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“Fortunately for Standard Oil,” said Edna, “Standard Oil does not depend on the kindness of friends.”
“And furthermore,” said Nellie, all excited with color high in her cheeks, “Baku could be the biggest thing to hit the oil business since Spindletop.”
“In an opposite way,” Edna interrupted drily. “Cutting production in half instead of spouting gushers.”
“I don’t know if the situation is that bad,” Matters said automatically. “The authorities seem back in control.”
“Really?” asked Edna. “There’s a rumor making the rounds that shots were fired at some American business men.”
Bill Matters shrugged. “An isolated incident.”
“Apparently,” said Edna, “the Cossacks reacted by slaughtering refinery workers. And now the rest are up in arms.”
Matters shrugged again. “It’s Russia. My impression is the authorities have strict control of the situation.”
“And what are you doing here, Father? Last we heard, you were in Cleveland. I just mailed you a postcard there. Had I known, I could have handed it to you and saved a stamp.”
“Mr. Rockefeller sent me to rustle up some refinery business—and don’t print that.”
“Not without verification,” Edna said.
Nellie laughed so loudly that people glanced from nearby tables. “Father, you should see your face. You know darned well she won’t print that. Certain things are sacred.”
“Father is sacred,” said Edna with a wink that warmed Bill Matters’ heart.
He sat back with a happy smile on his face. They had bought his story.
“It’s like old times,” he said.
The girls exchanged a glance. “Whatever do you mean?” asked Nellie, and Edna asked, “What are you smiling about, Father?”
“Like going to New York to see a play back when you were in pigtails.”
“‘Pigtails’?” echoed Nellie in mock horror. “Whenever you took us to the theater, we dressed like perfect little ladies.”
“Even after we ceased to be,” said Edna.
“All I’m saying is, it makes me very happy.”
—
“Who was that man with E. M. Hock and Nellie Matters?” John D. Rockefeller asked Isaac Bell. “I saw him at the Astoria, and lurking here in the lobby when they came for tea with their father.”
“He is their bodyguard.”
“He looks the part, I suppose. But are you sure?”
“I know him well,” said Bell. “Aloysius Clarke. He was a Van Dorn detective.”
“A Van Dorn? What is a Van Dorn doing here?”
“Not anymore. Mr. Van Dorn let him go.”
“For what?”
“Drinking.”
“Drinking? I’d have thought that was not uncommon among detectives.”
