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“Maybe you got puddingheaded when she slipped you the knockout drops.”
“How do you know about that?”
“Give Van Dorns some credit. The pharmacist she bought the chloral from told me. You gave Mary Congdon’s name, didn’t you?”
“I must have.”
“You signed her death warrant.”
Clay looked at Congdon, who was slumped behind his desk. “Did you hurt her?”
Congdon said, “It’s a trick, you idiot.”
Clay looked to Bell. The color of Bell’s eyes had darkened to a steely blue. He directed them straight at the rogue detective. “We never give up,” he said softly. “You know that better than anybody. It was Mr. Van Dorn’s motto from the beginning, wasn’t it?”
Clay stared. Then he lowered his eyes and nodded agreement. “Yes, from the beginning.”
Isaac Bell said, “It took me ten years to trace her steps from Pittsburgh to New York, to Wall Street, to this building, to this office. You know your business, Clay, you know how it works. A word here, a hint there, a memory, a glimpse. It’s easier when it’s a pretty girl who struck the eye. Ticket agents. Train conductors. Landladies. A unionist finally out of prison. Bits. Pieces. Bits of nothing. Suddenly, you get lucky with a clerk who makes change for the El. Right around the corner. A hundred feet from this building. Then back to bits of nothing. Finally, a stroke of luck.”
Bell turned to Congdon.
“The brokerage house of Thibodeau & Marzen went bankrupt in the Panic of ’07. There were lawsuits by the dozen. Judge James Congdon’s name surfaced in court. Turned out you owned the broker. And thanks to an old detective who once told me that sometimes dead ends turn around, I had in my files a copy of a private wire transmitted on Thibodeau & Marzen’s leased telegraph line to Henry Clay’s alias, John Claggart.”
Bell turned back to Henry Clay. “But I still had no final absolute, provable connection. Until, one night, I got lucky again. An elevator runner, a temporary filling in that evening and who left town the day after, was all of a sudden back ten years later. His uncle was still the superintendent of the building. The nephew’s hopes hadn’t panned out. And his uncle gave him a job.”
Bell shifted his gaze to Congdon for a long moment, then back to Henry Clay.
“The lucky detective stopped by — as he had regularly — and this time found the new elevator runner and recognized him as the temporary who had been working that night ten years ago.
“‘Sure, I remember that girl. She was a looker. But, boy, did she look mad.’”
Bell’s voice thickened. “I asked, ‘When did you take her back down?’
“‘Didn’t,’ he said. ‘She never come down on my shift and I was on for darn near ten hours straight.’ And I asked again, ‘You ran her to what floor?’
“‘Top floor. Mr. Congdon’s own private floor.’
“‘Are you sure?’
“‘Sure I’m sure. Orders were, you had to call ahead to go to Mr. Congdon’s floor. I called ahead. Mr. Congdon said, “Bring her up.” I brought her up.’
“Mary Higgins died right here in this office. Right beside your boss’s statue.”
“It was self-defense!” Congdon shouted.
“What?” said Clay.
“She did not come here to ‘confront’ me. She came to kill me.”
Isaac Bell said, “I never doubted that Mary Higgins was a woman of the highest moral standard. You just confirmed it with your confession that you thought she intended to kill you.”
“I made no confession.”
“I just heard it from your own lips.”
“It’s your word against mine.”
“And his,” said Isaac Bell.
