“The privilege is mine,” said Bell sincerely. He felt lucky to work with such intelligent and experienced operatives who knew the people and country of the West.

THE SUN was falling over the Rockies to the west when Bell left the conference room. Always cautious, he closed and locked the door. As he passed through the outer office, he ran into Nicholas Alexander, who looked like he’d just stepped out of an expensive tailor’s shop. The usual shabby suit was gone and replaced by an elegant tuxedo. It was a new image of respectability that he didn’t quite pull off.

The inner polish simply was not there.

“You look quite the bon vivant, Mr. Alexander,” Bell said graciously.

“Yes, I’m taking the wife to a fancy soiree at the Denver Country Club later this evening. I have many influential friends here in Denver, you know.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“A pity you can’t come, but it’s only for members of the club in good standing.”

“I understand perfectly,” Bell said, masking his sarcasm.

As soon as they parted, Bell went down the street to the telegraph office and sent a telegram to Van Dorn.

Have set up a schedule of investigations by myself, Curtis, and Irvine. Please be informed that we have a spy in our midst. A woman, a stranger who approached me at the hotel, identified me by name, knew my past, and seemed to know why I was in Denver. Her name is Rose Manteca and she supposedly comes from a wealthy family of ranchers in Los Angeles. Please ask our Los Angeles office to investigate.

Will keep you advised of our progress on this end.

Bell

After he sent the telegram to his superior, Bell walked down the busy sidewalk to the Brown Palace Hotel. After a few words with the concierge, who provided him with a map of the city, he was escorted down to the storeroom and the boiler room beneath the lobby, where he was greeted by the hotel maintenance man. An affable fellow in stained coveralls, he led Bell to a wooden crate that had been dismantled. Under a single, bright lightbulb that hung from the ceiling, the maintenance man pointed at a motorcycle that sat on a stand beside the crate and gleamed a dazzling red.

“There she is, Mr. Bell,” he said with satisfaction. “All ready to go. I personally polished her up for you.”

“I’m grateful, Mr….”

“Bomberger. John Bomberger.”

“I’ll take care of your services when I leave the hotel,” Bell promised him.

“Glad to be of help.”

Bell went up to his room and found hanging in the closet the tuxedo that had been cleaned by the hotel during the day. After a quick bath, he dressed and removed a long linen coat from the closet and slipped it on, the bottom hem dropping to the tops of his highly shined shoes. Next, he slipped on a pair of leggings to save his tux trousers from the oily liquid that often came out of the engine. Finally, he donned a cap with goggles.