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“Starting this minute, you are a Van Dorn apprentice detective. Here’s your first assignment: report to the Van Dorn field office in Paris.”
“Paris?”
“On the Rue du Bac. My old pal Horace Bronson ramrods it. He’ll take care of you. He’s a top man. Used to run the San Francisco office. Here. Here’s money, you’ll need it.” He emptied the notes from his billfold and coins from his pockets into her hands. Then he yanked open another desk drawer. “And here’s some French francs. Tell Mr. Bronson you have a message for Van Dorn’s chief investigator in America…” He tried to catch his breath. It was getting hard to get wind into his lungs.
“The message is: ‘Krieg Rüstungswerk GmbH’s agent in America is an Imperial Army general major named Christian Semmler.’ Repeat that!”
Pauline repeated it word for word.
“Second half of the message: ‘Semmler is nicknamed “Monkey.” He’s thirty-five years old, medium height, powerful frame, blond hair, green eyes, long arms. Like a monkey.’ Repeat that!”
She did.
“Now get out of here.”
“But I can’t you leave you.”
“A Van Dorn apprentice always obeys orders.” He clasped her face between his trembling hands and glared into her eyes. “This is vital, Pauline. You are the only one who can solve this case and save men’s lives. Go. Please, go.”
He pushed her away.
Biting her lips, Pauline put on h
er coat and hat and pocketed the Browning. Curtis turned out the light. To his immense relief, he heard her open the back window. He heard the fire ladder rungs creak. He listened for her footsteps in the alley, but instead heard boots pounding up the stairs.
Arthur Curtis picked up Pauline’s rusted revolver and aimed it at the door, hoping it wouldn’t blow up in his hand. Not that that would make much difference. But the longer he could hold them off, the farther she could run.
* * *
“Cablegram from Paris, Mr. Bell.”
Bell took it with an amused smile. The Van Dorn apprentice detective who had delivered the cablegram, a slender youth in immaculate white shirt and trousers and a lavender bow tie, was aping the sartorial magnificence that the Van Dorn Los Angeles field office was famous for. All he was missing was a lavender bowler, for which he was probably banking his salary.
“Wait for my reply, please.”
Isaac Bell slit the envelope:
GERMAN POLICE REPORT ART CURTIS
SHOT DEAD. I’VE SENT MAN TO
BERLIN FOR PARTICULARS.
BRONSON
31
“What’s your reply, Mr. Bell?”
Isaac Bell heard the apprentice as if he were calling from a rooftop. When he turned to him, the boy flinched from his raging eyes.
“Reply, sir?” he repeated bravely.
“Cable this:
RETURN BODY DENVER.
MY EXPENSE.
