As the 20th Century Limited roared out of East Buffalo with five hundred twenty miles to go to make Chicago by morning, Bell went forward to the club car. He found it empty but for one draw poker game. The Canadian con man pretending to be an Australian gold miner was playing with some older businessmen. He did not look pleased that conductor Dilber was watching closely.

Bell walked to the back of the speeding train. Though it was after midnight, the observation car was crowded with men, talking and drinking. Arnold Bennett, attended by his solemn Chinese, was entertaining a crowd. Shafer the German salesman was deep in conversation with Erhard Riker. Bell got a drink and made himself conspicuous until Riker saw him and waved him over to join them. Riker introduced the German as Herr Shafer. To Bell he said, “What line did you say you were in, Mr. Bell?”

“Insurance,” he answered, nodding his thanks to Riker for not identifying him as a detective. He sat where he could observe Bennett’s Chinese as well.

“Of course,” Riker nodded back, smoothly continuing the ruse. “I should have remembered. So we’re all drummers, or commercial travelers as the English call us. All selling. I supply gems to American jewelers. And Mr. Shafer here represents a line of organs built in Leipzig. Am I right, sir?”

“Correct!” Shafer barked. “First, I sell. Then the company sends German workman with organs to assemble the pieces. They know best how to put together the best organs.”

“Church organs?” asked Bell.

“Churches, concert halls, stadiums, universities. German organs, you see, are the best organs in the world. Because German music is the best in the world. You see.”

“Do you play the organ?”

“No, no, no, no. I am a simple salesman.”

“How,” asked Isaac Bell, “did a cavalry officer become a salesman?”

“What? What cavalry officer?” Shafer glanced at Riker, then back at Bell, his expression hardening. “What do you mean, sir?”

“I couldn’t help but notice that your hands are calloused from the reins,” Bell answered mildly. “And you stand like a soldier. Doesn’t he, Riker?”

“And sits like one, too.”

“Ah?” A bright flush rose in Shafer’s neck and reddened his face. “Ja,” he said. “Of course. Yes, I was once a soldier, many years ago.” He paused and stared at his powerful hands. “Of course, I still ride whenever I find the time in this my new occupation as salesman. Excuse me, I will return.” He started to bolt away, paused and caught himself. “Shall I ask the steward for another round of drinks?”

“Yes,” said Riker, hiding a smile until Shafer had entered the f acilities.