Clad boot to chin in a long linen duster, his eyes shielded by goggles, his head bare so he could hear every nuance of the four-cylinder engine's thunder, Bell worked the shifter, clutch, and horn in relentless tandem, accelerating on straights, sliding through bends, warning farmers, livestock, and slower vehicles that he was coming through. He would have enjoyed himself immensely were he not so worried about John Scully. He had left the lone-wolf detective in a lurch. The fact that Scully had fallen into the lurch on his own meant nothing. As case boss, he was responsible for looking after his people.
He drove with his big hands low on the spoked steering wheel. When he had to slow in towns, it took both hands to lever the massive beast into turns. But when he poured on the speed on the farm roads, she grew beautifully responsive. One hand was enough, as he repeatedly reached out to pump up the fuel pressure and blow the horn. He rarely touched the brakes. There was little point. The men in Bridge-port, Connecticut, who built the Locomobile had supplied a stopping system that relied on squeezing the chain shafts-a halfhearted afterthought amounting to little more than no brakes at all. Isaac Bell didn't care.
As he roared out of Woodbridge, a one-twenty-horsepower Mercedes GP roadster tried to give him a run for his money. Bell pressed the Locomobile's accelerator pedal to the floor and kept the road to himself.
Chapter 9
WHAT'S THIS? ASKED COMMODORE TOMMY THOMPSON.
He says he got a proposition fer yer.
Tommy's bouncers, two broken-nosed fighters who had murdered his numerous rivals over the years, were standing close on either side of a refined gentleman they had escorted into his backroom office.
In cold silence, Tommy Thompson sized up what appeared to be a genuine Fifth Avenue swell. He was a medium-built man about his own age, thirty. Medium height, expensive gold-headed cane, expensive long black coat with a velvet collar, costly fur hat, kid gloves. Heat was pouring from the coal stove, and the man quietly removed his gloves, revealing a heavy ring studded with jewels, and unbuttoned his coat. Under his coat, the Gopher Gang leader could see a solid-gold watch chain thick enough to hold a brewery horse and a dark blue broadcloth suit of clothes. Tommy could have entertained three chorus girls for a week in Atlantic City for what the swell had paid for his boots.
The swell said not a word. He stood utterly still after removing his gloves and opening his coat, except for when he lifted a hand to smooth the tip of his narrow mustache with his thumb, which he then hooked in his vest pocket.
A cool customer, Commodore Tommy decided. He also decided that if all the cops in New York chipped in they still could not afford to disguise a detective in such an outfit. Even if they could raise the dough, there wasn't a cop in the city who could paint that born-with-a-silver-spoon-in-his-mouth expression on his mug. So the gang boss asked, What do you want?
Can I assume, the swell asked, that you are indeed the leader of the Gopher Gang?
Commodore Tommy grew wary, again. The swell was not a complete stranger to Hell's Kitchen. He had pronounced the gang's name correctly-as goofer. Not like the newspapers spelled it for Fifth Avenue readers. Where had he learned to say goofer?
I asked you what do you want?
I want to pay you five thousand dollars for the services of three murderers.
Tommy Thompson sat up straight. Five thousand dollars was a hell of a lot money. So much money that he forgot all about goofer and gopher and threw caution to the winds. Who do you want murdered?
A Scotsman named Alasdair MacDonald needs killing in Camden, New Jersey. The murderers must be adept with knives.
Oh, must they, now?
I have the money with me, said the swell. I will pay you first and trust you will deliver.
Tommy Thompson turned to his bouncers. The bruisers were grinning mirthlessly. The swell had just made a fatal mistake in admitting he had the dough on him.
Take his five thousand dollars, Tommy ordered. Take his watch. Take his ring. Take his gold-headed cane and his coat and his fur hat and his suit and his boots, and throw the son of a bitch in the river.
They moved as one, surprisingly fast for big men.
The swell's coat and tailored suit concealed a powerful frame. The stillness of his stance masked blinding speed. In the space of a heartbeat, one bouncer was sprawled on the floor, stunned and bloodied. The other was pleading for mercy in a high-pitched squeal. The swell had clamped his head under one arm, while he pressed his thumb to the bouncer's eye.
Commodore Tommy gaped in astonished recognition.
Fitted over the swell's thumbnail gleamed a razor-sharp gouge. The tip pressed the corner of the bouncer's eye, and it was clear to the pleading gangster-and to Commodore Tommy-that with a flick of his thumb the swell could scoop the man's eye out of his head like a grape.
Jaysus, Jaysus, Jaysus, breathed Tommy. You're Brian O'Shay.
At the sound of that name the bouncer, whose eye was a fraction of an inch from being extracted from its socket, began to weep. The other, still struggling for breath on the floor, gasped, Can't be. Eyes O'Shay is dead.
If he was, said Commodore Tommy, he's back from it.
The Gopher Gang leader stared in wonder.
Brian Eyes O'Shay had vanished fifteen years ago. No wonder he knew goofer. If Eyes hadn't vanished, they'd still be battling each other to boss Hell's Kitchen. Barely out of childhood, O'Shay had mastered the gang weapons-slingshot, lead pipe, brass knuckles, and axheads in his boots-and even gotten his mitts on a police revolver. But O'Shay had been most feared for gouging out rivals' eyes with a specially fitted copper thumbnail.
You've moved up in the world, said Tommy, getting over his shock. That gouge looks like it's pure silver.
Stainless steel, said O'Shay. Holds an edge and don't corrode.
So you're back. And rich enough to pay people to do your killing for you.
I won't offer twice.
I'll take the job.
Eyes O'Shay moved quickly, raking the bouncer's cheek even as he released him. The man screamed. His hands flew to his face. He blinked, removed his hands, and stared at the blood. Then he blinked again and smiled with gratitude. Blood was streaming from a slice that traversed cheekbone to jaw, but his eyes were intact.
Get up! Commodore Tommy ordered. Both of ya. Go get the Iceman. Tell him to bring Kelly and Butler.
They hurried out, leaving Tommy Thompson alone with O'Shay. Tommy said, This ought to put an end to the rumors that I killed you.
You could not on your best day, Tommy.
The Gopher Gang boss protested the insult and the contempt behind it. Why you talking like that? We was partners.
Sometimes.
They stood in silence, old rivals taking each other's measure. Back, Tommy muttered. Jaysus Christ, from where?
O'Shay did not answer.
Five minutes passed. Ten.
Kelly and Butler sidled into the Commodore's office, trailed by Iceman Weeks.
Brian O'Shay looked them over.
Typical new-breed Gopher, he thought, smaller, compact men. And wasn't Progress a wonderful thing? Tommy was a throwback to the old days when bulk and muscle ruled. Now clubs and lead pipe were giving way to firearms. Kelly, Butler, and Weeks were built more like himself but dandified in the latest gangster fashion-tightfitting suits, bright vests, florid ties. Kelly and Butler wore polished yellow shoes with lavender socks. Weeks, the Iceman, stood out in hose of sky blue. He was the cool one who would hang back, let the hotheads take the chances, and then swoop in for the prize. In his dreams, the Commodore would die of something quick, and Iceman Weeks would own the Gophers.
O'Shay took three butterfly knives from his coat and handed one to each. They were German made, exquisitely balanced, quick to open, and sharp as razors. Kelly, Butler, and Weeks hefted them admiringly.
Leave them in the man when you do the job, O'Shay ordered with a glance at the Commodore, who seconded the order with a blunt threat. If I ever sees youse with them
again, I'll break your necks.
O'Shay opened a bulging wallet and removed three return tickets to Camden, New Jersey. MacDonald, he said, will be hanging out in Del Rossi's Dance Hall soon after dark. You'll find it in the Gloucester district.
What does he look like? asked Weeks.
Like an avalanche, said O'Shay. You can't miss him.
Get going! Commodore Tommy ordered. Don't come back 'til he's dead.
When do we get paid? asked Weeks.
When he's dead.
The killers headed for the railroad ferry.
O'Shay pulled a thick envelope from his overcoat and counted out fifty hundred-dollar bills on Tommy Thompson's wooden desk. Thompson counted it again and stuffed the money in his trousers.
Pleasure doing business.
O'Shay said, I'll have use for those tong hatchet men, too.
Commodore Tommy stared hard. What tong hatchet men would you be wondering about, Brian O'Shay?
Those two highbinders from the Hip Sing.
How in Christ's name did you know about them?
Don't let the fancy duds confuse you, Tommy. I'm still ahead of you and always will be.
O'Shay turned on his heel and stalked out of the saloon.
Tommy Thompson snapped his fingers. A boy named Paddy the Rat appeared at a side door. He was thin and gray. On the street, he was almost as invisible as the vermin he was named for. Follow O'Shay. Find out where he hangs and what moniker he goes by.
Paddy the Rat followed O'Shay east across 39th. The man's fine coat and fur hat seemed to glow as he cut a path through the shabbily dressed poor who thronged the greasy cobblestones. He crossed Tenth Avenue, crossed Ninth, where he neatly sidestepped a drunk who lurched at him from the shadow of the elevated train tracks. Just past Seventh he stopped in front of an auto-rental garage and peered in the plate-glass window.
Paddy crept close to a team of dray horses. Shielded by their bulk, stroking their bulging chests to keep them calm, he racked his brain. How could he follow O'Shay if he rented an automobile?
O'Shay turned abruptly from the glass and hurried on.
Paddy got uncomfortable as the neighborhood changed. New buildings were going up, tall offices and hotels. The grand Metropolitan Opera House reared up like a palace. If the cops saw him, they would run him in for invading the Quality's neighborhood. O'Shay was nearing Broadway. Suddenly he disappeared.
Paddy the Rat broke into a desperate gallop. He could not return to Hell's Kitchen without reporting O'Shay's address. There! With a sigh of relief he turned into an alley beside a theater under construction. At the end of the alley he saw the tail of the long black coat twirl around a corner. He raced after it and skidded around that corner, straight into a fist that knocked him to the mud.
O'Shay leaned over him. Paddy the Rat saw a glint of steel. A needle burst of pain exploded in his right eye. He knew instantly what O'Shay had done to him and he cried out in despair.
Open your hand! said O'Shay.
When he did not, the steel pricked his remaining eye. You'll lose this one, too, if you don't open your hand.
Paddy the Rat opened his hand. He quivered as he felt O'Shay press something round and terrible into his palm and close his fingers around it almost gently. Give this to Tommy.
O'SHAY LEFT THE BOY whimpering in the alley and retraced his steps to 39th Street. He stood in the shadows, still as a statue, until he was sure the little weasel didn't have a partner watching. Then he continued east under the Sixth Avenue El, checked his back, walked to Fifth Avenue, and turned downtown, still studying reflections in windows.
A mustachioed Irish cop directing traffic shouted at a freight wagon to stop so the well-dressed gentleman could cross 34th Street. Doormen-whose blue-and-gold uniforms would have done an all-big-gun dreadnought's captain proud-scrambled when they saw him coming.
O'Shay returned their crisp salutes and marched into the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel.
Chapter 10
ISAAC BELL SPOTTED JOHN SCULLY'S RED HANDKERCHIEF tied to a hedge. He swung the Locomobile into the narrow road it marked, eased up on the accelerator pedal for the first time since he left Weehawken, and closed the cutout, which quieted the thunderous exhaust to a hollow mutter.
He steered up a steep hill and drove a mile through fallow farm fields that awaited spring planting. The resourceful Scully had procured a milk-can collection truck somewhere, exactly the sort of vehicle that would not look out of place on New Jersey's farm roads. Bell eased quietly alongside it so the Locomobile could not be seen from the road. Then he heaved his golf bag off the passenger seat and carried it to the hillcrest where the Van Dorn detective lay flat on brown grass.
The laconic loner was a short, round man with a moon face who could pass for a trusted colleague of preachers, shopkeepers, safe-crackers, or murderers. Thirty pounds of fat disguised slabs of rock-hard muscle, and his diffident smile concealed a mind quicker than a bear trap. He was training field glasses on a house down the hill. Smoke rose from the kitchen chimney. A big Marmon touring car was parked outside, a powerful machine covered in mud and dust.
What's in the bag? Scully greeted Bell.
Couple of five irons, Bell grinned, removing a pair of humpback twelve-gauge Browning Auto-5 shotguns. How many in the house?
All three.
Anyone living there?
No smoke before they drove up.
Bell nodded, satisfied that no innocents would be caught in a cross fire. Scully passed him the field glasses. He studied the house and the automobile. Is that the Marmon they stole in Ohio?
Could be another. They're partial to Marmons.
How'd you get a line on them?
Played your hunch about their first job. Their real name is Williard, and if me and you was half as smart as we think we are, we'd have tumbled to it a month ago.
Can't argue with that, Bell admitted. Why don't we start things off by putting their auto out of action.
We'll never hit it from here with these scatter guns.
Bell pulled from the golf bag an ancient .50 caliber Sharps buffalo gun. John Scully's eyes gleamed like ball bearings. Where'd you get the cannon?
Our Knickerbocker house dick separated it from a Pawnee Bill Wild West Show cowboy who got drunk in Times Square. Bell levered open the breech, loaded a black-powder cartridge, and aimed the heavy rifle at the Marmon.
Try not to set it on fire, Scully cautioned. It's full of their loot.
I'll just make it hard to start.
Hold it, what's that coming?
A six-cylinder K Ford was bouncing up the lane that lead to the farmhouse. It had a searchlight mounted on the radiator.
Hell's bells, said Scully. That's Cousin Constable.
Two men with sheriff stars on their coats climbed out of the Ford carrying baskets. Scully studied them through the glasses. Bringing them supper. Two more makes five.
Got room in your milk truck?
If we stack 'em close.
What do you say we give them time to get distracted filling their bellies?
It's a plan, said Scully, continuing to observe the house.
Bell watched the lane to the house and turned around repeatedly to be sure that no more relatives came up the back road he had taken.
He was wondering where Dorothy Langner got the money to buy her father a piano when Bell remembered that she had given it to him only recently.
Scully got uncharacteristically talkative. You know, Isaac, he said, gesturing toward the farmhouse below and the two automobiles, for jobs like this wouldn't it be nice if somebody invented a machine gun light enough to tote around with you?
A sub' machine gun?
Exactly. A submachine gun. But how would you lug all that water to cool the barrel?
You wouldn't have to if it fired pistol ammunition.
Scully nodded thoughtfully. A drum magazine would keep it compact.
Shall we start the show? Bell asked, hefting the Sharps. Both detect
ives glanced at the woods near the house where the Frye Boys would run when Bell disabled their autos.
Let me flank 'em first, said Scully. Putting words to action, he waddled down the hill, looking, Bell thought, like a bricklayer hurrying to work. He waved when he was in place.
Bell braced his elbows on the crest, thumbed the hammer to full cock, and sighted the Sharps on the Marmon's motor cowling. He gently squeezed the trigger. The heavy slug rocked the Marmon on its tires. The rifle's report echoed like artillery, and a cloud of black smoke spewed from the muzzle and tumbled down the hill. Bell reloaded and fired again. Again the Marmon jumped, and a front tire went flat. He turned his attention to the police car.
Wide-eyed constables boiled out of the house waving pistols. The bank robbers stayed inside. Rifle barrels poked from the window. A hail of lever-action Winchester fire stormed at the black-powder smoke billowing from Isaac Bell's Sharps.
Bell ignored the lead howling past his head, methodically reloaded the single-shot Sharps, and shot the Ford's motor cowling. Steam spurted from the hot radiator. Now their quarry was on foot.
All three bank robbers darted from the house, rifles blazing.
Bell reloaded and fired, reloaded and fired. A long gun went flying, and the man staggered, clutching his arm. Another turned and ran toward the woods. Rapid fire bellowed from Scully's twelve-gauge autoload and caused him to change his mind. He skidded to a stop, looked around frantically, and flung his weapon down and threw his hands in the air. The constables, gripping pistols, froze. Bell stood up, aiming the Sharps through the black smoke. Scully sauntered from the woods, pointing his shotgun.
Mine's a twelve-gauge autoload, Scully called conversationally. Fellow up the hill's got a Sharps rifle. About time you boys got smart.
The constables dropped their pistols. The third Frye boy levered a fresh cartridge into his Winchester's chamber and took deliberate aim. Bell found him in his sights, but Scully fired first, tipping the barrel of his shotgun high to increase the range. The slugs spread wide at that distance. Most tore past the bank robber. Two that did not peppered his shoulder.
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