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Gangs of newsboys galloped out of the Times building. They scattered up and down Broadway and Seventh Avenue, waving extra editions and shouting the story.
“Rich old man jumps off Washington Monument.”
Bell bought a paper. He and Edna leaned over the headline
TYCOON SUICIDE
STANDARD OIL MAGNATE LEAPS TO DEATH FROM WASHINGTON MONUMENT
and raced down the column and onto the second page.
“Why do you think he did it?” asked Bell. “Guilt?”
Edna Matters shook her head. “Clyde Lapham would have to look up ‘guilt’ in the dictionary to get even a murky idea of its meaning.”
“Maybe he felt the government closing in,” said Bell, knowing the Van Dorn investigation had yet to turn up enough evidence to please a prosecutor.
“If he jumped,” said Edna, “because he felt the government breathing down his neck, then his last living thought must have been I should have taken Rockefeller with me.” She cupped Bell’s cheek in her hand. “Isaac, I must go home. I have to look into this . . . I bet you do, too.”
—
At the Yale Club on 44th Street, where Isaac Bell lodged when in New York, Matthew, the night hall porter, ushered him inside.
“Mr. Forrer telephoned ahead and asked that I slip him in privately by the service door. I put him in the lounge.”
Bell bounded up the stairs.
The Main Lounge, a high-ceilinged room of couches and armchairs, was deserted at this late hour but for the chief of Van Dorn Research, who occupied most of a couch. Forrer wore wire-rimmed spectacles, as befit his station as a scholar. Scholarly he was, but a very large man, as tall as Bell and twice as wide. Bell had seen him disperse rioters by strolling among them.
“The Boss and I have been burning up the wires. All hell’s broken loose on the Corporations Commission case.”
“I just read the Lapham story. Do we know for sure he killed himself?”
“No. All we know is what Archie Abbott learned when he wormed his way into the official investigation. Mr. Van Dorn was impressed, which he isn’t always with Archie.”
“What did Archie learn?”
“Someone—if not Lapham, then presumably our assassin—pulled an elaborate fast one on the Army, who operate the monument. So elaborate that it can only be characterized as baroque.”
“‘Baroque’? What do you mean, baroque? Complicated?”
“More than complicated. Bizarre. Whimsical as an elaborate prank, except a man died. It’s hard to imagine they pulled it off. Harder to reckon why they went to such trouble to kill one old man.”
“How could he fit out the window?” asked Bell. “They barred them up after that lunatic Anti-Saloon Leaguer tried to jump with a banner.”
“The bars were forced open with a barn jack.”
“It takes time to crank a barn jack. Why didn’t anyone stop him?”
“No one saw. The window on the west had been cordoned off from the observation area with canvas drapes to ensure the privacy of an artist painting the view.”
“Where was the artist?”
“No one is exactly sure they ever saw the artist. He left behind his paint box and his easel but no painting. According to Archie, it’s not clear he did more than set up his easel. And before you ask his name, it was very likely a false name.”
“What was it?”
“This is where things turn complicated. I’ll get to his name in a moment.”
