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“I know Tony and I know Ernst Bloeser, Mr. Bell. Would you like me to make the call for you?”
Although Bell was sorely tempted, Tony was his responsibility. “Kind of you to offer, but this is my bullet to take.”
The manager set up the call through the various exchanges while Isaac downed a quick shot of whiskey in the bar. When the wires were aligned, the manager motioned for Bell to enter the booth just off the reception desk. Bell did and closed its accordion door. A light automatically flickered to life above him.
“Mr. Bloeser, this is Isaac Bell. Your brother and I met at the Brown Palace Hotel and he hired me to investigate the Little Angel Mine disaster.”
“Hello, Mr. Bell. This is actually Hans Bloeser. I am with my brother this evening for dinner, hoping we might get some news from you.”
“The news is not good, I’m afraid. Your man, Tony, was accidentally shot in the shoulder.” Bell heard a sharp intake of breath over the staticky line. “He’s going to be fine. The doc’s going to keep him here in Central City for a few days before sending him home.”
A few seconds passed while Hans reiterated the news to his brother. He finally told Bell, “When the time comes, Ernst will fetch Tony and keep him at his house until the lad is up and about.”
“The doc here mentioned physiotherapy.”
“Ja, we will find the best in Denver and he will work with Tony every day until he is, ah, right as rain.”
“I’m heartened to hear he has such generous support.”
“Mr. Bell, what about our reason for hiring you? Were you perhaps successful—”
Bell cut him off before he could finish the question. He cited the fact that this was an open wire, but, in truth, he wanted a fuller understanding of the situation from Colonel Patmore before telling the Bloesers anything. “Why don’t we meet tomorrow night at the Brown Palace and I’ll give you my full report.”
“Very well, Mr. Bell. Until tomorrow.”
He exited the telephone booth and asked the manager that when one Mr. Greggory Patmore arrived, Bell was to be told immediately. His room didn’t have its own tub, but as it was between dinner and bedtime for most guests, no one disturbed him while he warmed in the large ceramic tub in the shared bathing facility. Afterward, he ate a late supper and had two more drinks. It was nearing ten at night and still no sign of the Colonel. Bell was too tired to consider this a bad omen. He repeated his instructions to the night man and went to bed.
Patmore didn’t turn up until an hour after dawn. Bell was in the hotel restaurant, lingering over a coffee and staring idly out the window, when the military man came through from the lobby. He looked a little worse for wear, but, then again, he had been camping for the better part of a week.
“Good morning, Mr. Bell. I thought I could race the darkness back to town, but nights fall like a trip hammer in these parts and it grew too dark. Had to camp on the side of the road.”
“Understood. I barely made it to town myself.” Bell made a gesture for the Colonel to join him at the table.
Patmore accepted a mug of coffee from a waitress, curling his callused fingers around the earthenware cup to soak up its warmth before taking a sip. “Give me thirty to clean up. Then come up to my room. Number eighteen.”
“Take more time if you need it.”
“Twenty-five years in the Army drilled a lot of things into me, Mr. Bell, and being inspection-ready as quickly as possible was probably the first.”
At the appointed time, Bell rapped a knuckle against the door of room eighteen and Patmore opened it almost immediately. He was now clean-shaven and scrubbed all the way down to his fingernails. His suit was a perfect fit over his well-toned body. His shoes were mirror-shined, and the dimple in the knot of his necktie was precisely centered.
Patmore left the door to his room open. His was at the end of the hall, so only one room abutted it. Bell assumed Patmore had rented that one as well. And now with his door open, no one could sneak up behind the other door to eavesdrop on their conversation through the keyhole.
Bell handed Patmore the picture he’d taken off the dead Frenchman of the man and his girl in front of the Eiffel Tower. Patmore examined it, front and back. “This your evidence he was French? He could have been a tourist.”
“My thought exactly,” Bell said evenly. “I have an identical picture with my wife. What tipped me off was the date.”
Patmore looked again. “June 12, 1899. So?”
“Look at their clothes.”
Patmore did as instructed. It took him about ten seconds to see what Bell had seen and he looked up with newfound respect in his eyes. “Glossed right over it.”
“I did too, at first, but something didn’t read right. They’re wearing coats. The date is written out in the European fashion of putting the day first. They were visiting the tower on December sixth. From experience, I know the line to have your picture taken is a long one. The oh-so-unhappy-looking Theresa is freezing. The date thing tells me they’re European at the least. Since both are pretty young in this picture, I can assume they don’t have a great deal of money, so this is a date or a first vacation. Either way, they won’t stray too far from home. Therefore, our dead guy is French, though he can do a spot-on American accent. How’d I do?”
“His name was Marc Massard. He worked for a company called the Société des Mines de Lorraine, now headquartered in Paris. He and his partner—he’s a Scotsman, by the way—are essentially company mercenaries. If La Société needs a rival taken out or a strike put down, Massard and Gly were the men to do it. Gly, especially, is a psychopath. Utterly ruthless.”
“So what’s this all about?” Bell asked.
