Two ladies wearing light summer dresses, gloves, and ornate hats decorated with flowers drove by in an electric battery–powered car. Bell doffed his hat, and with nods and smiles they acknowledged the attention of the attractive man as they motored up 17th Street toward the state capitol building.
Horse-drawn wagons and carriages still outnumbered the few automobiles that chugged up and down the streets of the city. A Denver Tramway Company trolley car clanged around the corner off Wazee Street and approached the end of the block, where it stopped to let off and take on passengers. The horse-drawn railways were a thing of the past and electric trolleys ruled the streets, reaching every neighborhood in Denver.
Bell climbed the steps and gave ten cents to the motorman. The bell was clanged and the big red trolley clattered up 17th Street. Three-and four-story brick buildings filled the next fourteen blocks. The sidewalks were crowded with people on a typical business day. The men wore black or gray suits and ties, while the women strolled in the long dresses whose skirts rose just above the ankles. Most of the women wore flamboyant hats and carried parasols.
He observed with interest a store that was selling Cadillac motorcars. The awnings were rolled out, shadowing the windows and revealing the vehicles inside. He glanced at the street signs so he could recall the location. An enthusiast of motorcars, he owned a Locomobile race car that had been driven by Joe Tracy in the 1905 Vanderbilt Cup road race on Long Island, in New York, placing third. Bell had converted it to street driving by adding fenders and headlamps.
He also owned a bright red motorcycle. The newest racing model, its V-Twin engine put out three and a half horsepower. It had an innovative twist grip throttle, weighed only one hundred twenty pounds, and could whip over the roads at nearly sixty miles an hour.
When the trolley rattled to a stop at California and 17th Streets, Bell stepped down the stair to the pavement and sauntered over to the sidewalk. It had been three years since he had set foot in Denver. Tall buildings stood on almost every corner, and the construction never stopped. He walked a block to the Colorado Building, a brown stone structure that rose eight stories on 16th and California Streets.
The windows were high and shielded by awnings that matched the brown exterior of the walls. The overhang above the top floor stretched nearly ten feet over the sidewalk far below. Hedgecock & Jones and the Braman Clothing Company occupied the street level. Above them were several different businesses, including the Fireman’s Fund Insurance Company and the Van Dorn Detective Agency.
Bell turned into the lobby and moved through a group of office workers who were streaming out of the building on their lunch break. The floor, walls, and ceiling were beautifully constructed of green Italian marble the color of jade. He entered an Otis elevator behind two pretty young ladies and moved to the rear of the car as the operator closed the steel scissor-gate door. As was the custom, Bell played the gentleman and removed his wide-brimmed hat.
The elevator operator pivoted the handle on the curved throttle housing, sending the elevator toward the upper floors at a leisurely pace. The women exited at the fifth floor, chatting gaily. They both turned and gave Bell a bashful glance before disappearing down the hallway.
The operator stopped the elevator and opened the door. “Eighth floor, and a good afternoon to you, sir,” he said cheerily.
“Same to you,” replied Bell.
He exited into a hallway painted a muted Mexican red above with walnut wainscot halfway up the wall below. He turned right and came to a door with etched lettering on the upper glass that advertised THE VAN DORN DETECTIVE AGENCY. Beneath was the agency’s slogan: We never give up, never.
The antechamber was painted white, with two padded wooden chairs and a desk, behind which a young woman sat primly in a swivel chair. Van Dorn was not a man to waste money on ostentatious décor. The only embellishment was a photo of the head man hanging on the wall behind the secretary.
She looked up and smiled sweetly, admiring the well-dressed man standing opposite her. She was a pretty woman, with soft brown eyes and wide shoulders. “May I help you, sir?”
“Yes. I’d like to see Arthur Curtis and Glenn Irvine.”
“Are they expecting you?”
“Please tell them Isaac Bell is here.”
She sucked in her breath. “Oh, Mr. Bell. I should have known. Mr. Curtis and Mr. Irvine did not expect you until tomorrow.”
“I managed to catch an earlier train out of Independence, Missouri.” Bell looked at the sign on her desk. “You’re Miss Agnes Murphy?”
She held up her left hand, displaying a wedding band. “Mrs. Murphy.”
Bell smiled his beguiling smile. “I hope you don’t mind if I simply call you Agnes, since I’ll be working here for a time.”
“Not at all.”
She rose from her desk, and he could see she wore a pleated blue cotton skirt with her white fluffy blouse. Her hair was piled atop her head in the fashion of the Gibson girl, which was so popular then. Her petticoats rustled as she went through the door to the inner offices.
Always curious, Bell moved around the desk and looked down at the letter Mrs. Murphy had been typing on a Remington typewriter. It was addressed to Van Dorn, and spelled out the superintendent of the western states’ displeasure at having Bell come in and take over the unsolved case. Bell had never met Nicholas Alexander, who headed the Denver office, but he was determined to be courteous and polite to the man despite any antagonism.
Bell moved away from Mrs. Murphy’s desk and stood looking out the window over the rooftops of the city when Alexander walked into the anteroom. He looked more like the bookkeeper of a funeral parlor than the chief investigator who had unraveled many crimes and brought the offenders to full justice. He was a short man, his head barely coming up even with Bell’s shoulders. He wore a coat that was too large and his trousers were baggy. The high collar of his shirt showed wear and sweat stains. His head was devoid of hair except around the temples and at the rear; the eyebrows were trimmed as neatly as his hair. A pair of pince-nez glasses were clipped to the bridge of his nose in front of almost-sad-looking gray-green eyes.
Alexander held out his hand as his lips spread into a smile that was completely lacking in humor. “Mr. Bell, I’m honored to meet Van Dorn’s finest agent.”
Bell didn’t buy the compliment since there was no hint of warmth about it. “The honor is mine in meeting you,” Bell replied, nearly biting his tongue. It was obvious Alexander simply thought of Bell as an interloper into his private territory.
“Please come on back. Before I show you to your new office, we’ll have a talk.”
Alexander abruptly turned and strode stiffly through the door into the inner offices. Mrs. Murphy stood aside and smiled sweetly as they passed.
Alexander’s office was positioned in the only corner with a panoramic view of the mountains; the other offices were small and windowless. Bell observed that they were also doorless, offering almost no privacy. Alexander’s domain was embellished with cowhide sofas and chairs. His aspen desk was expansive and completely barren of paperwork. Though Alexander’s suit was a poor fit and bore wrinkles, he was fastidious about his working habits.
He seated himself in a high-backed chair behind his desk and motioned Bell to sit in an uncushioned wooden chair on the opposite side. The only thing missing for intimidation, Bell thought, was a platform under Alexander’s work space so he could look down on his employees and visitors like a minor god on Mount Olympus.
“No, thank you,” Bell said quietly. “After sitting on a train for two days, I’d prefer a softer seat.” He lowered his long frame onto one of the sofas.
“As you wish,” said Alexander, not pleased with Bell’s superior demeanor.
“You were not here when I worked on a case three years ago.”
“No, I came six months later when I was promoted from our Seattle office.”
“Mr. Van Dorn spoke very highly of you,” Bell lied. Van Dorn had not ment
ioned him.
Alexander folded his hands and leaned across the empty wasteland of his desk. “I trust he briefed you on the murderer and his operations.”
“Not in conversation.” Bell paused to hold up the valise. “But he gave me several reports that I examined while riding on the train. I can see why the felon responsible for the robberies and murders is so difficult to pin down. He plans his criminal ventures with extreme care and his techniques appear to be flawless.”
“All reasons why he eludes capture.”
“After absorbing the material, I do believe his fetish for detail will be his undoing,” said Bell thoughtfully.
Alexander looked at him suspiciously. “What, may I ask, brought you to that conclusion?”
“His jobs are too perfect, too well timed. One small miscalculation could prove his last.”
“I hope we can have a close relationship,” Alexander said with veiled animosity.
“I agree,” said Bell. “Mr. Van Dorn said I could have Art Curtis and Glenn Irvine on my team, if it is all right with you.”
“Not a problem. I wouldn’t go against Mr. Van Dorn’s wishes. Besides, they told me they worked with you a few years ago.”
“Yes, I found them to be dedicated agents.” Bell came to his feet. “May I see my office?”
“Of course.”
Alexander came from behind his desk and stepped into the hallway.
Bell saw that all the offices were quite small and quite plain. The furniture was sparse and there were no pictures on the walls. Only one other agent was present in the office, a stranger to Bell whom Alexander did not bother to introduce.
Before Alexander could point out a closet office, Bell asked innocently, “Do you have a conference room?”
Alexander nodded. “Yes, on the opposite side of the hallway from the offices.” He stopped, opened a door, and stood aside as Bell walked in.
The conference room stretched nearly thirty feet and flowed fifteen feet to the side. A long pine table, stained dark and with a polished surface, sat beneath two massive, circular chandeliers. Eighteen leather captain’s chairs were spaced evenly around it. The room was paneled in pine that matched the table, the floor carpeted with deep red pile. High windows rose on one wall, allowing the early-afternoon sunlight to illuminate every corner of the room.
“Very nice,” said Bell, impressed. “Very nice.”
“Yes,” said Alexander with pride showing in his bloodhound eyes. “I use it frequently for meetings with politicians and influential people in the city. It gives the Van Dorn Detective Agency significant respect and an image of importance.”
“It will do nicely,” Bell said matter-of-factly. “I’ll work in here.”
Alexander looked directly at Bell, a fiery look in his eyes that suddenly glowed with anger. “That’s not possible. I won’t permit it.”
“Where is the nearest telegraph office?”
Alexander seemed taken back. “Two blocks south on Sixteenth Street and Champa. Why?”
“I’ll send a message to Mr. Van Dorn requesting the use of your conference room as an operations center. Considering the importance of the case, I’m sure he will give it his blessing.”
Alexander knew when he was licked. “I wish you well, Mr. Bell,” he conceded. “I will cooperate with you any way I can.” He then turned and left Bell to return to his suite in the corner. He paused in the doorway. “Oh, by the way, I’ve reserved a room for you at the Albany Hotel.”
Bell smiled. “That won’t be necessary. I’ve booked a suite at the Brown Palace.”
Alexander appeared confused. “I can’t believe Mr. Van Dorn would allow that on your expense account.”
“He didn’t. I’m paying for it out of my own funds.”
Not aware of Bell’s prosperous situation, the superintendent of the western states looked completely bewildered. Unable to comprehend, but not wanting to ask questions, he returned to his office in a daze and closed the door, utterly defeated.
Bell smiled again and began spreading out the papers he’d carried in the valise on the conference table. Then he stepped into the anteroom and approached Agnes Murphy. “Agnes, could you let me know when Curtis and Irvine show up?”
“I don’t expect them back until tomorrow morning. They went up to Boulder on a bank fraud case.”
“All right, then. And would you call the building maintenance superintendent and have him come up? I have some alterations to make in the conference room.”
She looked at him questioningly. “Did you say the conference room? Mr. Alexander seldom allows the help to step inside. He keeps it mostly to entertain the town bigwigs.”
“While I’m here, it will be my office.”
Agnes looked at Bell with newly found respect. “Will you be staying at the Albany Hotel? That’s where most all visiting agents stay.”
“No, the Brown Palace.”
“Mr. Alexander consented to the extra expenditure?” she asked warily.
“He had no say in the matter.”
Agnes Murphy stared after him as if she had just seen the Messiah.
Isaac Bell returned to his office and rearranged the chairs to the conference table so he could have a large work space at one end. After a few minutes, the building superintendent arrived. Bell explained the alterations he wished to make in the room. The end wall was to have a layer of soft material so a map of the western states and towns the killer had hit could be pinned to it. Another layer was to be installed on the inside wall for information, photos, and drawings. The superintendent, after Bell had offered him a twenty-dollar gold piece, promised to have the installation accomplished by noon the next day.
Bell spent the rest of the afternoon organizing and planning his hunt for the bank killer.
At precisely five o’clock, Alexander stuck his head in the door on his way home. “Are you settling in all right?” he asked icily.
Bell did not bother to look up. “Yes, thank you.” He finally looked into Alexander’s angry eyes. “By the way, I’m making some changes in the room. I hope you don’t mind. I promise to put it back exactly the way it was when the case is closed.”
“Please see that you do.” Alexander swung his head in a gesture of dismissal and left the office.
Bell was not happy that things were not going well between Alexander and him. He had not planned to get in a game of quarrelsome loggerheads with the head of the agency’s office, but if he hadn’t gone on the attack he knew that Alexander would have walked all over him.
5
BUILT IN 1892 BY HENRY C. BROWN ON THE SPOT where he used to pasture his cow before he struck it rich, the hotel was fittingly named the Brown Palace, for the “Queen City of the Plains,” as Denver was called. Constructed of red granite and sandstone, the building was in the shape of a ship’s bow. The men who made their fortunes in gold and silver stayed there with their wives, who took afternoon tea, and their daughters, who danced away the nights at opulent balls. Presidents McKinley and Roosevelt had stayed there, as well as a few emperors and kings and other members of foreign royalty, not to mention the celebrities of the time, particularly famous stage actors and actresses. The Brown Palace was also embraced by locals and visitors alike because it was the anchor to the busy financial and cultural district of the city.
It was nearly dark when Bell walked through the 17th Street entrance of the Brown Palace Hotel. He checked in at the desk and looked around the magnificent lobby, which was situated in an atrium that reached up to the ninth floor. The pillars and wainscoting, freighted in by railroad from Mexico and carved from golden onyx, reflected the pastel light that filtered down from the massive stained-glass ceiling. Over seven hundred wrought-iron panels graced the balcony railings, ringing the lobby from the upper floors.
What was not generally known was that the owner of the Navarre Hotel and restaurant across the street had had an underground rail system dug from the Brown Palace to his own establishment in order to accommodate g
entlemen wishing to enjoy the ladies of an upstairs brothel without being seen entering or leaving.
Bell was given his key and entered the elevator, telling the operator which floor his suite was on. A woman stepped in behind him. She stopped at the mirrored wall, turned, and faced the door. She was dressed in a long blue silk gown with a large bow in the back. Her fire opal red hair was fine and silken, pulled back in a bun with curls streaming from it. There were two large feathers rising from the hair. She had an engaging charm about her. She stood tall and erect and nubile, Bell guessed probably between twenty-five and twenty-seven, perhaps younger, judging by her swan neck and face as smooth as alabaster. Her eyes were a golden brown. She was, in Bell’s mind, unusually attractive—not quite beautiful, maybe, but very lovely by any standard. He also noticed she wore no wedding ring.
The woman was dressed as if she meant to attend a party in one of the hotel’s ballrooms, Bell reasoned. He was right as usual. The elevator stopped on the second floor, which held the ballrooms and dance floors. He stood aside, hat in hand, and made a slight bow as she exited onto the landing.
She threw him a smile with surprising warmth and nodded, and said, in a mellow yet husky tone, “Thank you, Mr. Bell.”
At first, it slipped by Bell. Then it hit him like a hammer on a thumb. He was stunned that she knew him, and positive he’d never seen her before. Bell gripped the arm of the elevator operator. “Hold the door open a moment.”
By now, she had mingled in with a crowd that was funneling through the arched doorway of the hotel’s grand ballroom. The women wore ravishing gowns in extravagant colors—crimson, peacock blue, emerald green—with ribbons, sprigs, and feathers in their hair. The men were dressed in their finest evening clothes. A banner over the doorway read BENEFIT FOR ST. JOHN’S ORPHANS.