street and found the Cincinnati branch office for Thibodeau & Marzen on the ground floor of a first-class building.
He stood outside, reading the gold leaf on the window, while he thought about how Wish Clarke, or Joseph Van Dorn, would pry information about “Smith” from prominent brokers—the leading New York–based broker in Cincinnati, judging by the look of the office—who had every reason not to give it.
He started by presenting a business card from Dagget, Staples & Hitchcock, an old-line New England insurance company. Joseph Van Dorn had made a deal to allow select agents a business disguise in return for discreet investigations of underwriting opportunities and losses incurred. Thibodeau & Marzen’s manager himself was summoned. Behind the broker’s friendly salesman’s smile, Bell detected a serious, no-nonsense executive, a tough nut to crack.
“Dagget, Staples & Hitchcock? Delighted to meet you, Mr. Bell. What brings you all the way from Hartford, Connecticut?”
“The principals have sent me on a scouting expedition.”
“Well, as stockbrokers and insurance firms are potential partners rather than adversaries, I do believe you started scouting in the right place. May I offer a libation in my office?”
They felt each other out over bourbon whiskey, the manager probing for Bell’s status at the venerable Hartford firm, Bell dropping names of school friends’ fathers he had met and men he had read about in Grady Forrer’s newspaper files. Turning down a hospitable refill, he said, “I’ve been asked to look into some bearer bonds that went missing in Chicago.”
“Missing bearer bonds are never a happy story, as whoever possesses them can cash them and whoever lost them can’t. Which, of course, I don’t have to tell a man in the insurance line.”
“Dagget, Staples & Hitchcock would not dream of trying to recover them, or the losses, which as you point out would be impossible. However, we do have a strong interest in the man in whose hands they ended up.”
“If missing bearer bonds have ended up repeatedly in this man’s hands as you are implying,” the branch manager said drily, “I am not surprised you do.”
So far, thought Bell, the branch manager was holding him off adroitly, as if he had been in business long enough to guess what was coming next from this seemingly casual visitor. The young detective said, “I would not be surprised if you have an inkling about the sort of question I am going to ask next.”
“Not one bit surprised,” the manager answered with a cool smile.
“The latest that went missing were railroad bonds. In twenty-five-thousand-dollar denominations.”
“May I ask which railroad?”
“It could have been one of many. The owner—previous owner, I guess we should say—had an affection for railroad bonds and owned a broad range, with various maturity dates and coupon rates of course.”
“Of course.”
“Of those stolen from his safe, we are particularly interested in three that were cashed within the week in a branch office of the issuing agent.”
“My branch office?” said the manager.
“Let me assure you that we are suggesting no impropriety on your part, and certainly not on the part of Mr. Court Held.”
“I should think not.”
“Surely not, in your case. But we do find, rarely but occasionally, that businessmen facing hard times will do very foolish things, so I am extremely happy to say that this has nothing to do with Mr. Held beyond the fact that the man who gave him the bonds in the course of a legitimate transaction might—and I emphasize might—be the man we have been investigating.”
The manager said nothing.
Bell said, “His name is John Claggart.”
“That’s not the man.”
“Sometimes he calls himself Henry Clay.”
“Not this time.”
“May I describe him to you?”
“Go ahead.”
Isaac described Henry Clay, ending with the eyes.
The branch manager of Thibodeau & Marzen said, “He called himself Smith. The bonds were on the New Haven Railroad, maturing in 1908, with a coupon rate of five percent.”
“Thank you,” said Bell, but he was disappointed. He had been half hoping that the manager would try to protect Claggart. With branches throughout the Midwest, Thibodeau & Marzen would make a good front for a private detective, or a provocateur on the run.
“I wonder if there is anything else I should report back about Mr. Smith. Is there anything he did that might help us track him down? I do hope I’ve made it clear that the firm regards him as a determined thief who will strike again.”
“You finally worked your way around to that, young man.”
“Anything. Anything odd?”
The manager stood up abruptly. “No, sir. Nothing I can recall.”
Bell stood up, too. He did not believe him. He had touched a nerve. And he had probably put him in the position he didn’t want to be. He said, “A man I’ve worked with who taught me my trade once told me that the hardest thing in the world is to get a man to do the right thing for the wrong reason.”
“What trade is that, Mr. Bell?”
“I’m actually a private detective.”
“I hope you don’t think I’m shocked by your admission. What agency?”
“Van Dorn.”
“Ah. A reputable outfit . . . Well, you’ve been honest at last. I’ll take a chance and be honest with you. Smith made me uncomfortable. For one thing, who in blazes buys a floating palace steamboat in this day and age? For another . . . Well, for another, my instincts were aroused. On the other hand, there was no legitimate reason not to cash the bonds—and, in fact, an obligation—since our firm was the issuing agent.”
“If the legitimacy of the bonds was
