He showed Isaac the top of the tool where the handle slotted in through a hole in the metal pick itself.
“What am I looking at?”
“See the two nails that have been driven into the wood?” Wickersham asked.
“Yes. And . . . ?”
“It’s an old trick to add more tension between the head and the shaft of the pick so the head stays on better. The thing is, you only need to do that with inferior or worn-out tools. This is an old pick.”
Bell understood the implication immediately. “And Joshua Brewster was noted for always using the latest and finest equipment.”
“The pick was window dressing in case anyone came looking around,” Wickersham completed the thought.
“A clever ruse, and one that would doubtless work if we weren’t already suspicious about the details of the accident.” Bell was more anxious than ever to dive the mine properly and put an end to this mystery. If it turned out that the men had faked their own deaths, it would be up to Hans Bloeser to continue the investigation with Charles Post, Van Dorn’s man in Denver, and whoever brings the diving equipment from San Francisco.
6
While awaiting the delivery from California, Bell helped Tony Wickersham prepare the Little Angel Mine for its curtain call. They were going to rig the mouth of the shaft with explosives and collapse the tunnel deeply enough to stanch the flow of water. They’d also hired a couple of Bill Mahoney’s men to help drill into the rock to maximize the TNT’s effect. They purposely left out the booster charges so there would be no accidental detonations until Bell’s explorations were complete.
With just enough time to reach the train from Denver, Bell borrowed Wickersham’s REO truck and drove back to Central City to meet his fellow Van Dorn detective.
The narrow-gauge locomotive and its shabby cars were just pulling into the depot when Bell finally reached town. He’d shaved time from the trip up into the foothills but had paid the price of a battered body from the uneven trails. The dirt streets of Central City felt like freshly laid tar-bound macadam compared to the mountain roads. Bell spotted a young man being assisted by a porter to retrieve a large steamer trunk from the cargo compartment of one of the carriages and place it on a wheeled trolley. He didn’t recognize the agent, but the trunk was adorned with the logo of Hecht Marine, an octopus clutching Poseidon’s trident.
Bell parked the REO as close to the platform as he could and jumped out, his back stiff and aching from the punishing ride. “Hello. I’m Isaac Bell.”
The porter regarded him blankly, but the agent turned quickly and rushed toward him, his hand outstretched like the bowsprit on a schooner. “Mr. Bell. I’m Colin Rhodes. It is an honor to meet you.”
Young Master Rhodes must have been an intern because he didn’t look a day over eighteen, with a shaggy mop of hair peeking out from under a cap and oversize feet like some overeager puppy not yet grown into its body.
Bell
shook the lad’s hand, fully expecting him to start wriggling in pleasure at meeting his hero. “And what exactly do you do for Van Dorn?” He tipped the porter a couple of dollars for his continued assistance in loading the trunk from the dolly to the pickup truck.
“I’m the new office boy. I help out with whatever the fellas need. Get coffee, bring in paperwork from lawyers’ offices. Take stuff to guys on stakeouts.”
“You do a lot of fetching.” Bell was irked that one of his requests was handled so cavalierly and entrusted to young Fido in a cheap suit.
“I guess you could say that. They sent me because everyone else is working a major kidnapping case.”
“I wasn’t aware . . .”
“It’s a Chinese lady. She was to be married to the son of a Chinatown big shot, but some rival gang grabbed her from her hotel the night before your request came in. The mayor himself is keeping tabs on our investigation because he’s afraid this will turn into a tongue war.”
“Tong war,” Bell corrected. “A ‘tong’ is a Chinese gang. This has ‘underworld’ written all over it. The city is only now rebuilding from the quake. The last thing anyone needs is Chinese thugs gutting each other across half of downtown.”
Bell had fresh instructions to give Rhodes before sending him on his way. They finally manhandled the trunk into the rear of the truck. It was balky and weighed over a hundred pounds.
“Okay, here’s your next assignment.”
“I’m not working with you?” It came out as a whine as pathetic as any dog’s.
“No. I need you back in Denver working with Charles Post. You know where his office is?” Colin Rhodes showed Bell his copy of the Van Dorn handbook, which had numbers and addresses for every Van Dorn office, including the ones in Europe. “I want you and Charles to talk to all the mine tool vendors and foundries and find out if they had any large orders in the past few months for a Joshua Hayes Brewster. Write that name down. Or any orders at all that would lead a reasonable person to believe that a small mine was being opened for the very first time, one that is very remote and difficult to reach.”
This last deduction came from the realization that if Brewster and the others had faked their own deaths, they would go to such lengths only if their new project had to be kept utterly secret and there would be little contact with the outside world once they commenced.
“Tell them that I found some equipment in the Little Angel Mine and want to see if it lines up with what was sold.”
“What do I say if they ask for a list of the equipment you found?”