Van Dorn read quickly. “They’re howling for Rockefeller’s hide. They’re practically claiming that Rockefeller pulled the trigger. Do they know something about the president of Standard Oil that we don’t?”
“Rockefeller did not shoot anyone, of course. But the killing is making him look even worse than the people of Kansas thought he was. And since Standard Oil locked up their pipe lines and their tank cars—and they were already mad as hornets about crude dropping to seventy cents a barrel and kerosene jumping to seventeen cents a gallon—they equate him with the devil.”
Van Dorn looked dubious. “You’re suggesting that if we catch the killer at Rockefeller’s behest, it will improve his reputation.”
“According to E. M. Hock, he has a slew of publicists on his payroll to improve his reputation. Being blamed for murder can’t be making their job any easier.”
“It’s a thought,” Van Dorn said cautiously. “I’ll mull it over.”
Bell knew from experience that Van Dorn’s mulling could take a long time. He immediately said, “We, too, would come out smelling like roses.”
“How so?”
“Mr. Rockefeller’s fellow magnates and tycoons watch his every move like hungry wolves. They will note the good work the Van Dorns do for him and remember us the next time they need a detective agency. As will your friends at the Justice Department. And the Navy. Even the Treasury Department—if I recall correctly, Senator Stevens chairs the Committee on Finance.”
“True,” Van Dorn nodded. “All true. I’ll see what I can do. I’ll have to think on which wires to try and pull.”
“I have an idea for a different approach,” Bell said.
Van Dorn’s high brow beetled. “I’m belatedly gaining the impression that you came here loaded for bear.”
“Rockefeller pays so-called correspondents to spy for him. You can bet he’s got plenty in Congress, and probably even some deep inside the Corporations Commission. In addition, he is able to ‘listen in’ on telegrams carried on his pipe lines’ private wires.”
“I am aware that Rockefeller understands the power of information more than any other business man in the country. The War Department and the Secret Service could take lessons from his book. What’s your ‘different approach’?”
“What if we were to cause the word to drift back to him that people are convinced the assassin works for Standard Oil?”
“How?”
“We could have people pass rumors to his correspondents. We could even insert false messages on the private lines.”
“All that to give Rockefeller the impression that the public believes that Standard Oil hired an assassin?”
“At which point we ask for the job of catching the assassin. And while we’re hunting him, we will also be in a position to collect evidence for the commission from inside the Standard.”
“Like a Trojan horse?” asked the Boss.
Isaac Bell smiled. “I could not put it better myself.”
—
Big Pete Straub was not easily impressed. His sheer size awed most men. They crossed the street when they saw him crowd a sidewalk, backed up when he entered a room, ran when he reached for a pick handle. He was accustomed to their fear and it made him scornful. What set him apart from saloon brawlers, and raised him high above their ranks, was his ability to distinguish those few men of unusual power or ability that he should not frighten. He knew how to say yes, sir, to a man who could help him and sound like he meant it.
The little guy with the rifle was one of those. He seemed rich. Or rich enough. He paid generously, ten times what Pete earned from the Standard’s industrial service firm. In gold, the minute the job was done. He spoke rarely and never loudly—one whispered word instead of two—and never if a gesture would do. He was as alert as a wolf, intensely aware of what was going on around him. He was patient; he could sit all day waiting for a shot. And when things flew apart, he never lost his nerve.
But what made the assassin so special to the hulking Standard Oil thug was that he was something to watch. In his hands, the sleek, hammerless Savage 99 looked deadly as a rattlesnake. There were times, Big Pete thought, you could not tell where his fingers stopped and the blue steel began. He wore gloves, black gloves, tight as a second skin, with a tiny patch cut out where his finger touched the trigger. He wore a hat with a slightly abbreviated brim, which Straub was sure he had had specially made so it would shade the eyepiece of the telescope but not get in his way. He wore a dark scarf, like a cowboy bandanna, around his throat that covered his neck and his chin.
And could the guy shoot! He could kill people Straub couldn’t even see. Sure, he had a telescope, but it was more than the powerful glass, more like something out of a magic show. When his bullet left the gun, it traveled sure as a flier on the rails, a certain connection between his trigger finger and his target’s head.
The assassin gestured for Big Pete to fire first. His eyes were empty, his rifle steady.
This was the first time Big Pete had fired alongside the marksman. In the past he had covered the escape route to throw off pursuit, if there was any, and draw fire as he had when the Van Dorns chased him in Hopewell, Kansas. But here in Southeast Texas, in the boomtown of Humble, they were crouching side by side on a flat roof behind the false front of a tall saloon. Planning step-by-step as always, the assassin had chosen shooting holes in the curlicue-carved top of the ornate front.
Straub’s job was to fire first to break a window. His hands were steady, but he could feel his palms getting wet. He was a decent
