Dashwood said, “I don’t understand. If you get money, they didn’t exactly steal your story.”
“But they get the credit. And I can’t live with that anymore.”
James Dashwood said, “May I buy you a drink?”
Suspicion hardened Cox’s features again. “Why?”
“I’m a Van Dorn private detective,” said Dashwood, watching for a reaction.
Cox leaned closer. “Are you really? Are you working on a case?”
“I was taking the night off, when I saw you.”
There were many saloons around Union Station. They entered one with prosperous-looking patrons. Cox said, “This will be on me.”
“No, I invited you. It’s on me.”
“I may be Barrett and Buchanan’s patsy, but I’m still better paid than a gumshoe. Even a Van Dorn.”
Cox ordered whiskey. Dashwood asked for beer.
“Mud in your eye.”
Dashwood sought Cox in the mirror behind the bar and, when they locked gazes, said, “I don’t see the payoff. How is shouting in theaters going to get you credit?”
Cox tossed back his whiskey and juggled the glass in his hand as if weighing the wisdom of a refill. “I’ve been asking myself the same question. S
o far, all shouting’s gotten me is arrested and thrown in the bughouse.”
“Then what were you doing hanging around the theater tonight?”
“Just calming down . . . trying to figure things out . . . planning on how to get the credit I deserve.” Cox glanced outside the windows where crowds of people were suddenly sweeping along the sidewalk toward the train station. Curtains had descended and theatergoers were hurrying home to the suburbs. Something caught Cox’s eye and riveted his attention.
“I have to go. Meet me here tomorrow for lunch. Thanks for the drink.”
“You paid,” said Dashwood. “Thank you.”
“Lunch! Tomorrow.”
Cox pushed through the swinging doors. Dashwood lost sight of him in the crowd.
“Sleep tight,” said Isaac Bell’s conductor, which struck Bell as an unusually personal remark coming from the taciturn old geezer.
“Good night, Kux.”
He showered in the marble bathroom, poured two fingers of Bushmills, and carried the whiskey into the owner’s stateroom at the back of the car. The lights were low, the bed had been turned down, and his heart soared.
“Don’t be frightened. It’s only me.”
“Marion!” Bell scooped her into his arms. “Where did you come from?”
“New York.”
“This is wonderful. Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”
“I had a business meeting. If it didn’t go well, I might have wanted to slink off by myself.”
“I’m glad it went well.”