“‘Time is money.’”
“‘Eight days in the veek.’”
“Pretty good salesman, I gather,” said Bell.
“Valuable man. No question. Valuable man.”
“Lucky for him he’s got that smile,” the cereal salesman chortled.
“What do you mean?” asked Bell.
“Well, you know… Fritz is a heck of a worker, but he sort of looks like a monkey.”
“Sort of?” snickered Jake. “I’ll say he looks like an ape in the jungle.”
“You mean his long arms?” asked Bell.
“Arms like a monkey. Face like one, too.”
“He didn’t really look like a monkey,” Bell protested, mildly.
“He does to me.”
Isaac Bell drew his notebook from his pocket and opened his Waterman fountain pen. “No. Fritz looks more like this.” He tried to draw a man’s face with a prominent brow. “Sort of like this. I’m not much of a hand at drawing.”
The cereal salesman took out his order book and his pen. “No, more like this.”
“Neither of you can draw worth a darn,” laughed the Gillette man. He opened his order book and moved his pen over it, laboriously. “He looks like this.”
The cereal salesman disagreed vehemently, and Bell said, “Not one bit like that. How about you, Jake?”
Jake, the Locomobile man from Bridgeport, took out his book. Isaac Bell watched, holding his breath. Jake was his last chance to get a sketch that resembled Fritz Wunderlich. Surely one of the men at the table could draw. Jake, it turned out, possessed a modicum of artistic talent.
“Like this,” said Jake. He drew in a few quick lines a simian face with long cheeks and deep-set eyes. Then he turned his pencil on the side and shaded in a heavy brow.
The others stared. “You got him just about right, Jake,” one marveled. “That’s Fritz. Darned near.”
“I think you’re right,” Bell ventured, looking to the cereal salesman for confirmation.
“He sure does.”
“Well, I’ll be, Jake’s an artist.”
Jake beamed.
“Could I see that?” asked Bell, picking it up and studying it by the light of the window. “Yes, I believe that’s what he looks like. You’re a real artist, Jake.”
Jake flushed with embarrassment. “Naw, not really. I just started out in the design shop, before I started selling. You really think it’s good?”
“Sure do. Mind if I keep it?”
“You ought to pay for it,” laughed the man from Chicago. “It’s a piece of artwork.”
“You’re right,” said Isaac Bell, reaching for his wallet. “How much?”
“No, no, no.” said Jake. “Go on, you take it.”
“O.K. But when I need a new auto, I’ll know who to come to.”
“Just don’t show it to Fritz,” the cereal man laughed.
“It don’t matter he looks like that,” said Jake. “Fritz’s got that smile, and folks just buy anything he sells.”
“I don’t know about that,” said the man from Gillette.
“What do you mean?” asked Bell.
“Eh, you’re always going on about that,” the cereal sales rep protested. “Fritz is a valuable man.”
“About what?” asked Bell.
“Those shops his firm supplies. I just don’t see them selling that many pianos or sheets of music, for that matter. It’s not a well-run business. From what I’ve seen.”
“They’ve got a fancy-looking shop in Los Angeles,” said Bell.
“Well, you just try buying a piano, you’ll find a waiting list as long as your arm.”
“Or Fritz’s arm,” Jake said, and the table roared.
“Where’s Fritz now?” asked Bell.
“Hope he’s not at the next table listening to this,” said Jake, and the others looked around uncomfortably.
“I’m trying to remember when I saw him,” Bell persisted. “Must have been two weeks, maybe more. Time flies. Anyone seen him lately?”
“I thought in Chicago, he said he was going to Los
Angeles.”
Isaac Bell took Jake’s drawing of Fritz Wunderlich to the Denver Post Building and paid a newspaper sketch artist to make him copies. He took them to the train stations. The Van Dorn Detective Agency had warm relations with the express companies, as the detectives often cadged rides on express cars, whose messengers were glad of another dependable gun. By noon the copies were headed around the continent, courtesy of Adams Express, American Express, and Wells Fargo, to the field offices covering German consulates in New York, Boston, Chicago, Cincinnati, St. Louis, San Francisco, and the vice-consul’s mansion in Los Angeles.
In Jersey City, New Jersey, a short, round Van Dorn apprentice from the New York field office named Nelson Mills found himself wishing he had broken the agency rule that forbade apprentice detectives to carry guns. The baby-faced Mills had just finished his first “solo” assignment, an investigation of the Leipzig Organ & Piano shop in the Heights neighborhood. Scanning his notes as he hurried to catch the Hudson Tube back to Manhattan, he composed in his mind the first sentence of his report—“A yearlong waiting list for pianos, no organs, and sheet music from 1905, conspire to indicate that the Leipzig Organ and Piano Company is a false front for a nefarious business as yet unidentified.”
Suddenly he remembered that Detective Harry Warren had advised him that using one word instead of three was the best way to get the bosses to read his reports. Mills drew mental Xs through “conspired to indicate,” to be replaced with “suggest,” and was debating deleting “nefarious” when he bumped into a big fellow on the sidewalk.
“Excuse me. Sorry.”
Nelson Mills got a fist in his face for his apology.
The young man fell on his back on the pavement with blood pouring from his nose. He was shocked by the speed of the attack. The pain was ferocious. His eyes were blinded by tears. He sensed more, then saw the man who punched him looming over him, and he started to ask “Why?”
The man snatched Nelson’s notebook out of his hand and ripped apart the pages, scattering the pieces on his bloody shirt. “Hey, that’s my—”
A heavy boot smashed into his side. Pain seared his ribs, and Nelson realized too late to save himself that there were two of them. They kicked him repeatedly.
36
Isaac Bell found a stack of angry telegrams waiting for him in the Los Angeles field office. Van Dorns in Cincinnati, Chicago, Ohio, and Jersey City reported their apprentices were beaten up on their way back from investigating Leipzig Organ & Piano shops. Two young men were in the hospital, and one boy in Jersey City had already been given last rites while his family sat vigil at his bedside.
Enraged detectives demanded permission to arrest the shop clerks. But in rapid exchanges of wires, it became clear to Isaac Bell that there was no proof to charge the clerks. The attacks had occurred in streets and alleys far from their shops.
As chief investigator, the best Bell could do was wire a reminder of Van Dorn’s standing orders regarding thugs and hoodlums who assaulted private detectives, when they had been positively identified beyond any doubt:
DISCOURAGE PERPETRATORS FROM
REPEATING ATTACKS.
Larry Saunders stuck his head in Bell’s office door. He had blueprints rolled under his arm. “How was Denver?”
Bell handed him the Locomobile salesman’s sketch. “Give this to the boys covering the vice-consul’s mansion. Wunderlich is real. No one’s seen him lately. What did Holian learn at City Hall?”
Saunders unrolled blueprints on Bell’s desk. They anchored them with sidearms. “Fourth floor. Eighth floor. Penthouse. I don’t see where you’d put a judas hole. Public rooms and open stairways. Maybe this storage closet on the eighth.”