“You expected him to attack Mr. Rockefeller?”
“We expected him to hurt himself. Since the day Rockefeller broke up his business and stole the pieces. We expected him to kill himself. What you call an attack, Isaac, had exactly the same effect.”
“It is highly likely,” said Bell, “that your father is still alive.”
The German police had dragged the pond beside the tracks and searched the forest with hunting dogs and found no body. They had visited every farm within twenty miles and canvassed doctors and hospitals. Bill Matters had thoroughly disappeared.
“Good-bye.” Edna started after her sister, then turned back and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you, Isaac.”
“What for?”
“Engineering my job on the Sun.”
“They weren’t supposed to tell you.”
“No one had to tell me. I figured it out on my own. Very flattering.”
“The Sun was lucky to send you to Baku.”
“I meant flattering that you wanted me to come along.”
—
“Last stop,” said Isaac Bell.
Tugboats jetting clouds of coal smoke were working the Kaiser Wilhelm against North German Lloyd’s Hoboken pier.
“Not precisely,” said John D. Rockefeller. “We still have the train to Cleveland.”
“My last stop,” said Bell. He took a letter from his traveling suit and handed it to Rockefeller. “Here is my resignation.”
“Resignation? I am dismayed. Why are you quitting?”
“Standards.”
“Standards? What standards?”
“You had no need to rob Bill Matters. I will not condone his crimes, but you mistreated him badly and for no purpose other than beating him.”
Rockefeller’s lips tightened in a flat line. He looked away, gazing at the harbor, then he looked Bell in the eye. “When I was a boy, my father sharped us to make us strong. He taught us how to trade by taking us again and again. Every time I was soft, he took advantage and beat me in every deal until I learned how to win. It made me sharp.”
“It made you a bully.”
“It’s a habit,” said Rockefeller. “A habit that served me well.”
Bell appeared to change the subject. “I understand your father is still alive.”
A look of genuine affection warmed Rockefeller’s cold face. “Ninety and going strong.”
“Men live long in your family.”
“The lord has blessed us with many years.”
“Many years to break bad habits.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You’ve been allotted more years than most to break habits you should break,” said Isaac Bell.
Rockefeller bridled. “I am using my years for philanthropy—for all the good it’s done me. They still think I’m a monster.”
“They think you’re a bully. And they’re right. But if you ask me, you’ve made a good start with philanthropy. I’d keep at it.”
“Would you, now? You are not familiar with business affairs, Mr. Bell. You’re like certain writers, theorists, socialists, and anarchists—so ready to determine how best they can appropriate the possessions of others.”
“Good-bye, Mr. Rockefeller.”
“You can’t leave me defenseless. You took a job and signed a contract to protect me. What if Matters surfaces and tries to kill me?”
“I’ve assigned Wish Clarke to escort you home to Cleveland. There, your bodyguards will be provided by Van Dorn Protective Services.”
“Van Dorn? Are you going back to Van Dorn?”
“I never left.”
“What? You never left Van Dorn’s employ?”
“Never.”
“You’re still working up the Corporations Commission case! You tricked me.”
The trace of a smile moderated Bell’s stern features. “You are not familiar with detective affairs, Mr. Rockefeller. It’s my job to trick suspects. In fact . . . you could call it a habit.”
Rockefeller’s eyes flickered as if he were trying to recall how much information he had given away. But when he spoke, all he said was, “How long will these guards protect me?”
“Until you feel safe.”
“How will I ever feel safe from that murderer?”
“You will feel safe when he is hanged.”
“What makes you so sure he will be?”
“Another Van Dorn habit. We never give up.”
True to form, John D. Rockefeller did the unexpected. He laughed. “That’s a good one.” He thrust out his hand. “I prefer friendships founded on business. I’m glad we’ve done business, Mr. Bell.”
—
The grim atmosphere in the Van Dorn Detective Agency’s New York field office reminded Isaac Bell of the night riots broke out in Baku. “Himself” was back in town, Joseph Van Dorn, hulking like a bad-tempered sphinx in the back of the bull pen where Bell, who had just raced from the ferry pier, had summoned his assassin squad to bring him up to date.
Archie Abbott looked miserable and was sporting a black eye. The anxious glances he kept shooting at Van Dorn told Bell that Archie had learned nothing about the Army deserter who won the President’s Medal.
Grady Forrer, directing head of the gunsmith hunt, was watching Van Dorn as if the Boss were a rotund cobra.
Wally and Mack typically were not intimidated; the old guys had known Van Dorn too long and the self-satisfied Weber & Fields grins on their gnarly faces gave Bell hope. They looked more confident than their grasping-at-straws cable report about Spike Hopewell’s so-called tricks up his sleeve. Maybe good news.
Bell glanced at Van Dorn and stepped out the door. The Boss lumbered after him.
“What’s up?”
“You’re spooking my boys.”
“Your boys aren’t delivering.”
“Why don’t you let me buy you a drink at the Normandie after I straighten them out?”
Bell returned to the bull pen alone.
“When I left for Baku, you were pursuing various leads on the Army sharpshooter, the gunsmith who improved the assassin’s Savage 99, the exhumation of Averell Comstock’s body, and the tricks that Spike Hopewell claimed to have up his sleeve. That no news awaited me in Constantinople or Berlin or Bremerhaven on my way home suggests unfruitful pursuits. Did the situation improve while I steamed across the Atlantic?”
Wally and Mack grinned. The rest were silent.
“Archie. How’d you make out with the general’s daughter?”
“No dice.”
“Who gave you the shiner?”
“She took a swing at me.”
“Why?”
Wally Kisley laughed. “The young lady took insult, misled that Princeton, here, was romancing her. Just when the spooning should commence, Princeton says he has business with her father.”
Archie hung his head. “I misinterpreted her motive for inviting me to
