Isaac Bell knew he’d need good luck and then some. He was suddenly working up two cases. The Black Hand was growing bolder every day. And while this new case hinged on the word of a less-than-trustworthy brothel keeper, no one could forget that Theodore Roosevelt himself had been hurled into office less than five years ago, when President McKinley was gunned down by an assassin.
Nick Sayers fingered Isaac Bell’s card suspiciously. “What brings a private detective to the Cherry Grove so early in the morning? Are you seeking a merry end to a long night?”
“A crime has taken place,” said Bell with a significant glance about the extravagantly decorated library.
“Crime?”
“Someone stole Madame Récamier’s dress.”
“What?”
Bell indicated the oversize copy of Jacques-Louis David’s oil painting that dominated the room. A skilled artist had reproduced the portrait of the lady reclining on her couch in every detail except that a thin black headband was the only article of clothing that remained of her original costume.
Bell’s observation elicited an admiring smile from the brothel owner. “You know, Mr. Bell, you’re the first to notice.”
“I imagine your regular guests don’t come for the clothes.”
“What can I do for you, sir?”
“Join me in a private conversation,” said Bell. “Which is to say, not in this library.”
“What?”
“We have a mutual friend in law enforcement.”
Three minutes later, they were hunched over Coligney’s list in Sayers’ private office upstairs. Bell said, “Tell me exactly what you heard.”
“I didn’t pay much attention at first. They were ranting about the President, really tearing into him. But I’d heard it all before. They hate him.”
“But what did you hear?”
“What caught my ear, first, was one of them said, ‘Men of means will have no place in this country if he hangs on long enough to get reelected in ’08.’”
“All right,” said Bell. “Anything else?”
“Nothing for a while. Then some of them moved out of the main library into the little sitting room.”
“How do you know?”
“The sound is louder. I can always tell when someone moves there. And that’s where the good stuff happens. Just a few, trading secrets.”
“Is that where you heard about the U.S. Steel bonds?” Bell guessed, sizing up his witness.
“That’s right!” Sayers answered unabashedly, as if eavesdropping for stock tips was as legitimate a profession as medicine or the pulpit. “That’s why I listen real close when they move in there.”
“What did you hear?”
“Just chitchat, first. Like, ‘Why are you waiting?’ ‘Please sit down.’ Then all of a sudden I heard, ‘My mind is made up. The man must go.’ And someone else said, ‘He’s not just a man. He is the President of the United States.’ Then someone—some other guy, I think—got louder. ‘I don’t care if he’s the King of England. Or the bloody Pope. Or the Almighty Himself. He will destroy us if we don’t get rid of him.’ First guy asked, ‘Is there no other way?’ And then, loud and clear, ‘Theodore Roosevelt will destroy us if we don’t get rid of him.’”
Isaac Bell took Coligney’s list to Grady Forrer, the head of Van Dorn Research. His department occupied back rooms, where a small army of younger scholars was snipping articles from newspapers and magazines, poring through books, and listening intently on telephones.
Forrer read the list in a swift glance, then repeated the names aloud: “Arnold, Baldwin, Claypool, Culp, Manly, Nichols, and Pendergast. A high-flying flock of tycoons.”
“Two or more could be conspiring to kill the President of the United States.”
Forrer, a very large man, raised a skeptical eyebrow bigger than a mustache. “They can afford to hire expensive assassins.”
“Tycoons,” said Isaac Bell, “do not personally hire murderers. Can your boys find me the names of their fixers?”
“It will take some digging to run down who their ‘men’ are. Operatives who pull wires and grease the ways favor the strict Q.T. Double that when recruiting killers from the underworld.”
“I’m stretched thin,” said Bell. “I’ll take all the help you can give me.”
“How are you making out with your ‘cartel of criminals’?”
“The Black Hand Squad is working at it overtime. Trying to link kidnappers, extortionists, bombers, and counterfeiters.”
“I can see why you’re stretched thin.”
Forrer’s face was suddenly aglow with admiration. The long-legged, dark-haired Helen Mills raced into Forrer’s office like a whirlwind. “There you are, Mr. Bell. Hello, Mr. Forrer. Mr. Bell, Mr. Kisley and Mr. Fulton told me to tell you we found Ernesto Leone.”
“Where is he?”
“On the waterfront. 40th Street and Eleventh.”
Bell was already moving through the door. “What’s a counterfeiter doing on the waterfront?”
“Mr. Kisley said he hoped you could figure that out.”
14
Isaac Bell rushed from the Knickerbocker Hotel, caught a crosstown trolley, stepped off when it got hung up in traffic at Tenth Avenue, and hurried down to Eleventh Avenue. Spying a seamen’s shop, he draped his business suit with a secondhand watch coat and removed his derringer from his hat, which he traded for a canvas cap and longshoreman’s loading hook. Three minutes after bursting into the shop, he was dashing down Eleventh Avenue.
Kisley and Fulton met him at 40th Street.
“We got a tip Leone’s been holed up in that rooming house since yesterday. We saw him come down to eat breakfast in that lunchroom, then right back inside. Haven’t seen him since.”
Mack said, “He’s a nervous wreck. He may have made us coming out of breakfast.”
“What’s he doing here?”
“Could be waiting for something to be smuggled off a freighter. Engraving plates from Italy, maybe. There’s a boat in from Naples at Pier 75.”
“There he is!”
Bell saw a thin, dark man edge from the building like a rabbit sniffing the wind.
“I’ll take him. You boys hang back.”
Bell turned away and watched the man’s reflection in a window. Leone hesitated. He looked on the verge of running back into the building. He jerked a watch from his pocket, stared at the time, pocketed
