of a conversation by telephone. Clyde Lynds had claimed that his electrical microphone would one day spawn devices for amplifying feeble electrical currents for long-distance telephones to span the continent. That day could not come soon enough for Isaac Bell.
Back and forth he and Grady Forrer transmitted on the Van Dorn private wire. The upshot was that Grady had turned up the name of a private German merchant bank—
POSITIVE?
REASONABLY.
KRIEG-IMPERIAL CONNECTIONS?
NOT YET.
KRIEG-HAMBURG BANKHAUS CONNECTIONS?
NONE YET.
Isaac Bell telephoned Andrew Rubenoff, filled him in on Research’s suspicions, and asked, “Is the Bank of Hamburg a real bank or a sham?”
“Where did you hear about Bank of Hamburg, if I may ask?”
“Van Dorn Research.”
“I am impressed,” Rubenoff answered. “I doff my hat to them. Hamburg Bankhaus is not widely known outside professional circles.”
“I’ll pass on the compliment. Is it real or a sham?”
“It’s real. They’re very active in German enterprises doing business in America. First among their enterprises, they’re the principal lender to the Leipzig Organ and Piano Company.”
“The piano shops?”
“You’ve seen them. Leipzig Organ has expanded hugely in America — opening all sorts of branches to sell parlor pianos. Funny you should ask, though.”
“Why is that?”
“I was just in one of their shops the other day trying to buy sheet music. But they were sold out of ‘Ah! Sweet Mystery of Life.’”
“It’s very popular.”
“When a music shop is sold out of a brand-new Victor Herbert song, something is terribly wrong with the shop.”
“Or the publisher.”
“The publisher will blame the shop, of course. Either for not ordering enough or not paying their bills. Though in this instance they may be right. The shop had a very poor selection. The most recent I could find was ‘I Love My Wife; But, Oh, You Kid!’ That’s been around so long the paper was turning yellow.”
“How were their pianos?”
“Decent enough, for uprights. Good German quality.”
Bell asked. “Where is Leipzig’s headquarters?”
“Leipzig. As their name would suggest.”
“I mean here in America.”
“They’d have a sales rep.”
“How do they conduct business?”
“The representative will be a top man on commission. He’ll conduct any business that has to be done here. The rest will be handled in Leipzig.”
“Leipzig wouldn’t be owned by Krieg, by any chance?”
“I doubt they’d borrow money from Hamburg if they were. They’d have access to better rates of interest through Krieg.”
Bell pondered his next move.
“Uncle Andy, tell me about pianos.”
The Leipzig Organ & Piano Company’s plate-glass front window was sparkling clean, Isaac Bell noted as he hurried along the sidewalk. Sheet music shortcomings aside, from the sidewalk at least the shop had nothing to apologize for. He stopped, peered through the glass, pulled his watch from his pocket by its heavy gold chain, pretended to check whether he had time to spare, and went inside.
Sturdy upright pianos lined the walls, each bearing the name Leipzig in gold leaf. Revolving mahogany racks of music flanked a glass-topped counter displaying metronomes and hymnals.
A salesman got up from his desk by the back door. He was a middle-aged German with a military bearing and a cold manner. “Yes?” he demanded.
“I am shopping for a piano for my niece, who has impressed her teacher.”
“Ve have vaiting list for new orders.”
“How long will that be?”
“It is difficult to tell.”
“A month? Two months?”
“More like six months to a year, sir. Our pianos are made carefully. Very carefully.”
“Are they strung with music wire made by Stahl and Drahtwerk?”
The salesman’s jaw tightened.
“Or,” asked Bell, “are the strings from Moritz Poehlmann of Nuremberg?”
The saleman stared straight ahead, his gaze locked on the knot of Isaac Bell’s four-in-hand necktie. At last he said, “I do not know that. But our plates are of cast iron.”
“I would hope so,” said Bell. “Would you play a few of them for me? Let me hear the difference.”
“You may play them, sir.”
“Ah, but sadly I do not. So if you would play for me…”
Again, the tight jaw. Finally, he said, “It is not possible.”
“A man who sells pianos can’t play them?”
“I have injured my hand.”
“I’m so sorry. Could I trouble you to telephone your sales representative.”
“Vat for?”
“I would like to ask whether I could buy an instrument sooner than six months.”
“He is not near.”
“Well, perhaps your head office could help me.”
“No.”
“Then I wonder could I have your representative’s address that I might write him myself.”
“He is traveling.”
Bell stepped to the windows and stood there for a long moment.
Suddenly a stylish crowd of free-spirited young men and women came along the sidewalk and burst in the door. Gaily hailing the salesman, all talking at once, they took a long time to explain they needed to rent a piano for a party tonight. Informed that the shop did not rent pianos, they laughed.
“Then we’ll buy one.”
“We’ll pool our cash.”
“I’ve got Dad’s check. I’ll buy it.”
“How about that one?” a girl cried, and they gathered around it, two of them plopping down on the bench, throwing open the key lid, and pounding out a ragtime duet.
The salesman kept saying, “Not for sale. Not for sale,” and when he had at last showed the buoyant mob out the door, he discovered that the tall golden-haired gentleman hoping to buy a piano for his niece had slipped away in the confusion.
Good riddance, he thought, and locked the door.
“Nicely done,” Isaac Bell told the Los Angeles field office apprentices and secretaries and their girlfriends and
