“Would that explain your sympathy for the independents?”
“Sympathy. Not bias. I believe that the independent business man gives American enterprise spine. Independents are brave, bravery is the foundation of innovation, innovation breeds success. That said,” she added with a thin smile, “I have no doubt that the vast majority of independents given half the chance would be as hard-nosed as Mr. Rockefeller.”
“That distinction shines through the articles,” said Bell.
“You do seem to want something from me, sir.”
Isaac Bell grinned. “I look forward to discussing that ‘something’ when I’m finished investigating murder, arson, and corporate lawbreaking. In the meantime, may I ask, do I understand correctly that your father was in partnership with Spike Hopewell before he joined Standard Oil?”
“Until six years ago. Is that what you were discussing with Mr. Hopewell when he was shot?”
“Did they part on good terms?”
“Didn’t Mr. Hopewell tell you that he was angry with Father for joining up with Standard Oil?”
Bell recalled Hopewell’s emotional telling of Matters’ son, this woman’s brother, running away, and said, “He did not. In fact, he spoke with some sympathy. How did they part?”
“Mr. Hopewell called Father a traitor. Father called Mr. Hopewell a stuck-in-the-mud fool. Mr. Hopewell asked Father was there anything lower than a Standard Oil magnate, except he pronounced the word as ‘maggot.’”
She cast Bell a smile. “Witnesses swore the first punches were thrown simultaneously.”
Bell asked, “Have they spoken since?”
“Of course. Six years is too long for old friends to hold a grudge, and, besides, they both flourished—Mr. Hopewell wildcatting in Kansas and Father managing the Standard’s pipe lines.”
“How will he take the news of Hopewell’s death?”
“He will take it hard. Very hard.”
Isaac Bell asked, “Would I find your father in New York, at 26 Broadway?”
“When he’s not traveling.”
Something thumped the canvas roof. Edna Matters looked up. A delighted smile made her even more beautiful, Bell thought. She brushed past him and out the tent flaps. He followed. A thick Manila hemp rope hung down from the sky. Three hundred feet over his head, a wicker basket suspended under a yellow gas balloon was dragging the rope, which hopped and skipped across the ground.
Edna ran after the dragline.
A canvas sack like a bank’s money bag slid down it and landed at her feet.
She waved it to the person looking down from the basket and hurried back to the tent, where she opened the bag and removed a sturdy buff-colored envelope. Inside was a tin cylinder of the type that contained Kodak roll film.
“Is that camera film?”
“My sister snapped an aerial photograph of the devastation.”
“Your sister?”
“Half sister. My real father died when I was a baby. My mother married my stepfather and they had Nellie.”
She stepped inside the tent and emerged with binoculars. “I got the impression you like beautiful women, Mr. Bell. Have a look.”
Bell focused on chestnut hair cut as short as Edna Matters’, a brilliant smile, and exuberant eyebrows. Edna’s fine features seemed magnified in Nellie’s face.
“If you find her appealing, Mr. Bell, I recommend you leave her beauty and womanliness out of your conversational repertoire.”
“Why?”
“Read.”