Maybe.
Bell had packed and was just leaving the club to walk to Grand Central, intending to board the train well ahead of Rockefeller, when the day hall porter said, “There’s a street urchin asking for you.”
“Where?”
“He snuck in through the kitchen.”
“Did he say what he wanted?”
“He claims he’s a probationary Van Dorn apprentice. I figured if he were, he’d know you don’t work there anymore.”
Bell hurried downstairs to the kitchen. A boy who looked like a cleaned-up, dressed-up street rat was standing quietly in a corner. Scarcely into his teens, his eyes alert, his manner so diffident, he was almost invisible.
“What’s your name, son?”
“Tobin, sir. Eddie Tobin.”
“Who do you apprentice under?”
“Mr. Warren.”
Of course. The Van Dorn street gang expert. If Eddie Tobin was good enough for Harry Warren, he was good enough for Bell.
“How old are you?”
“Not old enough to apprentice. I’m only probationary.”
“I asked how old?” Bell growled.
“Fifteen.”
“How old?”
“Fourteen.”
“When I was fourteen, I ran away to the circus. Did Mr. Warren send you?”
“Mr. Forrer. Mr. Warren said it was O.K.”
“What do you have there?”
The kid had an envelope of newspaper clippings.
Bell had read the top one already:
Averell Comstock, director of Standard Oil, and at one time president of the corporation, died after a brief illness. Comstock was one of the big oil capitalists of the country who laid the foundations for the Standard Oil Company alongside John D. Rockefeller, Clyde Lapham, and Henry M. Flagler. He served, too, as a director of the Western Union Telegraph Company, the Pennsylvania Railroad, and the Pittsburgh National Bank. His wealth was estimated at from $75,000,000 to $100,000,000.
The second clipping reported that Averell Comstock had left ten thousand dollars to a Mrs. Mary McCloud who had a coffee stand that the oil magnate had frequented on Fulton Street.
The last clipping reported that a Mrs. Mary McCloud had died in a tenement fire in Chatham Square.
Forrer had typed a note.
Same Mrs. McCloud. Tenement short walk from Fulton.
“Come with me, Tobin.” John D. Rockefeller’s train was leaving in three hours. If Bell didn’t have enough time, the kid could follow up and wait for reinforcements.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Bell!”
They raced downtown on the Elevated.
—
Before descending to the street, Bell scanned the squalid neighborhood from the vantage of the Chatham Square El station. Walt Hawley and the Evening Sun and most of the big New York dailies occupied the clean, modern Newspaper Row section of Park Row less than a half mile downtown. This was the upper section of Park Row, a slum that had been a slum for most of the city’s long history.
He spotted a burned-out tenement and led Tobin down the stairs, three at a bound.
Sawhorses blocked the sidewalk. The buildings that flanked it had burned, too. Rain had fallen since, and the odor of wet charred wood hung heavily in the air. Settlement House workers were helping families who lost their homes load bedclothes and furniture that had survived the fire.
“Maybe this will help,” said Bell. He pressed two twenty-dollar gold pieces, two months’ sweatshop earnings, into the hands of the startled woman in charge.
“God bless you, sir.”
“Did anyone here know Mrs. McCloud?” he asked.
None did, but one said she thought Mrs. McCloud had worked on Fulton Street. Bell and Tobin hurried downtown and across Fulton toward the East River. At the waterfront, carts and temporary stalls had set up business selling refreshments.
“I hope those aren’t Jamaica Bay oysters,” said Tobin.
“Why’s that?”
“Jamaica Bay’s polluted with the typhoid.”
“We’re looking for coffee stands,” said Bell. They found a row of them selling coffee and cake and pastries. One space was empty. Bell paid for coffee and cake for the apprentice. The kid tore into it hungrily but paid close attention as Bell questioned the woman who poured.
“Where is Mrs. McCloud?”
“Gone.”
“When did she leave?”
“She didn’t leave. She died. She was killed in a fire.”
“That is terrible,” said Bell. “Did you know her well?”
“Not as well as Mrs. Campbell. The shop on the other side. Kate!” she called across the empty stand. “Gentleman here is asking about Mrs. McCloud.”
Bell crossed over and ordered a slab of pound cake. “Mrs. Campbell? I’m Jethro Smith. I just heard. I had no idea. I didn’t know her well, but I stop by when I’m downtown. What happened?”
“Poor Mrs. McCloud. Widowed young. All she had was her boy and he died. Now this. Are you a newspaperman?”
“No, ma’am. I’m in the insurance line. Why do you ask?”
“Newspapermen came around. They said that Mary inherited ten thousand dollars. And never knew it! Died without knowing it.”
“Did you say her son died, too?” Bell asked.
“Drowned in the river.”
“When?”
“The same time as the fire—not that anybody was surprised. Anthony ran with the Five Points Gang. I pray she never knew he drowned.”
“Let us hope,” said Bell. “Ten thousand! That is a lot of money. Who left her the ten thousand?”
“An old man. He used to come every day. I teased her. He was sweet on her. Every day like clockwork. First he’d eat his oysters on the pier, then he’d come round the corner and drink Mary’s coffee. I used to say don’t give him so much sugar in his coffee. You’ll kill his appetite. He won’t order cake. I guess I was wrong about that. Ten thousand!”
Bell checked his watch, motioned to Tobin, and passed him the cake. “I have to catch a train. Have a look-see at whichever oyster stand the old man frequented.”
“Yes, Mr. Bell. Is there anything special you want me to look for?”
Bell paused for a moment. It was a smart question from a kid just starting out. No wonder Harry Warren had tapped him. Tobin just might be a natural.
“Start with where that stand gets its oysters. Let’s make sure Mr. Comstock didn’t die of that Jamaica Bay typhus you mentioned. Soon as you sort that out, report to Mr. Forrer. Then tell Mr.
