The Spy by Clive;Justin Scott Cussler

it, then. I took it from his desk.”
    “Why?”
    “To confirm that he had used it to write his letter.”
    “The so-called suicide letter? Anyone could have written that.”
    “Not quite anyone. Either your father or a skillful forger.”
    “You know my position on that. It is not possible that he killed himself.”
    “I will keep looking.”
    “What about the paper the letter was written on?”
    “It was his.”
    “I see . . . And the ink!” she said, suddenly eager. “How do we know it was written with the same ink as in his pen? Perhaps it wasn’t this pen. I bought it in a stationer’s shop. The Waterman Company must sell thousands.”
    “I’ve have already given samples of the ink in this pen and on the letter to a chemistry laboratory to ascertain whether the ink is different.”
    “Thank you,” she said, her face falling. “It’s not likely, is it?”
    “I’m afraid not, Dorothy.”
    “But if it is his ink, it still doesn’t prove he wrote that letter.”
    “Not beyond all doubt,” Bell agreed. “But I must tell you frankly that while each of these facts must be investigated, they are not likely to give us a definitive answer.”
    “What will?” she asked. She seemed suddenly bewildered. Tears glinted in her eyes.
    Isaac Bell was touched by her suffering and confusion. He took her hands in his. “Whatever it is, if it exists, we will find it.”
    “The Van Dorns never give up?” she asked with a brave smile.
    “Never,” Bell promised, although in his heart he had less and less hope that he could lay her pain to rest.
    She clung to his hands. When she finally let them go, she stepped closer and kissed his cheek. “Thank you. That’s all I can ask.”
    “I’ll keep in touch,” said Bell.
    “Would you stay for a cocktail?”
    “I’m afraid I can’t, thank you. I’m expected in New York.” As she walked him to the door, Bell glanced into the dining room and remarked, “That is a splendid table. Is it a Mackintosh?” “It sure is,” she answered proudly. “Father used to say if buying a piece of art that he could not afford meant eating beans for supper, he would eat beans for supper.”
    Bell had to wonder if Langner had gotten tired of beans and accepted a bribe from a steel mill. As he stepped through the gate he looked back. Dorothy was standing on the step, looking for all the world, he thought, like a fairy princess locked in a tower.

    THE B & O RAILROAD’S ROYAL LIMITED was the fastest and most luxurious train from Washington to New York. As night darkened the lead crystal windows, Isaac Bell used the quiet journey to review the hunt for the Frye Boys. The state line-jumping bank robbers that Van Dorn detectives had been tracking through Illinois, Indiana, and Ohio had vanished somewhere in eastern Pennsylvania. As had Detective John Scully.
    Dinner aboard the Royal, the equal of Delmonico’s or the new Plaza Hotel, was served in a mahogany-paneled dining car. Bell had Maryland rockfish and a half bottle of Mumm, and reflected upon how much Dorothy Langner reminded him of his fiancée. Clearly, were she not grieving for her father, Dorothy would be a quick-witted, interesting woman, much like Marion Morgan. The women had similar backgrounds: each lost her mother young and had been educated more than most women thanks to doting fathers who were accomplished men and wanted their daughters to exercise their talents fully.
    Physically, Marion and Dorothy could not be more different. Dorothy’s hair was a glossy black mane, Marion’s a gleaming straw blond; Dorothy’s eyes were a compelling blue-gray, Marion’s an arresting coral-sea green. Both were tall, slim, and lithe. And both, he thought with a smile, could stop traffic by merely stepping into the street.
    Bell checked his gold pocket watch as the Royal pulled into its Jersey City terminal. Nine o’clock. Too late to visit Marion at her hotel in Fort Lee if she was shooting pictures tomorrow. The laugh was on