Isaac Bell was fully aware that any man who managed a grand hotel had to be as observant as a whale-ship lookout and as discreet as the madam of a first-class bordello. Omar’s studiedly disinterested expression said that if Isaac Bell wished to inquire about Brown Palace guests but still be known as an innocent insurance executive, that was Bell’s business but Omar P. Armstrong wasn’t born yesterday.

“Have you known him long?”

“If you are interested in Herr Wunderlich, why not ask his friends?”

They paused in the entrance to the dining room. The Brown Palace’s guests were breakfasting at tables set with snowy linen, gleaming silver, and fine china. Omar nodded in the direction that Bell suspected he would. At a table placed in the alcove of a tall window, three well-dressed, barbershop-pinked salesmen were in animated conversation.

“If you like, I can introduce you.”

Bell grinned. “Did you ever meet a drummer who needed an introduction?”

He walked straight to the salesmen’s table. “Morning, gents. Isaac Bell. Insurance. May I join you?”

They took in his hand-tailored suit, polished boots, and confident smile.

“Sit down, brother. Sit down. Waiter! Coffee for Mr. Bell—or something a mite stronger, if you’re so inclined.”

“Coffee will be fine. Long day ahead.”

They shook hands around and introduced themselves, a rep for the Gillette Safety Razor Company, a Locomobile salesman, and a traveler in the cereal line. The Locomobile man said, “Mr. Bell, stop me if I’m wrong, but don’t you drive a Locomobile?”

“I thought I recognized you, Jake,” said Bell. “We met in Bridgeport when I was picking her up at the factory.”

“Red one, if I recall?”

“Red as fire.”

“How’s she running?”

“Like a top. Small world, isn’t it? I ran into a traveling man the other day. We got to talking about autos, and when I told him about mine he mentioned he knew a fellow who handled the line. That could have been you.”

“Probably was me. What’s his name?”

“German fellow. Fritz Wunderlich.”

“Fritz! Yes, we just saw him in— Where’d we see him?”

“Chicago?”

“Chicago it was. Isn’t he a character? ‘Mit schlag’!”

“‘Time is money.’”

“‘Eight days in the veek.’”

“Pretty good salesman, I gather,” said Bell.

“Valuable man. No question. Valuable man.”

“Lucky for him he’s got that smile,” the cereal salesman chortled.

“What do you mean?” asked Bell.

“Well, you know… Fritz is a heck of a worker, but he sort of looks like a monkey.”

“Sort of?” snickered Jake. “I’ll say he looks like an ape in the jungle.”

“You mean his long arms?” asked Bell.

“Arms like a monkey. Face like one, too.”

“He didn’t really look like a monkey,” Bell protested, mildly.

“He does to me.”