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“You’re under arrest, Judge James Congdon, for murder in the coalfields.”
Congdon laughed at the tall detective.
“I have no time to be arrested. My train is taking me to the convention in Chicago with enough delegates to nominate me to run for vice president of the United States.”
“Then I’ve caught up with you just in time to save the life of your running mate.”
Congdon laughed again, and mocked him, “Never give up? Never? I know you’ve been sniffing around for years, but you’ll never link me to any murders in that strike. Fact is, thanks to me intervening with the coal operators and persuading President Roosevelt to mediate, the strike ended peacefully. Everyone got something they wanted — the miners received a small raise, the producers were not forced to recognize the union — and there’ve been no coal strikes since.”
“Even if that lie were truth,” Bell answered quietly, “even if you got away with every killing in the coalfields, you will die for the murder of Mary Higgins.”
“Mary Higgins died while sabotaging a company steamboat,” Congdon said. “But I can’t allow accusations to confuse gullible voters.” He raised his voice and shouted through the closed door to an adjoining office. “Mr. Potter! I need you.”
A well-built middle-aged man with a beard that was showing flecks of gray limped into the office carrying a leveled Colt Bisley.
Isaac Bell looked him over. “‘Mr. Potter,’ you will disappoint the many who hoped that Henry Clay drowned in the Ohio River.”
Congdon said, “Mr. Clay became Mr. Potter so that I could help him live in great comfort, free of the electric chair.”
“In exchange,” said Bell, “for killing your enemies and rivals.”
Congdon said, “I’m disappointed that you don’t seem one bit surprised. I had hoped to see your jaw drop.”
“Joseph Van Dorn suspected years ago that Clay had to be your assassin. Who else, he asked, could be as cold-blooded? And he described you to a T, Congdon: a man wise enough to see Henry Clay’s talents and greedy enough to employ them.”
Clay’s expression turned cold at Bell’s mention of Van Dorn. “That bulge in your coat where you used to pack your Colt Army, and subsequently a Bisley, is now, I’m informed, a Browning No. 2. Put it on Mr. Congdon’s desk.”
Bell surrendered his favorite pistol of many years, a Belgian-made semiautomatic modified to fire an American .380 caliber cartridge.
“I presume you replaced the sleeve gun I took away from you in New York. Drop it, too.”
Bell shook the derringer out of his sleeve and handed it over.
“And the pocket pistol.”
“You have a long memory,” said Bell.
“It’s kept me alive. Put it on the desk.”
Bell placed the tiny one-shot on the desk.
“And the knife in your boot.”
“Want me to throw it at anything?”
“If you still can, hit the edge of that bookshelf.”
Bell threw overhand. The knive struck like a flash of lightning.
James Congdon howled in dismay. The blade had pierced the portrait of his latest wife, depicted as a shapely goddess in silk gauze, and stood quivering in the lady’s nose. Bell used the distraction to glide behind the shimmering white Rodin marble.
“Sorry, I missed.”
Clay leveled his gun.
“What if you miss me and shoot your boss’s favorite statue?”
