ISAAC BELL FOUND A STACK OF ANGRY TELE grams waiting for him in the Los Angeles field office. Van Dorns in Cincinnati, Chicago, Ohio, and Jersey City reported their apprentices were beaten up on their way back from investigating Leipzig Organ & Piano shops. Two young men were in the hospital, and one boy in Jersey City had already been given last rites while his family sat vigil at his bedside.

Enraged detectives demanded permission to arrest the shop clerks. But in rapid exchanges of wires, it became clear to Isaac Bell that there was no proof to charge the clerks. The attacks had occurred in streets and alleys far from their shops.

As chief investigator, the best Bell could do was wire a reminder of Van Dorn’s standing orders regarding thugs and hoodlums who assaulted private detectives, when they had been positively identified beyond any doubt:

DISCOURAGE PERPETRATORS FROM

REPEATING ATTACKS.

LARRY SAUNDERS STUCK HIS HEAD in Bell’s office door. He had blueprints rolled under his arm. “How was Denver?”

Bell handed him the Locomobile salesman’s sketch. “Give this to the boys covering the vice-consul’s mansion. Wunderlich is real. No one’s seen him lately. What did Holian learn at City Hall?”

Saunders unrolled blueprints on Bell’s desk. They anchored them with sidearms. “Fourth floor. Eighth floor. Penthouse. I don’t see where you’d put a judas hole. Public rooms and open stairways. Maybe this storage closet on the eighth.”

Bell studied the blueprints and agreed that spy holes weren’t likely.

Saunders said, “Thing is, Holian thought the clerk he borrowed these from was acting a little jumpy.”

“What did Holian make of that?”

“Maybe the clerk knew something more he didn’t want to say. Holian wants to nose around a little. I told him I’d take over.”

Bell looked at Saunders, inquiringly.

Saunders said, “The clerks know that Holian is a Van Dorn. They don’t know me from Adam.”

“Go to it,” said Isaac Bell.

As Saunders hurried out, the front-desk man came in. “Southern Pacific Railroad express car messenger just delivered this, Mr. Bell.”

It was a small package wrapped in brown paper. It was heavy for its size, and it smelled of machine oil. Bell weighed it speculatively. “Did you happen to recognize the messenger?”

“Sure did. Benson’s been with the line for years.”

“Then we can presume it’s not a bomb?” Bell asked with a smile and sliced it open with his throwing knife. Inside was a wooden box. He opened it. Nestled in cotton packing was a small steel-colored tool.

“What is that, Mr. Bell?”

“Cutting pliers.” There was a note from Mike Malone, in a big, open scrawl. “Sorry it took so long. Small was the hard part. Hope you like them.”

“Never seen them that little,” said the front-desk man. “Think they work?”