“It’s a telephone,” Weeks answered. It looked brand-new, all shiny, the candlestick type you saw in the best joints. “You’re getting up-to-date, Tommy. Didn’t know you had it in ya.”

Tommy Thompson grabbed Weeks by his lapels, effortlessly picked the smaller man off the floor, and threw him hard against the wall. Weeks found himself on the carpet, his head ringing, his brain squirming. “What?”

Tommy kicked him in the face. “You didn’t kill Bell!” he roared. “That telephone tells me that right now Bell is grilling everybody who works in that club.”

“What?”

“The telephone says the Van Dorn’s alive. You didn’t kill him.”

Iceman Weeks pulled the pistol that he had taken from the Cumberland Hotel house dick. Tommy’s bouncer stepped on his hand and took it away from him.

THE MANAGER OF THE YALE CLUB woke the staff and gathered them in the big kitchen on the top floor. They knew Isaac Bell as a regular who remembered their names and was generous when the club’s no-tipping rule was waived at Christmas. All of them, manager, housekeeper, barman, chambermaids, porters, and front-desk clerk, clearly wanted to be of help when Bell asked, “Where did the trunk outside my door on the third floor come from?”

No one could answer. It had not been there when the day shift ended at six. A night-shift waiter had noticed it when passing by with room service at eight. The freight-elevator operator had not seen it, but he admitted taking a long dinner between six and eight. Then Matthew, who had stayed at the front door after Bell interviewed him privately, suddenly appeared, saying, “The new laundress? Mr. Bell. I found her across the street, weeping.”

Bell turned to the housekeeper. “Mrs. Pierce, who is the laundress?”

“The new girl, Jenny Sullivan. She doesn’t live in the house yet.”

“Matthew, could you bring her in?”

Jenny Sullivan was small and dark and trembling with fear. Bell said, “Sit down, miss.”

She stood rigid by the chair. “I didn’t mean no harm.”

“Don’t be afraid, you’ve—” He reached to comfort her with a gentle hand on her arm. Jenny screamed in pain and shrank back.

“What?” Bell said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt—Mrs. Pierce, could you look after Jenny?”

The kindly housekeeper led the girl away, speaking to her softly.

“I think everyone can go back to bed,” said Bell. “Good night. Thank you for your help.”

When Mrs. Pierce returned, she had tears in her eyes. “The girl is beaten black-and-blue from her shoulders to her knees.”

“Did she say who did it?”

“A man named Weeks.”