the Spy (2010) by Cussler Clive (early readers .txt) 📕

can make out from all the witnesses, Scully was talking to a well-dressed redhead. A football comes flying though the air and hits him on the shoulder. College boys horsing around run up and surround him, apologizing. Someone yells their train is leaving, and they run for it. Scully's lying on his back like he's got a heart attack. Bunch of people crowd around to help. Cop comes along, shouts for a doctor. Then you come running up. Then a kid from the New York office. Then you ran after the Limited, and some woman sees the blood and screams, and then the cop is telling everybody to stay where they are. And pretty soon there's a bunch of Van Dorns running around with notebooks.

Where's the redhead?

No one knows.

Well-dressed, you say?

Stylish.

Says who? The cop?

Says a lady who's a manager at Lord and Taylor, which is a very high-tone dry-goods store in New York City.

Not dressed like a floozy?

High-tone.

Just when Bell thought he was going to have to run to catch his train, the telephone finally rang. The connection was thin, the wire noisy. Van Dorn here. That you, Isaac? What do you have?

We have one report of a redhead wearing the sort of paint, clothes, and hat you'd expect in an opium den, and another of a redhead dressed like a lady, and both were seen with Scully.

Was Scully partial to redheads?

I don't know, said Bell. All we ever discussed were lawbreakers and firearms. Did they find his gun?

Browning Vest Pocket still in the holster.

Bell shook his head, dismayed that Scully had been thrown so off balance.

What? Van Dorn shouted. I can't hear you.

I still can't imagine anyone catching Scully flat-footed.

That's what comes from working alone.

Be that as it may--

What?

Be that as it may, the issue is the spy.

Is the spy on that train with you?

I don't know yet.

What?

Bell said, Tell them to hold on to John Scully's gun for me.

Joseph Van Dorn heard that clearly. He knew his detectives well. Now and then, he even thought he knew what made them tick. He said, It will be waiting for you when you get back to New York.

I'll report from Chicago.

As the 20th Century Limited roared out of East Buffalo with five hundred twenty miles to go to make Chicago by morning, Bell went forward to the club car. He found it empty but for one draw poker game. The Canadian con man pretending to be an Australian gold miner was playing with some older businessmen. He did not look pleased that conductor Dilber was watching closely.

Bell walked to the back of the speeding train. Though it was after midnight, the observation car was crowded with men, talking and drinking. Arnold Bennett, attended by his solemn Chinese, was entertaining a crowd. Shafer the German salesman was deep in conversation with Erhard Riker. Bell got a drink and made himself conspicuous until Riker saw him and waved him over to join them. Riker introduced the German as Herr Shafer. To Bell he said, What line did you say you were in, Mr. Bell?

Insurance, he answered, nodding his thanks to Riker for not identifying him as a detective. He sat where he could observe Bennett's Chinese as well.

Of course, Riker nodded back, smoothly continuing the ruse. I should have remembered. So we're all drummers, or commercial travelers as the English call us. All selling. I supply gems to American jewelers. And Mr. Shafer here represents a line of organs built in Leipzig. Am I right, sir?

Correct! Shafer barked. First, I sell. Then the company sends German workman with organs to assemble the pieces. They know best how to put together the best organs.

Church organs? asked Bell.

Churches, concert halls, stadiums, universities. German organs, you see, are the best organs in the world. Because German music is the best in the world. You see.

Do you play the organ?

No, no, no, no. I am a simple salesman.

How, asked Isaac Bell, did a cavalry officer become a salesman?

What? What cavalry officer? Shafer glanced at Riker, then back at Bell, his expression hardening. What do you mean, sir?

I couldn't help but notice that your hands are calloused from the reins, Bell answered mildly. And you stand like a soldier. Doesn't he, Riker?

And sits like one, too.

Ah? A bright flush rose in Shafer's neck and reddened his face. Ja, he said. Of course. Yes, I was once a soldier, many years ago. He paused and stared at his powerful hands. Of course, I still ride whenever I find the time in this my new occupation as salesman. Excuse me, I will return. He started to bolt away, paused and caught himself. Shall I ask the steward for another round of drinks?

Yes, said Riker, hiding a smile until Shafer had entered the f acilities.

In retrospect, he said, his smile broadening, my father is beginning to seem a wiser and wiser man-as your Mark Twain noted about his. Father was right to school me in England. We Germans are not comfortable in the presence of other nationalities. We boast without considering the effect.

Is it common in Germany for Army officers to go into trade? asked Bell.

No. But who knows why he left the service? He is far too young to have retired, even on half pay. Perhaps he had to make a living.

Perhaps, said Bell.

It would appear, smiled Riker, that you are not on holiday. Or are detectives always on the case?

Cases tend to blur into each other, said Bell, wondering whether Riker's statement was a challenge or merely fellow train traveler's comradery. For example, he said, watching closely for Riker's reaction, in the course of an unrelated investigation I learned when I boarded the train that you often travel with a young lady who is believed to be your ward.

Indeed, said Riker. You learned the truth.

You are young to have a ward.

I am. But just as I was unable to dodge taking responsibility for my father's firm, so was I not excused from the obligation of caring for an