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“Done,” said Bell, extending his hand. If Claypool were innocent, then the Van Dorn Detective Agency had just gained a shrewd source inside the upper echelons of American business; if Claypool were guilty, the Van Dorns were inside the inside man.
They shook on it, and Brewster Claypool asked, “What can I tell you about Wall Street?”
Isaac Bell leveled a cold-eyed gaze at the window. “Who down there hates the President of the United States enough to kill him?”
18
John Butler Culp’s grandfather built a Hudson River estate at Storm King Mountain. Culp’s father hugely expanded it, and the mansion was currently being enlarged and modernized by the son. They called it Raven’s Eyrie, after the Raven—the grandfather’s first steamboat that spawned their river, railroad, mining, and financial empires. Brewster Claypool dubbed it, archly, affectionately, and extremely privately, the Birdhouse.
Claypool found Culp in the gymnasium sparring with Lee, one of the prizefighters he kept on the place. The gym was a physical culture temple brightly lighted by a wall of windows. The morning sun beamed on the men perspiring in the ring. The other prizefighter, a heavyweight named Barry, was exercising with full-size twenty-pound, twenty-eight-inch Indian clubs. Neither of the boxers was the broken-down pug type that some rich men kept around as bodyguards, but competitors in their prime. Nonetheless, Barry had a black eye.
Black eyes tended to happen sparring with Culp, and Claypool helped him inflict another by flourishing his gold-headed cane to reflect the sun. Momentarily distracted, Lee received a powerful jab that knocked him into the ropes. That ought to teach him never to let down his guard around Culp.
Culp dismissed his fighters with orders to go to the kitchen and tell the cook to give them beefsteaks for their black eyes. Then he vaulted over the ropes, landed beside Claypool with a crash that shook the floor, and demanded, “What happened with Isaac Bell?”
Claypool reported in detail.
Culp snatched up his Indian clubs. But he listened intently, even as he whirled the bulbous lengths of varnished wood around his head like the Wright brothers’ propellers. He interrupted only when Claypool said, “Finally, Detective Bell asked, ‘Who hates Roosevelt enough to kill him?’”
“What did you answer?”
“I handed him the membership directory of the New York Stock Exchange.”
Culp dropped the clubs, slapped his thigh, and roared with laughter.
The master-servant indignities suffered by Claypool as “Culp’s man” were vastly mitigated by the sheer pleasure of conspiring with him.
“What’s he looking for?”
“He’s fishing.”
“Can we be connected?”
“Never.”
“Why?”
“We are separated by a long chain of people who don’t know each other, much less us.”
“Then where did Bell get his list? Manfred, Bill, Gore, Warren, and Jeremy Pendergast were all at the club the night you and I discussed this.”
“Here, I believe, Isaac Bell made a mistake. He gave up quite a clue with that list.”
“Right he did! Now we know someone in that room told him who was there.”
“So it would seem.”
“I want to know who? And why? Who’s going to try to use this against me?”
Claypool said, “It couldn’t have been any Cherry Grovers; none heard a word that could lead to putting two and two together.”
Culp, growing agitated, asked, “The girls?”
“Of course not. Unless you indulged in uncharacteristic pillow talk.”
“That’ll be the day. What about you?”
“I left early that night,” said Claypool. “With much on my mind.”
