The Thief (40 page)

M
INUTES BEFORE
I
SAAC
B
ELL WENT TO
L
A
Grande Station to meet Singleton Brooks’s train, Los Angeles field office chief Larry Saunders reported that the city records clerk, who Saunders had hoped would admit to the existence of a secret set of blueprints for the Imperial Building, had been crushed to death under an Angels Flight funicular railway car.

“The cops say he got oiled and tried to walk up the tracks. But being they are so steep, I’d expect that stunt more of a drunken sailor than an overweight, middle-aged file clerk. I’m sorry, Mr. Bell, he was my best shot, but I’ll keep trying.”

Bell thought hard. Then he said, “Larry, I want you to take personal charge of the Van Dorn Protective Service men guarding Clyde Lynds starting right now.”

The dandified Saunders asked why.

Isaac Bell replied in a manner that left no latitude for debate: “Because I have a very strong feeling about tonight.”

Then Bell switched tactics at La Grande Station.

Singleton Brooks’s Limited was due in at nine. Instead of simply walking up to Brooks and challenging him, Bell decided to have the J. P. Morgan executive followed first. Where he went might reveal a lot. He believed that Brooks might lead him to Christian Semmler—or did he merely hope? Regardless, Brooks would likely recognize Bell. Even if Bell disguised himself in his black motorcycle costume, the odds were Irina had alerted him to Bell’s suspicions.

So Bell had ordered Texas Walt Hatfield to do the primary tracking, and Texas Walt was ensconced in a saloon just outside the station’s main entrance. Bell would point out Singleton to him. Bell had another Van Dorn standing by in an Oldsmobile taxicab in the event that Singleton was picked up in an auto, while Balant, the blind newsie, transformed tonight into a gawking tourist, would follow the New York banker if he boarded a streetcar.

V
AN
D
ORN
D
ETECTIVE
C
HUCK
S
HIPLEY,
a young, eager-to-prove-himself transfer from the Kansas City office, sat inside the blind newsie’s stand wearing a cap rented from a rooming house neighbor who made a living hawking newspapers on the street. Mr. Saunders had encouraged Shipley to get a nickel-plated changemaker to hook over his belt, enhancing his disguise. But Detective Balant had forbidden him to wear dark glasses, explaining, testily, that even if the Germans inside the vice-consul’s mansion were stupid—and there was no evidence they were—they would still wonder why the recently installed newsstand on their corner employed only blind men.

“In other words, Chuck, get your own disguise.”

Along with the cap and the changemaker, Shipley affected a severe limp, but seated behind the counter it was hard to show it off, as the only time he got to step out was when the trucks arrived with fresh editions. But here came one now, bearing bundles of the
Los Angeles Examiner
. The driver stayed behind the wheel. The helper slung a bundle under his arm and brought it around to the side, blocking the door so Chuck Shipley couldn’t get out to strut his limp.

“Where’s the blind guy?”

“He’s off tonight. His old man got sick.”

“Here, I got something for him. You give it to him.”

“What is it?”

“Look here.” The helper was holding something below his knees. Chuck looked. He saw nothing but the helper’s hand, which suddenly formed a fist encased in brass knuckles that traveled at his jaw like a rocket. Caught flat-footed, Chuck saw fireballs of different colors and then nothing but night.

The helper stretched Shipley out on the floor and grabbed more bundles from the truck to cover the body.

Then the
Examiner
truck pulled across the street and stopped in front of the German vice-consul’s mansion. Six powerful men in a variety of slouch hats and loose-fitting suits of clothes exited the mansion by a basement door. Most wore short beards; all had the blue-eyed, strong-jawed features of the South African Dutch. They piled into the truck, which drove straight to the Imperial Building. The six entered the lobby by the side entrance. The doormen greeted them warmly, like old comrades-in-arms.

T
HE
G
OLDEN
S
TATE
L
IMITED RUMBLED
into La Grande Station on time.

From a distance, Bell spotted a familiar short, compact figure jump impatiently from the stateroom car that Research had determined was Brooks’s. Brooks pushed through the crowd on the platform and through the arrival hall to the front of the station.

Bell gave Texas Walt the nod. Brooks hopped into a taxi. Walt eased into the Oldsmobile, and the Van Dorn driver trailed Brooks’s taxi away from the station. Balant, waiting by the streetcar track, hailed another taxi and tore after them.

“Mr. Bell. Mr. Bell.”

Bell recognized the out-of-breath Van Dorn messenger running up to him.

“Best to keep your voice low, son, while engaging a colleague on duty,” Bell cautioned, mildly. He took the messenger’s arm. “Walk along with me while we try to notice who took notice… What do you make of that fellow in the straw hat? Is he watching us?… Oh, there he goes with that lady kissing him. Otherwise, we’re clear. What’s the message?”

“Telephone Mr. Clyde Lynds soon as you can.”

Bell hurried inside the train station and telephoned the laboratory. Clyde Lynds sounded even more excited than the messenger. “Come see. I’ve synchronized sound and pictures.”

“I’ll be right there.”

But as Bell exited the station to race to the Imperial Building, he bumped into Texas Walt.

“What are you doing here? Did you lose Brooks?”

“Nope.”

“Where is he?”

“Stopped in Levy’s Café for supper. Balant’s watching him.”

“Cover him closely. I’ll be at the Imperial Building.”

“Can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Guess who he’s eating supper with?”

“Irina Viorets.”

“Nope. He’s eating with a fellow who’ll spot me in a second.”

“Who?”

“The feller who directed me in those Western dramas, the Pirate King himself, Jay Tarses.”

Bell shook his head in disbelief. “I figured Brooks would meet Irina first thing. And I hoped he would lead us to Semmler. What’s he doing with Tarses?”

“Balant took a table near ’em. We met up in the alley outside the facilities and Balant told me that Tarses mumbles too quiet to hear, but he heard Brooks jawing up a storm.”

“About Imperial?”

“No. J. P. Morgan is fixing to start a moving picture factory, and he wants Tarses to run it for him. Brooks is troweling it on thick about how much they need Tarses. Tarses is watching him like a snake. So it don’t sound to me like Brooks came to Los Angeles to visit Imperial. He’s come out here to grubstake a new outfit.”

“Maybe he’s meeting Irina tomorrow,” Bell said with little confidence.

“Hell, Isaac, why don’t I just walk in and ask him straight off?”

“I’ll do it. I know Brooks slightly, and I want to watch to see if he’s lying.”

“You want me to back you up?”

“I think between Balant and me,” Bell answered drily, “we can handle one back-East banker… Walt, would you do me a favor?”

“Shore, Isaac. What do you need?”

“Get an auto and park outside the house we took up on Bunker Hill.”

“Keep an eye on Marion?”

“I’d appreciate it.”

“You want me to go in the house?”

“No, she’s up so early, she’s probably sleeping by now. Just watch from outside.”

Bell hurried to Levy’s Café. Many of the tables were empty as the late second seating was finishing up. Boot heels clicking on the tile floor, he strode straight to the table where Tarses was listening to the Morgan banker with an expression of unconcealed suspicion. Bell pulled up a chair. Tarses looked up, remembering Bell but not quite sure why. Singleton Brooks, too, recognized Bell, and the banker turned out to have a very fine memory.

“Detective Bell. What are you doing here?”

“My question exactly,” said Isaac Bell. “Why are you dining with Mr. Tarses instead of Mademoiselle Irina Viorets?”

Jay Tarses’s face darkened, as if his suspicions had all been confirmed. “Why didn’t you tell me you were talking to Imperial, too?”

“I am not talking to Imperial. I told you, I came all the way out here specially to talk to you.”

“Oh, yeah? Then why are you meeting Irina Viorets, who happens to run Imperial?”

“I’m not,” Brooks protested. “I don’t know the woman.”

“You know who she is.”

“Of course I know who she is.”

Tarses looked at Isaac Bell. “Mr. Bell, what is it about moving pictures that rewards the worst and punishes the best?”

“What, sir, are you implying?” demanded Brooks.

Isaac Bell said, “Hold on, gentlemen, I owe you an apology. Answer one more question, Mr. Brooks, and I will be able to assure Mr. Tarses that you are on the level. Do you represent the Artists Syndicate?”

“I don’t even know what the Artists Syndicate is. And whatever it is I certainly don’t represent it.”

“And you don’t know Mademoiselle Viorets?”

“I know who she is. I do not recall ever meeting her.”

“You would,” said Tarses. “She’s a looker.”

“I am a married man,” Brooks said stiffly.

Bell stood up. “Further proof that he’s on the up and up, Mr. Tarses. Sorry to have interrupted your supper.”

“M
RS.
R
ENNEGAL,”
M
ARION SAID TO
her favorite Cooper-Hewitt operator. “We are supposed to be laying a scene on a pier beside a ship on a foggy night in the spooky glare of searchlights. This looks like a romantic candlelit dinner for two.”

“But Mrs. Bell,” said Rennegal, climbing wearily down the ladder from yet another adjustment of the Cooper-Hewitts hanging high in the flies over a stage decorated to depict the immigrants’ landing at Ellis Island, “Mr. Bitzer and Mr. Davidson keep complaining the searchlights overexpose their film.”