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“And he gave you a list of the so-called members of the club?”
Coligney patted his pocket. “Seven of ’em who were there that night.”
Bell was dying to see the names but knew that Coligney would not hand them over until they had come to a firm agreement. He turned to Van Dorn.
“My gut is inclined to agree with Captain Coligney’s gut. The brothel proprietor is likely telling the truth—or at least as much as he knows. He would have to be a lunatic to make up the story out of whole cloth, knowing the police would come down on him with all four feet.”
“He’s no lunatic,” said Coligney. “He’s one smart cookie. It’s no accident he’s prospered uncommonly at his unsavory trade.”
Isaac Bell and Joseph Van Dorn exchanged a glance.
Bell said, “In other words, it’s possible that he did invent the story, reckoning to buy time, gambling you might get transferred like the other captains and a more easygoing fellow be given command of the Tenderloin.”
“It’s possible he’s making it up,” Coligney conceded.
Bell traded another look with Van Dorn. The Boss shook his head. Then he addressed Coligney. “I’ve come to know the President, slightly, while dealing with his Justice Department.
He’s sometimes a reckless fellow. But his heart is in the right place.
“The sad fact is, based on the blood-soaked record, the presidency of the United States is a dangerous job. Until proven otherwise, I have to assume the threat is real. Isaac will work up the case.”
“Can’t ask for better than that,” said Coligney. “Good luck, Isaac.” He gave Bell the list and shook his hand. Then he thanked Van Dorn and sauntered out of the cellar bar with a lighter step than he had entered with.
Isaac Bell knew he’d need good luck and then some. He was suddenly working up two cases. The Black Hand was growing bolder every day. And while this new case hinged on the word of a less-than-trustworthy brothel keeper, no one could forget that Theodore Roosevelt himself had been hurled into office less than five years ago, when President McKinley was gunned down by an assassin.
Nick Sayers fingered Isaac Bell’s card suspiciously. “What brings a private detective to the Cherry Grove so early in the morning? Are you seeking a merry end to a long night?”
“A crime has taken place,” said Bell with a significant glance about the extravagantly decorated library.
“Crime?”
“Someone stole Madame Récamier’s dress.”
“What?”
Bell indicated the oversize copy of Jacques-Louis David’s oil painting that dominated the room. A skilled artist had reproduced the portrait of the lady reclining on her couch in every detail except that a thin black headband was the only article of clothing that remained of her original costume.
Bell’s observation elicited an admiring smile from the brothel owner. “You know, Mr. Bell, you’re the first to notice.”
“I imagine your regular guests don’t come for the clothes.”
“What can I do for you, sir?”
“Join me in a private conversation,” said Bell. “Which is to say, not in this library.”
“What?”
“We have a mutual friend in law enforcement.”
Three minutes later, they were hunched over Coligney’s list in Sayers’ private office upstairs. Bell said, “Tell me exactly what you heard.”
“I didn’t pay much attention at first. They were ranting about the President, really tearing into him. But I’d heard it all before. They hate him.”
“But what did you hear?”
“What caught my ear, first, was one of them said, ‘Men of means will have no place in this country if he hangs on long enough to get reelected in ’08.’”
“All right,” said Bell. “Anything else?”
