He broke the silence. “The Artists Syndicate is a sham. It does not exist.”

“That will come as a surprise to the man who heads it.”

“What? Who?”

“Singleton Brooks.”

She saw that Isaac Bell was puzzled and thrown off. It was almost as if he knew the name, which was the one thing she had not expected. But that appeared to be precisely the case. Bell actually knew the man. All the better, she thought, relief flooding through her. A good plan—a plan to derail Bell’s suspicions—had unexpectedly gotten even better. Her prince’s luck had turned. She could feel it in her soul.

THE NAME SINGLETON BROOKS was familiar to Isaac Bell, but he couldn’t recall why. Then it struck him. He remembered an unpleasant interview on Wall Street in the course of the Wrecker investigation.

“Singleton Brooks works for J. P. Morgan.”

Irina staggered him with a beautiful smile and a smug, “I believe that Mr. Morgan is not a sham.”

“I will have people in New York check on Mr. Brooks.”

“No need. Mr. Brooks arrives on the Golden State Limited tomorrow night. You can meet him at the station and ask him face-to-face… Is there anything else, Isaac? If not, please convey my warmest regards to Marion.”

Isaac Bell recovered with a smile, shook Irina’s hand, and left the building. It appeared that Christian Semmler has laid his groundwork even more thoroughly than he had imagined.

He went straight to Bunker Hill, rode up on the Angels Flight, and burst into Andrew Rubenoff’s mansion. Rubenoff was at the piano, singing “That Mesmerizing Mendelssohn Tune.”

“This Berlin fellow has a knack.”

“Does Singleton Brooks still work for J. P. Morgan?”

“Last I heard. And I would have heard if he had left.”

“Irina Viorets claims that Brooks represents Artists Syndicate, which you said didn’t exist.”

“I never said it would never exist. It did not exist when I inquired. Perhaps it exists now.”

“What the heck is going on?”

“Morgan’s shipping combine is taking a bath. International Mercantile Marine has been sorely used by the British government and the American Congress. Perhaps he sees an opportunity in Imperial Film. However it was financed aside, Imperial is poised to seize a controlling interest in much of independent film manufacturing, distribution, and exhibition. That’s the sort of meat Morgan feasts on.”

“But Krieg and the German Army—”

“Things change, Isaac. Events do not always unfold as first planned.”

THE BOOKCASE IN IRINA VIORET’S office slid open on silent, ball-bearing tracks. Christian Semmler emerged from his stairwell. “Tomorrow night,” he said, “after the Iron Horse company returns from taking pictures, I want you to ask Mrs. Bell to do you a favor.”

“What sort of favor?”

“I overheard our bloody director upstairs threatening to quit—just when they finished building the ship and pier.”

“Why?”