“Good Lord, Barlowe,” Riker smiled. “Your generosity of spirit will mislead your customer into believing I am a miracle worker instead of a simple merchant.”
Riker spoke with an English accent similar to Abbington-Westlake’s aristocratic drawl, but the color of his coat suggested to Bell that he was German. It was a Chesterfield, with the traditional black velvet collar. An Englishman’s or American’s Chesterfield would be cut of a navy or charcoal gray fabric. Riker’s was a dark green loden cloth.
Riker removed his gloves, slipped his cane into his left hand, and extended his right. “Good day, sir. As you have just heard, I am Erhard Riker.”
“Isaac Bell.”
They shook hands. Riker had a strong, firm grip.
“If you would allow me the honor, I will look for the perfect gem for your fiancée. What color are the lady’s eyes?”
“Coral-sea green.”
“And her hair?”
“Her hair is blond. Pale as straw.”
“By the smile on your face, I have a picture of her beauty.”
“Multiply it by ten.”
Riker bowed in the European manner. “In that event, I will find for you a gem that is almost her equal.”
“Thank you,” said Bell. “You are very kind. Have we met before? Your face is familiar.”
“We have not been introduced before,” replied Riker. “But I, too, recognize you. I believe it was at Camden, New Jersey, early this week.”
“At the Michigan launching! Of course. Now I remember. You gave the shipyard owner the gift he presented to the young lady who sponsored the battleship.”
“I stood in for one of my Newark clients who decorated the pendant with my gemstones.”
“Well, isn’t this a wonderful coincidence?” exclaimed Solomon Barlowe.
“Two coincidences,” Isaac Bell corrected him. “First, Mr. Riker happened along while I was shopping for a special diamond. Second, it turned out we attended the same ship launching in Camden last Monday.”
“As if written in the stars!” Riker laughed. “Or should I say diamonds? For what are diamonds but man-size stars? My hunt begins this instant! Do not hesitate to get in touch, Mr. Bell. In New York I stay at the Waldorf-Astoria. The hotel forwards my mail when I travel.”
“You can find me at the Yale Club,” said Bell, and they exchanged cards.
EVERY VAN DORN, from apprentice to chief investigator, was taught from the first day he went to work that coincidences were presumed guilty until proven innocent. Bell asked Research to look into the gem importers Riker & Riker. Then he turned over his camera, ordered the film to be developed and brought to him immediately, and went down to the hotel’s basement lobby, off of which was snugged a quiet, dimly lit bar.
Abbington-Westlake had arrived ahead of him, a good sign that he had frightened the daylights out of the Naval Attaché with his threat to go to the British Embassy.
Bell decided that he would get more out of him now with a milder approach, and he said, “Thank you for coming.”
He saw immediately it was a mistake. Abbington-Westlake glowered imperiously, and snapped, “I don’t recall being offered a choice in the matter.”
“Your choice of snapshots,” Bell fired back, “would get you arrested if I were a government agent.”
“No one can arrest me. I have diplomatic immunity.”
“Will your diplomatic immunity bail you out of trouble with your superiors in London?”
Abbington-Westlake’s lips shut tightly.
“Of course it won’t,” Bell said. “I’m not a government agent, but I certainly know where to find one. And the last thing you want is for your rivals in the Foreign Office to learn you’ve been caught with your hand in the cookie jar.”
“See here, old boy, let’s not go off half cocked.”
“What did you bring me?”
“I beg your pardon?” Abbington-Westlake stalled.
“Who did you bring me? Give me a name. A foreign spy whom I can have arrested instead of you.”
“Old chap, you have an extremely inflated estimate of my powers. I don’t know anyone to bring you.”
“And you have an extremely inflated estimate of my patience.” Bell glanced around inquiringly. Couples were drinking at the nearly dark tables. Several men stood alone at the bar. Bell said, “Do you see the gentleman on the right? The one wearing the bowler hat?”
“What about him?”
“Secret Service. Shall I ask him to join us?”
The Englishman wet his lips. “All right, Bell. Let me tell you what I can. I warn you it is very little.”
“Start small,” said Bell coldly. “We’ll work from there.”
“All right. All right.” He wet his lips again and glanced around. Bell suspected that he was starting a lie. He let the Englishman speak without interruption. After tangling himself in it, he would be more vulnerable to pressure.
“There is a Frenchman named Colbert,” Abbington-Westlake began. “He trades in arms.”
“Colbert, you say?” God bless the Van Dorn Research boys.
“Raymond Colbert. And while trading arms is hardly a savory enterprise, it is actually a blind for Colbert’s sinister deeds… You are familiar with the Holland submarine?”
Bell nodded. He’d had Falconer fill him in and borrowed a book.
As the Naval Attaché wove his tale, Isaac Bell was struck with admiration-which he concealed-for Abbington-Westlake’s cool nerve. Faced with the threat of exposure, he was turning it into an opportunity to destroy the man who was blackmailing his wife. He rattled on a while about purloined architect drawings and a special gyro to keep the boat on course underwater. Bell let him, until the door opened and a Van Dorn apprentice came in with a large manila envelope. Bell noted approvingly that the kid did not approach until Bell gave him the nod and retreated silently after handing him the envelope.
“As we speak, old boy, Colbert is en route to New York on a Compagnie Générale Transatlantique mail boat. You can nab him the instant she docks at Pier 42. Don’t you see?”
Bell opened the envelope and riffled through the prints.
Abbington-Westlake asked acidly, “Am I boring you, Mr. Bell?”
“Not at all, Commander. I can’t recall a more exciting fiction.”
“Fiction? See here-”
Bell passed a print over their table. “Here is a snapshot of you and the Lady Fiona and the Brooklyn Navy Yard-careful, the paper is a still damp.”