Erhard Riker was the son of the founder of Riker & Riker, importers of precious gems and precious metals for the New York and Newark jewelry industries. The younger Riker had expanded the company since taking over seven years ago when his father was killed in Boer War cross fire in South Africa. He shuttled regularly between the United States and Europe on luxury transatlantic ocean liners, favoring the German Wilhelm der Grosse and the British Lusitania, unlike his father who had patronized older, more staid steamships like the Cunard Line Umbria and North German Lloyd’s Havel. One fact caught Bell’s eye: Riker & Riker maintained its own private protection service both for guarding jewelry shipments and escorting Riker personally when he himself was carrying valuables.

Bell sought out the head of Research. “Are private guard services common in the gem line?”

“Seem to be with the Europeans,” said Grady Forrer, “traveling the way they have to.”

“What sort does he hire?”

“Pretty-boy bruisers. The sort you can dress up in fancy duds.”

A receptionist stuck his head in the door. “Telephone call for you, Mr. Bell. Won’t say who he is. English accent.”

Bell recognized the plummy drawl of Commander Abbington-Westlake.

“Shall we have another cocktail, old chap? Perhaps even drink it this time.”

“What for?”

“I have a very interesting surprise for you.”

Chapter 31

31

POLICE! POLICE! DON’T NONE OF YOUSE MOVE!”

The door from the opera house balcony through which John Scully had entered the Hip Sing opium den crashed open with a loud bang and knocked the heavyset Chinaman guarding it into the wall. The first man through was a helmeted sergeant broad as a draft horse.

The Chinese gambling at the fan-tan table were accustomed to police raids. They moved the quickest. Cards, chips, and paper money went flying in the air as they bolted through a curtain that covered a hidden door. The Hip Sing bouncers scooped the money off the faro table and ran. The white players at the faro wheel ran, too, but when they pawed at other curtains they found blank walls. Girls screamed. Opium smokers looked up.

The redheaded madame ran to Scully’s couch. “Come with me!”

She pulled Scully through another curtain as the cops stormed in swinging their clubs and shouting threats. Scully saw no door in the near darkness, but when she shoved on the wall a narrow panel swung open. They went through, and she hinged it closed and threw heavy bolts shut at the top and bottom. “Quickly!”

She led him down a steep and narrow stairway barely wide enough for the detective to squeeze his bulk through. At each landing was another narrow door, which she opened, closed, and bolted behind them.

“Where are we going?” asked Scully.

“The tunnel.”