Clive Cussler - The Thief

She did not have long to wait. The lobby guards telephoned on the Imperial Building’s Kellogg system.

“Of course,” she said. “Send Mr. Bell straight up.”

She told her secretaries, “No interruptions.”

Bell came in briskly, tall and lanky and handsome as ever, even with his face so stern.

“Isaac,” she teased, smiling as she rose from her desk to greet him, “you look as if you exited your bed from the wrong side this morning.”

“Irina, your ‘investors’ are Hamburg merchant bankers funneling money from the Imperial German Army.”

“That is not true.”

“The bank goes by the name Hamburg Bankhaus.”

“Isaac, please. You’re being silly.”

“The operation is run by your boss, a German general major named Christian Semmler.”

She looked him boldly in the eye. “I know no Christian Semmler. Imperial Film is a going concern. We are building a great national enterprise to produce, distribute, and exhibit moving pictures.”

Bell did not give an inch. “If you don’t know Christian Semmler, then to whom do you report?”

“I report to the head of the Artists Syndicate.”

“There is no Artists Syndicate. It’s a sham.”

Irina Viorets let the silence build between them. Then she sat behind her desk and picked up a long silver letter opener and twirled it slowly in her fingers, pointing it first at Bell, then back at herself, then again at Bell.

He broke the silence. “The Artists Syndicate is a sham. It does not exist.”

“That will come as a surprise to the man who heads it.”

“ What? Who?”

“Singleton Brooks.”

She saw that Isaac Bell was puzzled and thrown off. It was almost as if he knew the name, which was the one thing she had not expected. But that appeared to be precisely the case. Bell actually knew the man. All the better, she thought, relief flooding through her. A good plan — a plan to derail Bell’s suspicions — had unexpectedly gotten even better. Her prince’s luck had turned. She could feel it in her soul.

The name Singleton Brooks was familiar to Isaac Bell, but he couldn’t recall why. Then it struck him. He remembered an unpleasant interview on Wall Street in the course of the Wrecker investigation.

“Singleton Brooks works for J. P. Morgan.”

Irina staggered him with a beautiful smile and a smug, “I believe that Mr. Morgan is not a sham.”

“I will have people in New York check on Mr. Brooks.”

“No need. Mr. Brooks arrives on the Golden State Limited tomorrow night. You can meet him at the station and ask him face-to-face… Is there anything else, Isaac? If not, please convey my warmest regards to Marion.”

Isaac Bell recovered with a smile, shook Irina’s hand, and left the building. It appeared that Christian Semmler has laid his groundwork even more thoroughly than he had imagined.

He went straight to Bunker Hill, rode up on the Angels Flight, and burst into Andrew Rubenoff’s mansion. Rubenoff was at the piano, singing “That Mesmerizing Mendelssohn Tune.”

“This Berlin fellow has a knack.”

“Does Singleton Brooks still work for J. P. Morgan?”

“Last I heard. And I would have heard if he had left.”

“Irina Viorets claims that Brooks represents Artists Syndicate, which you said didn’t exist.”

“I never said it would never exist. It did not exist when I inquired. Perhaps it exists now.”

“What the heck is going on?”

“Morgan’s shipping combine is taking a bath. International Mercantile Marine has been sorely used by the British government and the American Congress. Perhaps he sees an opportunity in Imperial Film. However it was financed aside, Imperial is poised to seize a controlling interest in much of independent film manufacturing, distribution, and exhibition. That’s the sort of meat Morgan feasts on.”

“But Krieg and the German Army—”

“Things change, Isaac. Events do not always unfold as first planned.”

The bookcase in Irina Vioret’s office slid open on silent, ball-bearing tracks. Christian Semmler emerged from his stairwell. “Tomorrow night,” he said, “after the Iron Horse company returns from taking pictures, I want you to ask Mrs. Bell to do you a favor.”

“What sort of favor?”

“I overheard our bloody director upstairs threatening to quit — just when they finished building the ship and pier.”

“Why?”

“He says the scenario won’t work. Something about the searchlights in the dark. I want him fired tomorrow. Then I want you to ask Mrs. Bell to help you by staying late to take pictures for his immigrant arrival scenario so the carpenters can clear the ship and a pier and build her Iron Horse stage set.”

“What if she says no?”

“You know as well as I do that Marion Bell will not say no to anything that would help her production. Nor would she miss an opportunity to take pictures in the dark by the glare of searchlights. She will rise to the challenge. Particularly when you can tell her that the original director quit because he wasn’t up to it.”

Irina Vioret’s dark eyes filled with anxious foreboding. “What are you going to do to her?”

“Nothing! Gott im Himmel , what are you thinking, woman? I promise you I will do nothing to derail the success of The Iron Horse . Just make sure that damned cowboy has gone before you ask her.”

Minutes before Isaac Bell went to LA 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.

Van Dorn detective Chuck Shipley, 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.