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“If the octopus is ready to get down to brass tacks,” said Van Dorn, “let’s take up the business of this meeting.”
“I intend to hire the Van Dorn Detective Agency to catch the assassin and end the slander.”
“You’re too late,” said Isaac Bell. “The man committed suicide in Humble, Texas.”
“I have rarely heard anything so ridiculous,” said Rockefeller. “You have your facts wrong.”
—
“Not unless you know something that we don’t about Standard Oil policeman Big Pete Straub,” said Bell.
“I do,” Rockefeller said blandly.
“We are all ears,” said Van Dorn.
“Mr. Straub suffered a medical condition the doctors call foot drop. His nerves were damaged by an injury he sustained in the course of a labor dispute. The damage, which was irreparable, caused paralysis of the flexor muscles.”
“Right foot or left?” asked Bell.
“Mr. Straub could not move the toes of his right foot. Had he desired to trigger a rifle with his toe, he would have bared his other foot.”
Van Dorn scowled as if embarrassed his detective was found lacking.
Isaac Bell almost smiled. He felt oddly relieved. That light Savage rifle in that big man’s hands did not feel right. And their attempt to penetrate Standard Oil had just paid off in a totally unexpected bonus.
“Did your refinery police detectives tell you this?” asked Van Dorn.
“Straub’s superiors reported the condition when they read the accounts in the newspapers. Do you see how perfectly silly that verdict of suicide is?”
“Thank you, Mr. Rockefeller, I do,” said Isaac Bell. “He was murdered. The killing was made to look like suicide. Mr. Straub was not the assassin.”
Bell spoke coolly, but his head was spinning with questions. The lightweight gun. How to explain such extraordinary accuracy? A circus or Wild West Show performer, hardly likely. He was grasping at straws. The assassin could be an ordinary-size man with a penchant for the Savage 99 and the means and knowledge to have the factory weapon smithed to such a degree, it was custom-made. Like the weapon he had left with Straub’s body.
Rockefeller said, “Van Dorn, I want you to stop wasting your time with the investigation in Washington and put your firm’s full effort into catching the assassin.”
Isaac Bell and Joseph Van Dorn knew that Bell’s ploy to infiltrate Standard Oil had hooked their man. Now the job was to reel in the cagey president.
Van Dorn said, “You have your own private detective force. Why don’t you put them to work?”
“They’re not the men for this job. I want the best and I’ll pay for it.”
Bell and Van Dorn exchanged what appeared to be puzzled glances. “But we are already investigating you for the Corporations Commission,” Van Dorn protested. “As I’m sure you know.”
Rockefeller said, “You will recall my instructions that I enter your offices, unaccompanied, by a private entrance.”
Joseph Van Dorn’s grand roman nose wrinkled as if he smelled something unpleasant.
“Mr. Rockefeller, what does your method of arrival have to do with anything?”
“We do not have to inform the Corporations Commission that you’re working for me.”
Joseph Dorn’s mouth tightened. His nostrils flared. His cheeks turned red as his whiskers as he ceased to draw breath. His voice took on a low, steely note that left no doubt that were Rockefeller a younger man, he would drag him down the Willard Hotel’s grand staircase by the scruff of his neck and throw him out the door onto Pennsylvania Avenue.
“I have given my word to my client, the commission. My word is my bond. A sacred oath.”
“This is more urgent,” said Rockefeller.
Van Dorn started to retort.
