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“Handpicked, I assure you.”

“They must all be married men.”

“Of course,” said Van Dorn. “That goes without saying.”


BACK IN BELL’S AUTO, roaring down Market Street, a beaming Van Dorn chuckled, “Married detectives?”

“Sounds like Josephine traded a jealous husband for a jealous sponsor.”

Isaac Bell left unspoken the thought that the supposedly naive farm girl had made a swift transition from a rich husband to pay for her airships to a rich newspaper publisher to pay for her airships. Clearly, a single-minded woman who got what she wanted. He looked forward to meeting her.

Van Dorn said, “I had a strong impression that Whiteway would prefer Frost hanged to being locked up.”

“You will recall that Whiteway’s mother – a forceful woman – writes articles on the immorality of divorce that Whiteway is obliged to publish in his Sunday supplements. If Preston desires Josephine’s hand in marriage, he will definitely prefer hanged in order to receive his mother’s blessing, and his inheritance.”

“I would love to make Josephine a widow,” growled Van Dorn. “It’s the least that Harry Frost deserves. Only, first we’ve got to catch him.”

Isaac Bell said, “May I recommend you put Archie Abbott in charge of protecting Josephine? There’s no more happily married detective in America.”

“He’d be a fool not to be,” Van Dorn replied. “His wife is not only remarkably beautiful but very wealthy. I often wonder why he bothers to keep working for me.”

“Archie’s a first-class detective. Why would he stop doing what he excels at?”

“All right, I’ll give your friend Archie the protective squad.”

Bell said, “I presume you will assign detectives to Josephine, not PS boys.”

Van Dorn Protective Services was a highly profitable offshoot of the business that supplied top-notch hotel house detectives, bodyguards, valuables escorts, and night watchmen. But few PS boys possessed the spirit, vigor, enterprise, skill, and shrewdness to rise to the rank of full-fledged detective.

“I will assign as many full detectives as I can,” the boss replied. “But I do not have an army of detectives for this job – not while I’m sending so many of my best men abroad to set up our overseas offices.”

Bell said, “If you can spare only a limited corps to protect Josephine, may I recommend that you comb the agency for detectives who have worked as mechanicians?”

“Excellent! Disguised as mechanicians, a small squad can stick close by, working on her flying machine-”

“And set me loose on Frost.”

Van Dorn heard the harsh note in Bell’s voice. He shot an inquiring glance at him. Seen in profile, as he maneuvered the big auto through heavy traffic, his chief investigator’s hawk nose and set jaw looked to be chiseled from steel.

“Can you keep a clear head?”

“Of course.”

“He bested you last time, Isaac.”

Bell returned a wintery smile. “He bested a lot of detectives older than I was back then. Including you, Joe.”

“Promise to keep that in mind, and you can have the job.”

Bell let go of the shifter and reached across the Locomobile’s gasoline tank to envelop the boss’s big hand in his. “You have my word.”

3

“MAULED BY A BEAR,” said North River town constable John Hodge, as Isaac Bell’s eyes roamed inquiringly over his scarred face, withered arm, and wooden leg. “Used to be a guide, taking the sports hunting and fishing. When the bear got done, I was only fit for police work.”

“How did the bear make out?” asked Bell.

The constable grinned.

“Winter nights, I sleep warm as toast under his skin. Civil of you to ask – most people won’t even look me in the face. Welcome to the North Country, Mr. Bell. What can I do for you?”

“Why do you suppose they never recovered Marco Celere’s body?”

“Same reason we never find any body that falls in that gorge. It’s a long way down to the bottom, the river’s swift and deep, and there’s plenty of hungry animals, from wolverine to pike. They fall in the North, they’re gone, mister.”

“Were you surprised when you heard that Harry Frost shot Celere?”

“I was.”

“Why? I understand Frost was known to be a violent man. Long before he was sent up for murdering his chauffeur.”

“Early the same morning that Mrs. Frost’s butler reported the shooting, Mr. Frost had already filed a complaint that his rifle had been stolen.”

“Do you think he owned another?”

“He said that one was his favorite.”

“Do you think he reported it falsely, to throw off suspicion?”

“Don’t know.”

“Was the rifle ever found?”

“Boys playing on the railroad tracks found it.”

“When?”

“That same afternoon.”

“Do you suppose Frost might have dropped it if he hopped a freight train to escape?”

“I never heard about rich sports riding the rails like hobos.”

“Harry Frost wasn’t always rich,” said Bell. “He escaped from a Kansas City orphanage when he was eight years old and rode the rails to Philadelphia. He could hop a freight in his sleep.”

“Plenty of trains come through” was all the constable would concede.

Bell changed the subject. “What sort of man was Marco Celere?”

“Don’t know.”

“Did you never see Celere? I understand he arrived last summer.”

“Stuck to himself, up there at the Frost camp.”

Bell looked out the window at North River’s muddy Main Street. It was a warm spring day, but the blackflies were biting, so few people stirred out of doors. It was also what the stationmaster had called “Mud Week,” when the long winter freeze finally melted, leaving the ground knee-deep in mud. The only facts that the closemouthed constable had volunteered concerned being mauled by the bear. Now Hodge waited in silence, and Bell suspected that if he did not ask another question, the taciturn backwoodsman would not speak another word.

“Other than Josephine Frost’s report,” Bell asked, “what proof of the shooting do you have?”

“Celere disappeared. So did Mr. Frost.”

“But no direct evidence?”

Constable Hodge pulled open a drawer, reached inside, and spread five spent brass cartridge shells on the desk. “Found these at the edge of the meadow just where Mrs. Frost said she saw him shooting.”

“May I?”

“Go right ahead.”

Bell picked one up in his handkerchief and examined it. “.45-70.”

“That’s what his Marlin shoots.”

“Why didn’t you give these to the district attorney?”

“He didn’t ask.”

“Did it occur to you to mention them?” Bell asked patiently.

“Figured he had his case with Mrs. Frost being the witness.”

“Is there anyone who could show me where the shooting occurred?”

To Bell’s surprise, Hodge sprang from his chair. He circled his desk, wooden leg clumping the floor. “I’ll take you. We better stop at the general store for a bunch of stogies. Shoo away the blackflies.”

Puffing clouds of cigar smoke beneath their hat brims, the North River constable and the tall detective drove up the mountain in Hodge’s Model A Ford. When they ran out of road, Hodge attached a circle of wood to his peg so he didn’t sink into the mud, and they continued on foot. They climbed deer trails for an hour until the thick stands of fir trees and birch opened onto a wide meadow of matted winter-browned grass.

“By this here tree is where I found the shell casings. Clear shot across to the lip of the gorge where Mrs. Frost saw Celere fall off.”

Bell nodded. The cliff was a hundred and fifty yards across the meadow from the trees. An easy shot with a Marlin, even without a telescopic sight.

“What do you suppose Celere was doing out on the rim?”

“Scouting. The butler told me they went out for bear.”

“So to go ahead like that, Celere must have trusted Frost?”

“Folks said Mr. Frost was buying airplanes for his wife. I guess he’d trust a good customer.”

“Did you find Celere’s rifle?” Bell asked.

“Nope.”

“What do you suppose happened to it?”

“Bottom of the river.”

“And the same for his field glasses?”

“If he had ’em.”

They walked out to the edge of the gorge. Isaac Bell walked along it, aware that he was not likely to see any signs of an event that occurred before winter snows had fallen and melted. At a point near a single tree that stood lonely sentinel with its roots clinging to the rim, he noticed a narrow shelf immediately below. It thrust out like a second cliff, six feet down and barely four feet wide. A falling body would have to clear it to plummet to the river. Gripping the roots where erosion had exposed them, he lowered himself to it and looked around. No rusty rifle. No field glasses. He peered over the side. It was a long way down to the glint of water at the bottom.

He hauled himself back up to the meadow. As he stood, resting his hand on the tree for balance, he felt a hole in the bark. He looked more closely. “Constable Hodge? May I borrow your hunting knife?”

Hodge unsheathed a strong blade that had been fashioned by honing a steel file. “Whatcha got there?”

“A bullet lodged in the tree, I suspect.” Bell used Hodge’s knife to gouge the bark around the hole. He carved an opening large enough to dislodge a soft lead wad with his fingers in an effort not to scratch it with the blade.

Доступ к книге ограничен фрагменом по требованию правообладателя.

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