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Isaac Bell telephoned Andrew Rubenoff, filled him in on Research’s suspicions, and asked, “Is the Bank of Hamburg a real bank or a sham?”
“Where did you hear about Bank of Hamburg, if I may ask?”
“Van Dorn Research.”
“I am impressed,” Rubenoff answered. “I doff my hat to them. Hamburg Bankhaus is not widely known outside professional circles.”
“I’ll pass on the compliment. Is it real or a sham?”
“It’s real. They’re very active in German enterprises doing business in America. First among their enterprises, they’re the principal lender to the Leipzig Organ and Piano Company.”
“The piano shops?”
“You’ve seen them. Leipzig Organ has expanded hugely in America — opening all sorts of branches to sell parlor pianos. Funny you should ask, though.”
“Why is that?”
“I was just in one of their shops the other day trying to buy sheet music. But they were sold out of ‘Ah! Sweet Mystery of Life.’”
“It’s very popular.”
“When a music shop is sold out of a brand-new Victor Herbert song, something is terribly wrong with the shop.”
“Or the publisher.”
“The publisher will blame the shop, of course. Either for not ordering enough or not paying their bills. Though in this instance they may be right. The shop had a very poor selection. The most recent I could find was ‘I Love My Wife; But, Oh, You Kid!’ That’s been around so long the paper was turning yellow.”
“How were their pianos?”
“Decent enough, for uprights. Good German quality.”
Bell asked. “Where is Leipzig’s headquarters?”
“Leipzig. As their name would suggest.”
“I mean here in America.”
“They’d have a sales rep.”
“How do they conduct business?”
“The representative will be a top man on commission. He’ll conduct any business that has to be done here. The rest will be handled in Leipzig.”
“Leipzig wouldn’t be owned by Krieg, by any chance?”
“I doubt they’d borrow money from Hamburg if they were. They’d have access to better rates of interest through Krieg.”
Bell pondered his next move.
“Uncle Andy, tell me about pianos.”
* * *
The Leipzig Organ & Piano Company’s plate-glass front window was sparkling clean, Isaac Bell noted as he hurried along the sidewalk. Sheet music shortcomings aside, from the sidewalk at least the shop had nothing to apologize for. He stopped, peered through the glass, pulled his watch from his pocket by its heavy gold chain, pretended to check whether he had time to spare, and went inside.
Sturd
