At the appointed time, Bell rapped a knuckle against the door of room eighteen and Patmore opened it almost immediately. He was now clean-shaven and scrubbed all the way down to his fingernails. His suit was a perfect fit over his well-toned body. His shoes were mirror-shined, and the dimple in the knot of his necktie was precisely centered.
Patmore left the door to his room open. His was at the end of the hall, so only one room abutted it. Bell assumed Patmore had rented that one as well. And now with his door open, no one could sneak up behind the other door to eavesdrop on their conversation through the keyhole.
Bell handed Patmore the picture he’d taken off the dead Frenchman of the man and his girl in front of the Eiffel Tower. Patmore examined it, front and back. “This your evidence he was French? He could have been a tourist.”
“My thought exactly,” Bell said evenly. “I have an identical picture with my wife. What tipped me off was the date.”
Patmore looked again. “June 12, 1899. So?”
“Look at their clothes.”
Patmore did as instructed. It took him about ten seconds to see what Bell had seen and he looked up with newfound respect in his eyes. “Glossed right over it.”
“I did too, at first, but something didn’t read right. They’re wearing coats. The date is written out in the European fashion of putting the day first. They were visiting the tower on December sixth. From experience, I know the line to have your picture taken is a long one. The oh-so-unhappy-looking Theresa is freezing. The date thing tells me they’re European at the least. Since both are pretty young in this picture, I can assume they don’t have a great deal of money, so this is a date or a first vacation. Either way, they won’t stray too far from home. Therefore, our dead guy is French, though he can do a spot-on American accent. How’d I do?”
“His name was Marc Massard. He worked for a company called the Société des Mines de Lorraine, now headquartered in Paris. He and his partner—he’s a Scotsman, by the way—are essentially company mercenaries. If La Société needs a rival taken out or a strike put down, Massard and Gly were the men to do it. Gly, especially, is a psychopath. Utterly ruthless.”
“So what’s this all about?” Bell asked.
“A rare element called byzanium.”
“Never heard of it.”
“It’s radioactive, like radium, once it’s refined out of its natural ore. Only a thimbleful of this stuff has ever been found, not enough to run any real tests, but enough to leave scientists speculating about its potential.”
Bell made a quick mental connection. Marie Curie, though Polish by birth, worked in Paris alongside her husband and was the world’s foremost authority on radium. He asked, “Valuable?”
“To call it the most precious substance on the planet is probably not an understatement. An ounce of gold is pegged at $20.67. An ounce of byzanium is estimated at about one-point-four million.”
“Dollars?”
“Dollars.” Patmore paused when Bell whistled his shock. “And Joshua Hayes Brewster found the motherlode of ore. He left Colorado two years ago to take a position with the Société des Mines de Lorraine, working under contract for the Tsar of Russia to open a lead mine on the Taimyr Peninsula. When the work ended a year ago last July, he was returning to the city of Archangel on the north coast of Siberia aboard a coastal steamer, which became lost in fog and eventually ran aground on the upper island of Novaya Zemlya.
“They were stuck on that hellhole for a month until they were rescued by the Russian Navy. During that time, Brewster did what prospectors always do in a new place—he crisscrossed the island looking for interesting minerals. One outcropping caught his attention, so he took some samples. Under the terms of his contract, he was obliged to turn over any and all geologic specimens. There were others from the Société aboard the steamer who knew he’d been prospecting, so he made sure his employers got what was their due. However, just like any good prospector, Brewster saved one for himself.
“Back in the States, fully two months after leaving the Taimyr Peninsula, he contacted the U.S. director of the Société to see what had happened to the minerals he’d found on Novaya Zemlya. He was told the samples were worthless and had been tossed out.”
“He didn’t believe them, did he?” Bell asked.
“Not for a second. He trusted his instincts. He gave the sample over to the Bureau of Mines in Washington. A geologist there, as well as another with the Natural History Museum at the Smithsonian, figured out the sample was byzanium ore. Brewster was sitting on a find worth half a billion dollars.”
“Do the French know where it was?”
“No. Brewster never told them. What he did do is tell an old friend at the War Department.”
“You?”
“My boss in Army Intelligence. They knew Congress wouldn’t give them the money to mount an operation to recover the ore, and even requesting funds would announce to the world that there was something valuable on a desolate Russian island. This had to be hush-hush, and it had to be the French who bankrolled the expedition. By this point, the Société had sent teams back to Novaya Zemlya, with no luck. If they wanted a piece of the action, they needed Brewster.
“They agreed to Brewster’s terms. But here’s the thing. Joshua Hayes Brewster is going to double-cross the men of the Société and make off with the ore back to the United States.”
“I get that,” Bell said. “But what about the Little Angel Mine disaster? Why the ruse?”
“It was the French who insisted that Brewster and the others must work in complete secrecy. And rather than come up with nine different cover stories as to why the miners vanished from Central City, they cooked up the phony accident. Brewster is convinced that the real reason is the French plan to murder him and his men after they recover the byzanium ore.”
“Where are he and his men now?”
“They’re arriving in New York on a private train, along with a lot of gear they purchased in Denver. From there, they head to Paris for final briefings and to pick up more equipment. And then the French will return Brewster to the island. He’s going to tell them not to return until next June, but he assures us that he can be ready by May.”
“How are they going to open a mine off the north coast of Siberia in the winter?”
“It’s a tall order, yes, but Brewster told me that to reach the outcrop with the kind of equipment they have, the ground has to be frozen. When he was there in July, he had to wade through a chest-deep bog of melted permafrost to reach the outcrop.”
“And you have someone ready to evacuate them off the island?”
Patmore looked away for a moment. Bell thought the man was about to lie to him. However, the Colonel blew out a breath and looked Isaac in the eye. “I’m still working on that.”
“I appreciate the candor. And now I see your problem. Because Tony and I were looking into the accident, that we may know the truth, the Société’s plan has to evolve, and that focuses additional suspicion on Brewster.”
“And I need him to know that fact so he can alter plans as he sees fit.”
“You have no way of contacting him?”
“Absolutely none. That was part of our operational security arrangements. From the time Joshua bluffed the French into backing his expedition, he could do nothing to jeopardize the mission. He didn’t even know I was on overwatch following the disaster.”
“So, what exactly do you want from me?” Bell asked, knowing the answer.
“I’m sure Foster Gly has gotten some warning to the Société, so killing him now won’t do much good. Therefore, you’ve got to make contact with Brewster in Paris and warn him.”
Bell had expected the second sentence of Patmore’s answer. Not the first, though. Gly was obviously a dangerous man, and these were among the highest stakes he could imagine, but to so casually talk about murdering a man didn’
t seem right coming from a soldier wearing a West Point ring.
“If Brewster can’t find a way to throw the French off their game somehow, they might station guards on the island or make sure their supply ship is in position to preempt our effort to smuggle the ore out of Russia.”
“I’m not saying no, but why don’t you go to Paris. Brewster knows you and will take your warning seriously.”
“Deniability. If it’s learned—” Patmore cut himself off, and his eyes shifted from Bell’s face. Isaac turned to look out the hotel room door as a man in an overcoat carrying a cheap cardboard suitcase reached the top of the stairs. He checked his room number off his key fob and turned down the hallway, unaware he’d been watched. The Colonel didn’t speak until the man had entered his room and closed the door. “If it’s learned I am an active duty officer in Army Intelligence, it could spark a diplomatic incident. Also, it would take a week of fighting bureaucracy to okay such a trip and by then it’ll be too late. I first would need to return to Washington, debrief on my time here, and press for additional support. All that takes time. You, on the other hand, can take express trains to New York and hop the fastest ship to Europe.”
“Not to sound mercenary, but what about payment for my time?” Bell had already decided to take the case and would do so pro bono, but Joseph Van Dorn would have an aneurism if Bell walked away from some government largesse.
“We have some contingency funds that will more than cover your time and expenses. I’m sure I can draw something up, provided you keep receipts.”
“No need for anything formal, Colonel. I’ll take it on faith.”
“You’ll go?”
“Yes. I’m thinking about train schedules. It would be opportune if I can get to New York before they board their steamer, but I can’t imagine them laying over in Manhattan for very long.”
“No. Your best chance is in Paris. But you need to make your approach covertly. The Société des Mines has a large security apparatus.”
“I am versed in operating clandestinely, Colonel.”
“Sorry. I tend to overmanage my people. I do want to make you aware that Marc Massard has a twin brother, Yves, who also works in their security arm. Brewster got to know the two brothers. And Gly, to some extent, because all of them were at the lead mine during that time when the nearest village was complaining that their water was being contaminated. The loudest agitators died in a barn fire, and Gly and Yves joked about the sounds they heard during the conflagration.”
“Lovely,” Bell said sarcastically.
Patmore nodded. “Any talk of contamination abruptly ended, and the three men returned to Paris. Marc Massard tried to murder you yesterday by burying you alive and yet he’s considered the kindest of the three.”
9
They firmed up details, mostly about how to reach each other, and parted company. Bell now felt the pressure of time bearing down on him. He returned to the lobby to use the telephone. He still had to give Hans Bloeser a report on his findings but wanted to move the meeting from the Brown Palace bar to Union Station. As a frequent traveler, he was well aware of the limitations to transcontinental travel, and, as of now, every second counted. Once things were set, he returned to Doc Brinkerhoff’s office to check on Tony Wickersham.
They had moved Tony into a tiny back room with a single window overlooking a grim brick alley. He was lying elevated in bed, his shoulder swaddled under a massive bandage. When he turned from the uninspiring view, his face split into a bright but pained smile.
“Mr. Bell.”
“Tony, how are you holding up?”
“Hurts like the devil, to be honest, but the doctor says it’s best to wean off painkillers, so I must wait twenty minutes for my next shot. But I can move my fingers and thumb, which is proof there was no nerve damage.”
Bell moved closer in order to lay a comforting hand on the Englishman’s good shoulder. “That’s wonderful. I’ve spoken with Hans Bloeser and he says that you are to stay with his brother for the entirety of your convalescence. And that they are going to hire a specialist to make sure you retain as much function as possible.”
“I guess I can’t ask for more than that,” he said, looking pleased with the outcome of his ordeal. “Mr. Bell, can you tell me what happened after I blacked out? I don’t remember a thing.”
“I’m not sure myself,” Bell lied. “The hunter who shot you by mistake never came forward. I tried to find the fiend but saw no trace. While I was looking for the shooter, men from the Satan Mine brought you here.”
“I kind of recall an explosion.”
“That was a little later,” Bell bluffed. “As they were getting ready to take you away, the lead miner from the Satan insisted we blow the mine entrance and stop the flow of water into his property.”
“That makes sense,” the young man said, now that the situation was more clarified in his mind. “What about the Little Angel Mine? Did you find Brewster and the others?”
Bell had considered how he was going to proceed. “Couldn’t get all the way to the back of the mine where they were likely working, so I’m afraid the answer is inconclusive.”
“What about the hints we found? Did they tell you anything?”
Bell’s voice took on a serious, tutorial tone. “In my business, you either have proof or you don’t. There is no third option. There is no gray. It’s black or white. Period. If I can’t absolutely prove otherwise, I have no choice but to endorse the official view.”
“That they all died.”
“As far as I’m concerned, they’re all dead.”
“I guess I was hoping for another answer,” Tony said.
“That’s the other thing about being a detective—never go in looking for an answer you want. It’s enough just to find the truth, without personal bias.” Bell stepped back. “Wonder if I can ask a favor.”
“Of course.”
“May I borrow your truck to get back to Denver? There isn’t a train until late afternoon, and I will likely lose a day getting back to New York. I haven’t seen my wife in quite some time.”
Wickersham gave him a little wolfish smile. “Understand perfectly, Mr. Bell. It’s no trouble at all.”
“I’m meeting Mr. Bloeser at Union Station. He said he’ll bring one of his employees to drive the truck to his brother’s place so it will be there during your convalescence.”
“Not sure how long it’ll be before I can handle driving, but . . .” Tony’s voice trailed off.
Bell wished he could explain to Tony that he hadn’t been shot for nothing and that there was more afoot than he could possibly know. He decided there and then to send Tony a detailed letter when the affair was ended so he would know the crucial part he’d played in its opening gambit.
“You’ll be up and about before you know it. For now—and I’m sure everyone has told you this—the best thing is to get your rest.”
“I know.”
“I’ll look you up next time I’m in Denver.”
“I’d like that, Mr. Bell.”
“And Tony, thank you for all your help.”
Wickersham pointed at his bandaged shoulder. “Can’t say it was a pleasure, but you’re welcome, Mr. Bell.”
Isaac caught Dr. Brinkerhoff and asked if there was any payment due and was told that the Bloesers were paying for Tony’s treatment. He thanked the man again and went on his way.
The track out of the mountains and on to Denver was much better than the trails up to the mines, so all Bell had to do was top off the REO’s fuel tank and make sure the spare can was full too. It was just under forty miles, and mostly downhill, but he didn’t want to take the chance of getting stranded. He also made certain he had spare water in a separate can for engine coolant. Tony had extra lubricating oil in a tin, alongside the toolkit, in a hinged box in the truck’s bed.
Road travel
improved every day, but it was nowhere near reliable.
He asked the barman at the hotel to put together some food for his trip while he repacked his bag and settled the bill. Bell stowed his bag in the back of the truck, took off his hat and wedged it under the seat since at speed it would likely blow off, and left the town of Central City behind him. He had come here to solve one mystery but instead found himself embroiled in international intrigue, facing men who thought nothing of taking another’s life. It wasn’t the first time he’d found himself in such a situation, but it gave him pause to consider how long it would be before his luck ran out and his opponents had the upper hand.
A little over two hours of driving brought him to Denver. The truck had run flawlessly, but he’d stopped to help another motorist climbing the Front Range Mountains whose radiator had run dry. He parked the truck outside Union Station. He was chilled to the bone but had made it with twenty minutes to spare before Hans Bloeser was scheduled to arrive.
He strode into the tall, echoing main hall and quickly located an idle ticketing agent. Though the man was extraordinarily efficient, it took all of Bell’s time cushion to find trains that would get him to New York as quickly as possible. The route out of Denver was straight to Topeka, Kansas, where he’d catch up to the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe line’s California Limited that had already come through on its way out of Los Angeles. Once he reached Chicago, he could buy a ticket for the eighteen-hour express run to New York on the 20th Century Limited.
* * *
—
Hans Bloeser found him just as he was finishing paying for the tickets. The man with Bloeser was introduced as Stephen, an assistant from the bank who would drive Tony Wickersham’s REO to Ernst Bloeser’s house in Golden.
They found a booth at the station’s lunch counter and ordered coffee from the overworked waiter. They first discussed Tony’s condition and future needs. Bell did offer to help pay some of the expenses because he felt guilty over what had transpired. Bloeser wouldn’t hear of it.
The Titanic Secret Page 11
