There was disturbing news from Newport, Rhode Island. The Protection Services agent assigned to Wheeler at the Naval Torpedo Station reported chasing off, but failing to capture, two men who tried to break into the torpedo expert’s cottage. Bell ordered up extra PS boys, fearing it had not been an ordinary burglary attempt. He also wired Captain Falconer recommending that Wheeler be instructed to sleep in the well-guarded torpedo station barracks instead of his own place.

The middle telephone, the one marked with a chorus girl’s rouge, rang, and the nightman snapped it up. “Yes, sir, Mr. Van Dorn! . . . As a matter of fact, he’s right here.” The nightman passed Bell the telephone, mouthing: Long-distance from Washington.

Bell pressed the earpiece to his ear and leaned into the mouthpiece. “You’re working late.”

“Setting an example,” Van Dorn growled. “Anything I should know before I turn in?”

“Archie’s coming home.”

“About time. Longest honeymoon I ever heard of.”

Bell filled him in on the rest. Then he asked, “How did you make out with your pal at the State Department?”

“That’s why I’m telephoning,” Van Dorn said. “Canning crossed off most of our list’s foreigners and added a couple he’s got suspicions about. One that catches my eye is some kind of visiting art curator at the Smithsonian Institution. Named Yamamoto Kenta. Japanese. Just like Falconer says. Might be worth getting a line on him.”

“Have you got someone down there you can send to the Smithsonian?”

Van Dorn said he did, and they rang off.

Bell stifled a yawn as he shrugged into his coat. It was well past midnight.

“Watch your step passing sewers,” said the nightman.

“I imagine by now Mr. Snake is swimming in the Hudson River.”

THE MEN’S CLUBS ON West 44th Street shared the block between Sixth and Fifth avenues with stables and parking garages, and Isaac Bell was too busy sidestepping manure and dodging town cars to worry about snakes. But when he arrived at the limestone-and-brick, eleven-story Yale Club of New York City, he found the entrance blocked by three ruddy-faced, middle-aged men, considerably worse for wear from a night on the town, swaying arm in arm on the front steps.

Clad in blazers and Class of ’83 reunion scarves, the Old Blues were singing “Bright College Years” at the top of their lungs. Isaac Bell lent a sleepy baritone to the chorus and tried to get around them.

“We’re taller than the Harvard Club,” they cried, gesticulating derisively at a squat clubhouse across the street.

“Come up to the roof with us!”

“We’ll hurl bouquets down upon the Crimsons.”

The doorman came out and cleared a path for the tall detective. “Out-of-town members,” he marveled.

“Thanks for the escort, Matthew. Never would have made it inside without you.”

“Good night, Mr. Bell.”