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Bloeser spoke fine English with just a trace of a German accent. In Bell’s estimate, he’d come from Germany as a youth and learned English in school but spoke German at home. He had a German’s barrel chest, eyes as blue as Bell’s own, but his hair was dark and thinning. Bell estimated he was at least fifty years old. And had the smoother hands of someone who worked indoors.
“I am. May I help you with something, Mr. Bloeser?”
The stranger indicated to the barman that he wanted two of whatever Bell had been drinking.
“Your reputation as an investigator is known far and wide, Mr. Bell, but it seems that other than a vague description of your blond hair no one seems to know you. The man at the Van Dorn office here in Denver didn’t know you were in town until the arrest this morning at the post office hit the afternoon papers.”
“I prefer to keep my anonymity as best I can, Mr. Bloeser. It helps in my line of work. Also, since I wasn’t in need of additional agents for this morning’s activities, I find it best not to let satellite offices think I’m here checking up on them. As Van Dorn’s chief investigator, I find my presence sometimes distracts rather than benefits.”
“A wise choice, and one I wish I could follow through on. I own a bank with six branches and I find myself unable to leave them well enough alone. My managers must believe that I think they are incompetent and always need minding. In truth, they are all good men, but I can’t help but watch over their shoulders.” The man smiled at his own foible.
“If you are in need of Van Dorn agents, I assure you that Charles Post, our man here, is more than qualified, and he has access to additional men as the need arises. For myself, I leave for the east tomorrow morning.”
Bloeser leaned in conspiratorially. “Would you be willing to listen to a story that might convince you to remain for a while?”
Bell smiled. He liked Bloeser instinctively. “A man who buys me a drink is entitled to tell me a story.”
Bloeser stood and indicated that Bell should follow him to a dark and secluded corner of the bar. He offered Bell a cigar from a leather case. Bell demurred and waited while Bloeser went through the ritual of cutting its tip, warming it with the candle in the center of the table, and puffing the thing to life. The smoke was dense but fragrant.
“Have you heard about the disaster at the Little Angel Mine and the nine fatalities?” When Bell nodded, Bloeser continued. “My brother, Ernst, owns the mine, Mr. Bell. When word reached him in Golden about your presence here in Denver, he cabled me to find you.”
“I’m afraid I know little of mining, so I can’t imagine why your brother sent you to me.”
Bloeser nodded. “But you do know mysteries, sir, and there’s a big one surrounding the disaster.” The banker saw skepticism on Bell’s face. “The papers didn’t tell the half of it. For one thing, Joshua Hayes Brewster, the lead miner, claim-jumped the Little Angel.”
Bell drew back involuntarily. There was a time that even the accusation of claim jumping resulted in swift and usually fatal justice. It was a crime that miners saw as more loathsome than just about any other. To the men of the Rocky Mountain mining community, calling someone a claim jumper was akin to calling them the murderer of children.
A remembered fact popped into Bell’s head that brought into question Bloeser’s assertion. “Didn’t I read that the mine had shut down back in ’81?”
“You did indeed. The mine was a bust from the outset. My brother isn’t a miner himself, just the senior partner in our bank, and he invested heavily in the gold rush. The Little Angel was one in which he owned a stake. Many were successful, others were expensive holes that produced nothing at all. However, it doesn’t matter if the mine was closed or not, one needs permission from the owner to step one foot into another man’s workings. That’s the law and Brewster knew it. Brewster also knew that the Little Angel was a worthless bore, and no matter how much he tried to talk up what he was about to do, nothing changed that fact. There wasn’t then, and there isn’t now, a motherlode waiting to be found up there.”
“If all that is true, what was Brewster really doing?” Bell asked.
Bloeser touched the tip of his nose. “That’s the mystery, sir. What exactly was he doing up there to get him and eight other men killed? I can tell you plain and true that they weren’t looking for silver.”
Bell ran a few scenarios, sifting out ideas or trains of thought, but nothing became immediately clear. While part of him balked at the idea of leaving something unknown on the table, the pragmatist in him wasn’t intrigued enough to forgo a loving reunion with his wife, Marion.
“That does sound intriguing, Mr. Bloeser, but I’m afraid that I have pressing matters back in New York that need my attention.”
“I have yet to tell you the strangest part of my story.”
“Very well.”
“None of the men were married. No one would miss them if they died in a mining accident. No one other than my brother has the slightest interest in their deaths.” Bloeser let that sink in. “One or two bachelors wouldn’t be unusual. Heck, even half wouldn’t raise an eyebrow. But all? No, Brewster selected these particular men because no one was going to miss them. It was as though they knew they weren’t coming out of that shaft. Or . . .”
Bell finished the thought, interest suddenly piqued. “. . . they never went in in the first place.”
The banker settled himself deeper into his club chair, a good enough judge of character to know he’d landed his fish.
Like an artist who must paint, or an author who is compelled to write, Isaac Bell couldn’t refuse an interesting case. His last cable from Marion said she’d be in Georgia until the twenty-second. Factoring in the time it would take
her to get to New York and if Bell upgraded to express trains only, he could buy himself three extra days in Denver.
“If need be,” Bloeser added, “my brother said he is willing to double your normal fee.”
Bell could hear Joseph Van Dorn in his head telling him to take the extra money, but that wasn’t Isaac’s style. “That won’t be necessary, though I might need to bring in our man here in Denver to do legwork.”
“Of course.”
