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“In other words, Chuck, get your own disguise.”
Along with the cap and the changemaker, Shipley affected a severe limp, but seated behind the counter it was hard to show it off, as the only time he got to step out was when the trucks arrived with fresh editions. But here came one now, bearing bundles of the Los Angeles Examiner. The driver stayed behind the wheel. The helper slung a bundle under his arm and brought it around to the side, blocking the door so Chuck Shipley couldn’t get out to strut his limp.
“Where’s the blind guy?”
“He’s off tonight. His old man got sick.”
“Here, I got something for him. You give it to him.”
“What is it?”
“Look here.” The helper was holding something below his knees. Chuck looked. He saw nothing but the helper’s hand, which suddenly formed a fist encased in brass knuckles that traveled at his jaw like a rocket. Caught flat-footed, Chuck saw fireballs of different colors and then nothing but night.
The helper stretched Shipley out on the floor and grabbed more bundles from the truck to cover the body.
Then the Examiner truck pulled across the street and stopped in front of the German vice-consul’s mansion. Six powerful men in a variety of slouch hats and loose-fitting suits of clothes exited the mansion by a bas
ement door. Most wore short beards; all had the blue-eyed, strong-jawed features of the South African Dutch. They piled into the truck, which drove straight to the Imperial Building. The six entered the lobby by the side entrance. The doormen greeted them warmly, like old comrades-in-arms.
* * *
The Golden State Limited rumbled into La Grande Station on time.
From a distance, Bell spotted a familiar short, compact figure jump impatiently from the stateroom car that Research had determined was Brooks’s. Brooks pushed through the crowd on the platform and through the arrival hall to the front of the station.
Bell gave Texas Walt the nod. Brooks hopped into a taxi. Walt eased into the Oldsmobile, and the Van Dorn driver trailed Brooks’s taxi away from the station. Balant, waiting by the streetcar track, hailed another taxi and tore after them.
“Mr. Bell. Mr. Bell.”
Bell recognized the out-of-breath Van Dorn messenger running up to him.
“Best to keep your voice low, son, while engaging a colleague on duty,” Bell cautioned, mildly. He took the messenger’s arm. “Walk along with me while we try to notice who took notice… What do you make of that fellow in the straw hat? Is he watching us?… Oh, there he goes with that lady kissing him. Otherwise, we’re clear. What’s the message?”
“Telephone Mr. Clyde Lynds soon as you can.”
Bell hurried inside the train station and telephoned the laboratory. Clyde Lynds sounded even more excited than the messenger. “Come see. I’ve synchronized sound and pictures.”
“I’ll be right there.”
But as Bell exited the station to race to the Imperial Building, he bumped into Texas Walt.
“What are you doing here? Did you lose Brooks?”
“Nope.”
“Where is he?”
“Stopped in Levy’s Café for supper. Balant’s watching him.”
“Cover him closely. I’ll be at the Imperial Building.”
“Can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Guess who he’s eating supper with?”
“Irina Viorets.”
