“I covered the front door, right across the street from my newsstand. When I needed relief to come here, Patrolman Joe Thomas, who lends us a hand, promised to cover till I got back.”

“Come on, boys, let’s have a look.”

They piled into two Ford autos and raced across town.

Larry Saunders asked Bell, “Is there any way we can get inside the consulate?”

“Not without setting off an international hullabaloo.”

Bell ordered the cars stopped a block from the residence of the German vice-consul, who had been recently appointed by the San Francisco consul general. “Wait here. I don’t want them looking out their window at half the detectives in California.”

He walked down the block and stopped at the “blind newsie’s” newspaper stand. The cop, Patrolman Joe Thomas, was seated inside, yawning. “Van Dorn,” said Bell, picking up the evening edition of the Los Angeles Times to shield the act of showing the sketch. “Have you seen this fellow come out of the consulate?”

“You just missed him,” said the cop. “Lit out of there like the house was on fire.”

“ISAAC BELL WILL CONFRONT YOU,” Christian Semmler warned Irina Viorets. “Be prepared.”

“I am prepared.”

“I would recommend that you act both disbelieving and fiercely defiant.”

“I said I am prepared.”

“I would play the J. P. Morgan card if I were you.”

“I intend to.”

“It would not be an exaggeration,” Semmler smiled, “to say that the life of your ‘prince’ hangs in the balance.”

She did not have long to wait. The lobby guards telephoned on the Imperial Building’s Kellogg system.

“Of course,” she said. “Send Mr. Bell straight up.”

She told her secretaries, “No interruptions.”

Bell came in briskly, tall and lanky and handsome as ever, even with his face so stern.

“Isaac,” she teased, smiling as she rose from her desk to greet him, “you look as if you exited your bed from the wrong side this morning.”

“Irina, your ‘investors’ are Hamburg merchant bankers funneling money from the Imperial German Army.”

“That is not true.”

“The bank goes by the name Hamburg Bankhaus.”

“Isaac, please. You’re being silly.”

“The operation is run by your boss, a German general major named Christian Semmler.”

She looked him boldly in the eye. “I know no Christian Semmler. Imperial Film is a going concern. We are building a great national enterprise to produce, distribute, and exhibit moving pictures.”

Bell did not give an inch. “If you don’t know Christian Semmler, then to whom do you report?”

“I report to the head of the Artists Syndicate.”

“There is no Artists Syndicate. It’s a sham.”

Irina Viorets let the silence build between them. Then she sat behind her desk and picked up a long silver letter opener and twirled it slowly in her fingers, pointing it first at Bell, then back at herself, then again at Bell.