the Spy (2010)

by Cussler, Clive

  A white man sat up on his couch, clapped his derby on his head, and swung his feet unsteadily to the floor. As he stood, their gazes met. Scully almost dropped his teeth. What in hell was Harry Warren doing here?

  Both detectives looked away abruptly.

  Had Harry, too, heard the same rumors he had ferreted out? No, Scully recalculated. Harry Warren would have been shadowing the Gophers. That's how he got here. The gang specialist didn't know about the Hip Sing-Gopher alliance yet. He had just followed a Gopher and ended up inside, failing to put two and two together. Scully was miles ahead of Harry and his so-called experts, he thought proudly. Before he was done he'd beat the New York Van Dorns in their own hometown.

  Two girls came his way.

  One was a shapely dark Irish lass made up like a Chinese. The other was a petite redhead, a dead-swell looker, with blue eyes so bright they flashed in the dim lantern light. She put Scully in mind of Lillian Russell in her leaner years. Although that could be the effect of her enormous hat, with its upswept brim, or a natural reaction to the intoxicating clouds of pungent smoke, or the heavy coating of paint and powder slathered thick as an actress's makeup on a face that didn't need any cosmetics at all.

  The redhead dismissed the dark girl with a curt nod.

  Scully's pulse quickened. Young as she was, she acted like she might be the madame of the operation. The Hip Sing boss's girlfriend he'd been hunting.

  Welcome to our humble establishment, she said, reminding Scully of a Chinese princess on the vaudeville stage. Except her accent was pure Hell's Kitchen. How did you happen to find us?

  Sadie sent me.

  Sadie does us great honor. What will be your pleasure, sir? Scully gaped like a blue jay from the sticks as if overwhelmed by the possibilities. In fact, he was a little overwhelmed. She was talking business like any madame worth the name, but she was gazing into his eyes as if offering herself. And herself, the dazzled Scully had to admit, was quite a cut above the usual fare.

  Your pleasure?

  I always wanted to try a little opium.

  She looked disappointed. You could get that from your apothecary. Where are you from?

  Schenectady.

  Can't a man of your means get opium in a pharmacy?

  Sort of afraid to at home, if you know what I mean.

  Of course. I understand. Well, opium it will be. Come with me. She took his hand in hers, which was small, strong, and warm. She led him to a couch half hidden by drapes and helped him get comfortable, with his head propped on soft pillows. One of the painted Chinese girls brought a pipe. The redhead said, Enjoy yourself. I'll come back later.

  Chapter 30

  THE GOPHERS GOT ONE OF MY BOYS, HARRY WARREN telephoned Isaac Bell at the Knickerbocker.

  Who?

  Little Eddie Tobin, the youngster.

  Bell raced to Roosevelt Hospital at 59th and Ninth Avenue.

  Harry intercepted him in the hallway. I put him in a private room. If the boss won't pay for it, I will.

  If the boss won't pay, I will, said Bell. How is he?

  They kicked him in the face with axheads in their boots, cracked his skull with a lead pipe, broke his right arm and both legs.

  Is he going to make it?

  The Tobins are Staten Island scowmen-oysters, tugboats, smuggling-so he's a tough kid. Or was. Hard to say how a man comes out of a beating like that. Near as I can tell there were four of them. He didn't stand a chance.

  Bell went into the room and stood with clenched fists over the unconscious detective. His entire head was swathed in thick, white bandages seeping blood. A doctor was sliding a stethoscope incrementally across his chest. A nurse stood by in starched linen. Spare no expense, Bell said. I want a nurse with him day and night.

  He rejoined Harry Warren in the hall. It's your town, Harry, what are we going to do about this?

  The gang expert hesitated, clearly not happy with the answer he had to deliver. One on one they don't mess with Van Dorns. But the Gophers outnumber us by a lot, and if comes to war, they're fighting on their own territory.

  It already has come to war, said Isaac Bell.

  The cops won't be any help. The way the city works, politicians, builders, the church, the cops, and gangsters divide it up. Long as nobody gets so greedy that the reformers take hold, they're not going to bother each other over a private detective getting beat up. So we're on our own. Listen, Isaac, this is odd. It's not Tommy Thompson's way to take on trouble he doesn't have to. Sending a message telling us to back off? You do something like that to a rival gang-the Dusters or the Five Pointers. He knows you don't do that to the Van Dorns. He's as much as admitting he's taking orders from the spy.

  I want you to send a message back.

  I can get the word passed to people who will tell him, if that's what you mean.

  Tell them that Isaac Bell is wiring his old friend Jethro Watt-Chief of the Southern Pacific Railroad Police-asking him to dispatch two hundred yard bulls to New York to guard the Eleventh Avenue freight sidings.

  Can you do that?

  Jethro is always spoiling for a fight, and I know for a fact that the railroads are getting fed up with their freight trains being robbed. Tommy Thompson will think twice before he hits a Van Dorn again. The SP's cinder dicks may be the dregs but they're tough as nails, and the only thing they fear is Jethro. Until they get here, none of our boys go alone. Two Van Dorns or more on the job, and careful when they're off duty.

  Speaking of alone, I bumped into your pal John Scully.

  Where? I haven't heard from him in weeks.

  I shadowed a Gopher lieutenant into Chinatown. Dead end. He spent the day smoking opium. Scully wandered into the joint tricked out like a tourist.

  What was Scully doing?

  Last I saw, lighting a pipe.

  Tobacco? Bell asked, doubting it.

  'Fraid not.

  Bell looked at Harry Warren. Well, if you could survive it, Scully will, too.

  THE TRANSATLANTIC STEAMER Kaiser Wilhem der Gross II thrust four tall black funnels and two even taller masts into the smoky sky at the edge of Greenwich Village. Her straight bow towered over tugboats, the pier, and fleets of horse-drawn hansom cabs and motor taxis.

  Right here is fine, Dave, Isaac Bell said into the speaking tube of a brewster green Packard limousine provided by Archie Abbott's wife Lillian's father. The railroad tycoon was unable to meet his beloved daughter's ship, as he was steaming across the continent on his private train-on the trail, Bell assumed, of an independent railroad to fold into his empire. Bell, who had urgent reason to speak with Archie, had offered to stand in for him.

  Pick me up on Jane Street after you get them loaded.

  He stepped out onto the cobblestones and watched the gangway. Not surprisingly, the newlyweds were first off the ship, guided ashore by solicitous purser's mates and followed closely by a pack of newspaper reporters, who would have boarded the ship at Sandy Hook to greet New York's most exciting young couple. More reporters were waiting on the pier. Some had cameras. Others were accompanied by sketch artists.

  Bell, who preferred not to see his face on newsstands while investigating in disguise, retreated from the pier and waited on the street of low houses and stables.

  Fifteen minutes later the limousine slowed, and he stepped nimbly aboard.

  Sorry about all the hoopla, the blue-blooded Archibald Angell Abbott IV greeted him, clasping his hand. They had been best friends since boxing for rival colleges. All New York is dying to see my blushing bride.

  I'm not surprised, said Bell, kissing the beauteous young Lillian warmly on the cheek before he settled on the folding seat that faced the couple. Lillian, you look absolutely radiant.

  Blame my husband, she laughed, running her fingers through Archie's thick red hair.

  When they got to the limestone Hennessy mansion on Park Avenue, Bell and Archie talked in the privacy of the library. She's radiant, said Bell. You look beat.

  Archie r
aised his glass with a shaking hand. Revels all night, cathedrals and country-house parties all day, then more revels. One forgets how energetic one was at nineteen.

  What did you learn on the ship?

  The Europeans are all looking for a fight, Archie replied soberly.

  All worried the other guy will throw the first punch. The British are convinced there will be war with Germany. They know that the German Army is immense, and the German military has the Kaiser's ear. Ear, hell, the Army and the Navy have the Kaiser's heart and his blessing!

  The Germans are convinced there will be war with England because England will not tolerate an expanding German Empire. The British know that defeating the German Navy would not guarantee victory, whereas the defeat of the British Navy would spell the end to England's overseas empire. If that weren't enough, the Germans suspect that Russia will attack them to derail a revolution by distracting their peasants with a war. If that happens, the Germans fear, Britain will side with Russia because France is allied with the Russians. So Germany will force Austria and Turkey onto their side. But none of these idiots understand that their alliances will cause a war like no one's ever seen.

  That bleak?

  Fortunately for us, none of them want the United States as an enemy.

  Which is why, Bell said, I wonder if England and Germany are attempting to make the United States think the other is their enemy.

  That's precisely the kind of byzantine talk I heard on the ship, said Archie. You have an evil mind.

  I've been hanging around the wrong crowd lately.

  I thought it was that Yale education, said Archie, a Princeton man.

  Courting the United States to be their ally, England and Germany could each secretly be maneuvering to make their enemy look like our enemy.

  What about the Japanese?

  Captain Falconer claims that anything that loosens the European footholds in the Pacific will embolden the Japanese. They'll stay out of it as long as they can and then side with the winner. Frankly, he seems possessed by a fear of the Japanese. He saw them up close in the Russo-Japanese War, so he thinks he knows them better than most. He insists they're brilliant spies. Anyway, to answer your question, we've had a Jap under surveillance for a week. Unfortunately, he gave us the slip.

  Archie shook his head in mock dismay. I go away for one little honeymoon, and the detective business goes to hell. Where do you suppose he is?

  Last seen on the railroad ferry into New York. We're combing the city. He's the best part of the case. I need him badly.

  GOT THE REPORT on Riker and Riker, Grady Forrer reported when Bell got back to headquarters. On your desk.

  Erhard Riker was the son of the founder of Riker & Riker, importers of precious gems and precious metals for the New York and Newark jewelry industries. The younger Riker had expanded the company since taking over seven years ago when his father was killed in Boer War cross fire in South Africa. He shuttled regularly between the United States and Europe on luxury transatlantic ocean liners, favoring the German Wilhelm der Grosse and the British Lusitania, unlike his father who had patronized older, more staid steamships like the Cunard Line Umbria and North German Lloyd's Havel. One fact caught Bell's eye: Riker & Riker maintained its own private protection service both for guarding jewelry shipments and escorting Riker personally when he himself was carrying valuables.

  Bell sought out the head of Research. Are private guard services common in the gem line?

  Seem to be with the Europeans, said Grady Forrer, traveling the way they have to.

  What sort does he hire?

  Pretty-boy bruisers. The sort you can dress up in fancy duds.

  A receptionist stuck his head in the door. Telephone call for you, Mr. Bell. Won't say who he is. English accent.

  Bell recognized the plummy drawl of Commander Abbington-Westlake.

  Shall we have another cocktail, old chap? Perhaps even drink it this time.

  What for?

  I have a very interesting surprise for you.

  Chapter 31

  POLICE! POLICE! DON'T NONE OF YOUSE MOVE!

  The door from the opera house balcony through which John Scully had entered the Hip Sing opium den crashed open with a loud bang and knocked the heavyset Chinaman guarding it into the wall. The first man through was a helmeted sergeant broad as a draft horse.

  The Chinese gambling at the fan-tan table were accustomed to police raids. They moved the quickest. Cards, chips, and paper money went flying in the air as they bolted through a curtain that covered a hidden door. The Hip Sing bouncers scooped the money off the faro table and ran. The white players at the faro wheel ran, too, but when they pawed at other curtains they found blank walls. Girls screamed. Opium smokers looked up.

  The redheaded madame ran to Scully's couch. Come with me!

  She pulled Scully through another curtain as the cops stormed in swinging their clubs and shouting threats. Scully saw no door in the near darkness, but when she shoved on the wall a narrow panel swung open. They went through, and she hinged it closed and threw heavy bolts shut at the top and bottom. Quickly!

  She led him down a steep and narrow stairway barely wide enough for the detective to squeeze his bulk through. At each landing was another narrow door, which she opened, closed, and bolted behind them.

  Where are we going? asked Scully.

  The tunnel.

  She unlocked a door with a key. Here was the tunnel, low-ceiled, narrow, and damp. It stretched into darkness. She took a battery light from a hole in the wall and by its flashing beam led them underground for what felt to Scully to be a distance of two city blocks. By the twists and turns and breaks in the walls, he surmised it was actually a right-of-way constructed through a series of connected cellars.

  She unlocked another door, took his hand again, and led him up two flights of stairs into the conventionally furnished parlor of an apartment with high windows that offered views of the Chatham Square El station flooded in sunlight.

  Scully had been in the dark so long, he found it hard to believe that daylight still existed.

  Thanks for the rescue, ma'am.

  My name is Katy. Sit down. Relax.

  Jasper, said Scully. Jasper Smith.

  Katy threw down her bag, reached up, and began removing hatpins.

  Scully watched avidly. She was even prettier in the daylight. You know, he laughed. If I carried a knife as long as your hatpins, the police would arrest me as a dangerous character.

  She gave him a cute pout. A girl can't wear her chapeau all crooked.

  It doesn't seem to matter if a girl wears a cartwheel or a little ding-dong affair, she always nails it down with hatpins long as her arm. I see you are a fellow Republican.

  Where'd you get that idea?

  Scully reached for the ten-inch steel pin she was removing and held it to the light. The decorative bronze head depicted a possum holding a golf club. Billy Possum.' That's what we call William Howard Taft.

  They're trying to make a possum like a teddy bear. But everyone knows that Taft is no Roosevelt.

  She stuck all four pins in a sofa cushion and tossed her hat beside them. Then she struck a pose, with her strong hands on her slim hips. Opium is the one pleasure I can't offer you here. Would you settle for a Scotch highball?

  Among other things, Scully grinned back.

  He watched her mix Scotch and water in tall glasses. Then he clinked his to hers, took a sip, and leaned closer to kiss her on the mouth. She stepped back. Let me get comfortable. I've been in these clothes all day.

  Scully searched the room quickly, thoroughly, and silently. He was looking for a rent bill or gas bill that would show whose apartment it was. He had to stop when the El clattered by because he couldn't hear her coming back from the bedroom. It passed, and he looked some more.

  Say, how you doing in there? he called.

  Hold your horses.

  Scully looked some more. Nothing. Drawers and cabinets were bare as a hotel room.
He cast a look down the hall, and opened her purse. Just as he heard the door open, he hit the jackpot. Two railroad tickets for tomorrow's three-thirty p.m. 20th Century Limited-the eighteen-hour excess-fare flyer to Chicago-with connections through to San Francisco. Tickets for Katy and whom? The boss? The Hip Sing boyfriend?

  WHEN SHE FOUND the little thirteen-ounce .25 holstered in the small of his back, she wanted to know what it was doing there.

  Got robbed once carrying the payroll for my clerks. It ain't gonna happen again.

  She seemed to believe him. At least it didn't get in the way of the proceedings. Not until he saw her add the knockout drops to his second highball.

  Scully felt suddenly old and blue.

  She was so very good at it. She had the patience to wait to dress the second drink so he'd be less likely to taste the bitter chloral hydrate flavor. She hid the vial expertly between the crease of her palm and the fleshy part of her thumb. She crossed her legs as she did it, with a distracting flash of snow-white thighs. Her only failing was her youth. He was too old to be buncoed by a kid.

  Bottoms up, she smiled.

  Bottoms up, Scully whispered back. You know, I never met a girl quite like you. Gazing soulfully into her pretty blue eyes, he reached blindly for his glass and knocked it off the table.

  ISAAC BELL GOT to the Knickerbocker's cellar bar ten minutes early. Midafternoon on a sunny day, it was largely empty, and he saw right away that Abbington-Westlake had not yet arrived. There was one man at the bar, two couples at tables, and a single slight figure seated on the banquette behind the small table where he had sat with the English Naval AttachE in the darkest corner of the room. Immaculately dressed in an old-fashioned frock coat, high-standing collar, and four-in-hand tie, he beckoned, half rising and bowing his head.

  Bell approached, wondering if he could believe his eyes.

  Yamamoto Kenta, I presume?

  Chapter 32

  MR. BELL, ARE YOU FAMILIAR WITH THE NAMBU TYPE B?

  Low-quality, 7-millimeter semiautomatic pistol, Bell answered tersely. Most Japanese officers buy themselves a Browning.

  I'm a sentimental patriot, said Yamamoto. And it is remarkably effective at a range of one small tabletop. Keep your hands where I can see them.