“If so, how did a Japanese spy team up with the boss of the Gophers? We don’t know.”

“Apparently you knew enough to shoot up his saloon,” Van Dorn observed.

“I was provoked,” Bell replied blandly. “But you see my point. Who else do we not even know about yet?”

“I see it. I don’t like it. But I see it.” Van Dorn shook his big head, stroked his red whiskers, and rubbed his Roman nose. Finally, the founder of the agency granted his chief investigator a small smile. “So now you want to brace the British Empire?”

“Not their whole empire,” Bell grinned back. “I’m starting with the Royal Navy.”

“What are you looking for?”

“A leg up.”

Joseph Van Dorn’s hooded eyes gleamed with sudden interest. “Leverage?”

“Yamamoto and his mob may call themselves spies, Joe. But they act like criminals. And we know how to nail criminals.”

“All right. Get to it!”

Isaac Bell went directly to the Brooklyn Bridge and joined Scudder Smith on the pedestrian walkway. It was a bright, sunny morning. Smith had chosen for his watch the comparative darkness of the shade of the bridge’s Manhattan pier. Smith was one of the best Van Dorn shadows in New York. A former newspaperman, fired—depending upon who told the story—either for writing the truth or overembroidering it, or for being drunk before noon, he was intimate with every district in the city. He passed Bell his field glasses.

“They’ve been walking back and forth across the bridge pretending to be tourist snapshot fiends. But somehow their Brownies are always pointed down at the navy yard. And I don’t think those are real Brownies inside those Brownie boxes but something with a special lens. The large, round fellow is Abbington-Westlake. The terrific-looking woman is his wife, Lady Fiona.”

“I’ve seen her. Who’s the little guy?”

“Peter Sutherland, retired British Army major. Claims he’s traveling to Canada to look over the oil fields.”

The strangely cold spring had persisted into May, and the chilly wind blew hard high over the East River. All three wore topcoats. The woman’s had a sable collar that matched her hat, which she was anchoring with one hand against the gusts.

“Looking the oil fields over for what?”

“Last night at dinner Sutherland said, ‘Oil is the coming fuel for water transportation.’ Abbington-Westlake being Naval Attaché, you can bet water transportation means dreadnoughts.”

“How’d you happen to overhear it?”

“They thought I was the waiter.”

“I’ll take over before they order more pheasant.”

“Want the glasses?”

“No, I’m going to make my move.”

Scudder Smith vanished among the pedestrians crossing to Manhattan.

Bell headed for the make-believe tourists.