It seemed like a miracle. More than a miracle, it seemed impossible. But Wagner could actually hear Isaac Bell speaking to his private investigators even though a full two miles separated the Van Dorn Detective Agency from the German consulate.

“You hear?”

“A little. Not very well.”

“I know that!” snapped Semmler. “Lynds’s microphone is not thoroughly perfected yet. But he’s on the right track, and if you listen closely, you can hear the confidence in Bell’s voice. Why shouldn’t he sound assured? He’s learned so much these past several days.”

“Yes, he has,” Wagner agreed nervously.

“Events do not always unfold as we plan them,” said Semmler. “It is the nature of plans, and events.” He looked up and his green eyes sparkled with amusement. “I recall one night on the high veldt, when three British Tommies cornered me, my escape went according to plan. But no sooner had I killed them than I was seized by my arm and dragged to the ground. I could hardly believe it. I was attacked out of nowhere by a lion! A lion! The beast was attracted by the scent of the Tommies’ blood.”

Semmler reached across the table and laid a powerful hand on Hermann Wagner’s arm. “Relax, Herr Wagner, you look terrified.”

“I am terrified,” the banker admitted. “You warned me on the Mauretania never to look on your face. Tonight you show me your face. What am I to think but the worst?”

“Do not worry. You are valuable alive. I still need you. I need you more than ever. There is much to be done.”

“What can be done? Bell is onto you. And he’s closing in on Imperial Film.”

Semmler snatched the telephone from the banker’s hand and listened. A brilliant smile filled his strange face. It brightened his eyes and spread his lips, but bright as it was, Wagner thought, it looked cold as distant lightning.

“Bell,” said the leader of the Donar Plan, “would sound less confident if he knew we could hear him.”

40

“MR. BELL, COULD ISEE THAT PICTURE again?”

Isaac Bell handed the Wunderlich sketch to a Los Angeles Van Dorn disguised in the patched clothing and dark glasses of a blind newspaper seller. The detective took off the glasses and studied the sketch.

“You know, he didn’t look quite like this. But it could have been him.”

“When?”

The blind newsie opened his notebook and read deadpan: “Individual possibly resembling Mr. Bell’s sketch of Fritz Wunderlich entered German vice-consul’s residence Saturday at ten past eight. Detective Balant decided it wasn’t him.”

“Ten past eight this evening?”

“Yes, sir.”

“When did he come out?”

“Didn’t.”

Every detective in the room reached for his hat. Bell was already at the door. “He never came out? Are you sure?”