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Bell appeared to change the subject. “I understand your father is still alive.”
A look of genuine affection warmed Rockefeller’s cold face. “Ninety and going strong.”
“Men live long in your family.”
“The lord has blessed us with many years.”
“Many years to break bad habits.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You’ve been allotted more years than most to break habits you should break,” said Isaac Bell.
Rockefeller bridled. “I am using my years for philanthropy—for all the good it’s done me. They still think I’m a monster.”
“They think you’re a bully. And they’re right. But if you ask me, you’ve made a good start with philanthropy. I’d keep at it.”
“Would you, now? You are not familiar with business affairs, Mr. Bell. You’re like certain writers, theorists, socialists, and anarchists—so ready to determine how best they can appropriate the possessions of others.”
“Good-bye, Mr. Rockefeller.”
“You can’t leave me defenseless. You took a job and signed a contract to protect me. What if Matters surfaces and tries to kill me?”
“I’ve assigned Wish Clarke to escort you home to Cleveland. There, your bodyguards will be provided by Van Dorn Protective Services.”
“Van Dorn? Are you going back to Van Dorn?”
“I never left.”
“What? You never left Van Dorn’s employ?”
“Never.”
“You’re still working up the Corporations Commission case! You tricked me.”
The trace of a smile moderated Bell’s stern features. “You are not familiar with detective affairs, Mr. Rockefeller. It’s my job to trick suspects. In fact . . . you could call it a habit.”
Rockefeller’s eyes flickered as if he were trying to recall how much information he had given away. But when he spoke, all he said was, “How long will these guards protect me?”
“Until you feel safe.”
“How will I ever feel safe from that murderer?”
“You will feel safe when he is hanged.”
“What makes you so sure he will be?”
“Another Van Dorn habit. We never give up.”
True to form, John D. Rockefeller did the unexpected. He laughed. “That’s a good one.” He thrust out his hand. “I prefer friendships founded on business. I’m glad we’ve done business, Mr. Bell.”
—
The grim atmosphere in the Van Dorn Detective Agency’s New York field office reminded Isaac Bell of the night riots broke out in Baku. “Himself” was back in town, Joseph Van Dorn, hulking like a bad-tempered sphinx in the back of the bull pen where Bell, who had just raced from the ferry pier, had summoned his assassin squad to bring him up to date.
Archie Abbott looked miserable and was sporting a black eye. The anxious glances he kept shooting at Van Dorn told Bell that Archie had learned nothing about the Army deserter who won the President’s Medal.
Grady Forrer, directing head of the gunsmith hunt, was watching Van Dorn as if the Boss were a rotund cobra.
