I'll tell you everything I can-which isn't much-as soon as I get this fellow to the hospital.
I'll be waiting for you at headquarters. Tell the desk sergeant you want to see Barney George.
A motor ambulance mounted on the new Model T chassis pulled up in front of the dance hall. As Bell laid MacDonald inside, the boxer clutched his hand again. Bell climbed in with him, beside the doctor, and rode to the hospital. While a surgeon worked on the Scot in the operating room, Bell telephoned New York with orders to warn John Scully, who was watching hull designer Farley Kent, and to dispatch operatives to the Naval Torpedo Station at Newport to guard the life of Ron Wheeler.
Three men central to the American dreadnaught program had died, and a fourth was at death's door. But if he had not witnessed the attack on Alasdair MacDonald, it would have been reported as a likely event in a saloon brawler's life instead of attempted murder. There was already a possibility that Langner had been murdered. What if the Bethlehem foundry explosion MacDonald had told him about wasn't an accident? Was the Westchester climbing accident murder, too?
Bell sat by the man's bed all night and into the morning. Suddenly, at noon, Alasdair MacDonald filled his mighty chest with a shuddering breath and let it slowly sigh away. Bell shouted for the doctor. But he knew it was hopeless. Saddened, and deeply angry, Bell went to the Camden Police headquarters and reported to Detective George his part in failing to stop the attack.
Did you retrieve any of their knives? Bell asked when he had finished.
All three. George showed them to Bell. Alasdair MacDonald's blood had dried on the blade that killed him. Strange-looking things, aren't they?
Bell picked up one of the two others not stained and examined it. It's a Butterflymesser.
A who?
A German folding knife, modeled on a Balisong butterfly knife. Quite rare outside the Philippine Islands.
I'll say. I've never seen one. German, you say?
Bell showed him the maker's mark incised on the tang of the blade. Bontgen and Sabin of Solingen. Question is, where did they get them . . . ? He looked the Camden detective full in the face. How much money did you find in the dead men's pockets?
Detective George looked aside. Then he made a show of flipping through the pages of his handwritten case notes. Oh, yeah, here it is-less than ten bucks each.
Eyes cold, voice grim, Bell said, I am not interested in recouping what might have gone astray before it was recorded as evidence. But the correct number-the actual amount of cash in their pockets-will indicate whether they were paid to do the killing. That amount, spoken privately between you and me, will be an important clue for my investigation.
The Camden cop pretended to read his notes again. One had eight dollars and two bits. The others had seven bucks, a dime, and a nickel.
Isaac Bell's bleak gaze dropped to the Butterflymesser he was holding. With a peculiar flick of his wrist, he caused the blade to fly open. It glinted like ice. He appeared to study it, as if wondering what use to put it to. Detective George, though deep in the confines of his own precinct, nervously wet his lips.
Bell said, A workingman earns about five hundred dollars a year. A year's pay to kill a man might seem the right amount to an evil person who would commit such an act for money. Therefore, it would help me to know whether those two killers who did not escape were carrying such a large sum.
Detective George breathed a sigh of relief. I guarantee you, neither packed such a roll.
Bell stared at him. Detective George looked happy he had not lied. Finally Bell asked, Mind if I keep one of these knives?
I'll have to ask you to sign for it-but not the one they killed him with. We'll need that for the trial if we ever catch the son of a bitch-which ain't likely if he don't come back to Camden.
He's coming back, Isaac Bell vowed. In chains.
Chapter 12
GUTS' DAVE KELLY-THE ONE YOU PUT A HOLE IN HIS head-and Blood Bucket' Dick Butler took their orders from a brain named Irv Weeks-the Iceman,' on account of he's got cold blue eyes like ice, heart and soul to match. Being that Weeks is smarter than Kelly and Butler was by a long shot, and seeing how you described him hanging back waiting for his chance, I'll lay money it was Weeks who got away.
With my bullet in his shoulder.
The Iceman is a tough customer. If it didn't kill him, you can bet he's hopped a freight train back to New York and paid a midwife to dig it out.
Harry Warren, Van Dorn's New York gang specialist, had come down on the train in response to Bell's telephone call and gone straight to the Camden city morgue, where he identified the murderers Bell had shot as members of the Hell's Kitchen Gopher Gang. Warren caught up with Bell at the police station. The two Van Dorns conferred in a corner of the detectives' bull pen.
Harry, who would send these Bowery Boy hellions all the way to Camden?
Tommy Thompson, the Commodore,' bosses the Gophers.
Does he traffic in hired killings?
You name it, Tommy does it. But there was nothing to stop these guys from hiring out on their own-so long as they paid Tommy his cut. Did the Camden cops find big money on the bodies? Or should I ask, did they admit to finding big money on the bodies?
They claim they didn't, Bell replied. I made it clear that we are after bigger fish than thieving cops, and from the answer I got back I am reasonably certain that the amounts were small. Perhaps they would be paid afterward. Perhaps their boss kept the bulk of it.
Both, said Harry Warren. He thought hard. But it's strange, Isaac. These gang boys usually stick close to home. Like I say, Tommy would do anything for dough, but Gophers and the like tend not to venture out of their own neighborhoods. Half of them couldn't find Brooklyn, much less cross state lines.
Find out why they did this time.
I'll try and brace Weeks soon as I learn where he's recuperating and--
Don't brace him. Send for me.
O.K., Isaac. But don't count on much. No one's keeping books on a deal like this. For all we know, it could have been personal. Maybe MacDonald poked one too many guys in the snoot.
Have you ever heard of a New York gangster using a Butterflymesser?
You mean the Philippine flip-open knife?
Bell showed him the Butterflymesser.
Yeah, there was a Duster who joined the Army to get away from the cops, ended up fighting in the Filipino insurrection. He brought one back and killed a gambler with it who owed him money. At least, that's what they said, but I bet it was the cocaine. You know how dust' makes 'em paranoiac.
In other words, the Butterflymesser is not common in New York.
That Duster's was the only one I ever heard of.
BELL RACED TO NEW YORK.
He hired a driver and mechanic to drive his Locomobile back while he took the train. A police launch, provided by Detective George, who was delighted to help him leave Camden, ran him across the Delaware River to Philadelphia, where he caught a Pennsylvania Railroad express. When he arrived at the Knickerbocker Hotel, light in the afternoon sky still glowed on the green copper roof, but nearer the street the red brick, French renaissance faASSade was growing dim.
He telephoned Joseph Van Dorn long-distance in Washington.
Excellent job on the Frye Boys, Van Dorn greeted him. I just had lunch with the Attorney General, and he is tickled pink.
Thank John Scully. I only held his coat.
How much longer to wrap up the Langner suicide?
This is bigger than Langner, Bell retorted, and he told Van Dorn what had transpired.
Four murders? Van Dorn asked incredulously.
One for sure-the one I witnessed. One likely-Langner.
Depending upon how much credence you put in that crackpot Cruson.
And the other two we have to investigate.
All connected by battleships? Van Dorn asked, still sounding incredulous.
Every victim worked in the dreadnought program.
If they're all victi
ms, who's behind it?
I don't know.
I don't suppose you know why either.
Not yet.
Van Dorn sighed. What do you need, Isaac?
Van Dorn Protection Services to guard Farley and Wheeler.
To whom do I bill those services?
Put it on the cuff 'til we figure who the client is, Bell answered drily.
Very amusing. What else do you need?
BELL ISSUED INSTRUCTIONS to the crew of operatives Van Dorn put at his call-temporarily, as his call with the boss had made clear. Then he took the subway downtown and a trolley across the Brooklyn Bridge. John Scully met him in a Sand Street lunchroom a stone's throw from the fortresslike gates of the Brooklyn Navy Yard.
The cheap restaurant was starting to fill up as day shifts ended at the yard and surrounding factories, and boilermakers, drop forgers, tank testers, reamers, and patternmakers, machinists, coppersmiths, pipe fitters, and plumbers rushed in for supper.
Scully said, Near as I can discover, Kent's on the up-and-up. All he does is work and work some more. Devoted as a missionary. I'm told he hardly ever leaves his drawing table. He's got a bedroom attached to his drawing loft, where he stays most nights.
Where does he stay the rest of the nights?
Hotel St. George when a certain lady from Washington comes to town.
Who is she?
Well, that's the funny thing. She's the daughter of your exploding-piano guy.
Dorothy Langner?
What do you think of that?
I think Farley Kent is a lucky man.
THE BROOKLYN NAVY YARD surrounded a large bay of the East River between the Brooklyn Bridge and the Williamsburg Bridge. Designated a battleship yard, and officially named the New York Navy Yard, its factories, foundries, dry docks, and shipways employed six thousand ship workers. Tall brick walls and iron gates enclosed twice the acreage of the Washington Navy Yard. Isaac Bell showed his Navy pass at the Sand Street Gate, which was flanked by statues of eagles.
He found Farley Kent's drawing loft in a building dwarfed by enormous ship sheds and gantry cranes. Night had blackened the high windows, and the draftsmen worked by electric lamps. Kent was young, barely out of his twenties, and deeply shaken by Alasdair Mac-Donald's murder. He mourned that MacDonald's death would cripple America's development of large-ship turbines. It will be a long while before the United States Navy will be able to install advanced turbines in our dreadnoughts.
What is Hull 44? Bell asked.
Kent looked away. Hull 44?
Alasdair MacDonald implied that it was important.
I'm afraid I don't know what you are talking about.
He spoke freely about Arthur Langner and Ron Wheeler and Chad Gordon. And about you, Mr. Kent. Clearly, you five men worked closely. I am sure you know what Hull 44 means.
I told you. I do not know what you are talking about.
Bell regarded him coldly. Kent looked away from his stern face.
Hull 44,' the detective said, were your friend's dying words. He would have told me what it meant if he had not died. Now it's up to you.
I can't-I don't know.
Bell's features hardened until they looked like they had been cut from stone. That powerful man held my hand like a child and tried to tell me why he was murdered. He could not get the words out. You can. Tell me!
Kent bolted into the hallway and yelled loudly for the sentries.
Six U.S. Marines escorted Bell out the gates, their sergeant polite but unmoved by Bell's pass. I recommend, sir, that you telephone for an appointment with the commandant of the yard.
Scully was waiting in the lunchroom. Have yourself some supper. It's a swell grub station. I'll watch for Kent.
I'll spell you in fifteen minutes.
Bell could not remember when he had last eaten. He was just raising a sandwich from his plate when Scully dashed back and motioned him to the door. Kent broke from the gate like the favorite at the Kentucky Derby. Heading east on Sand. Wearing a tall-crowned black derby and a tan topcoat.
I see him.
That's the direction of the Hotel St. George. Looks like the lady's back in town. I'll cut over to the St. George on Nassau in case you lose him. Without waiting for Bell's response, the independent Scully disappeared around the corner.
Bell followed Kent. He lay back half a block, screened by the crowds pouring in and out of the saloons and eateries, and passengers hopping on and off streetcars. The naval architect's tall bowler was easy to track in a neighborhood where most men wore cloth caps. His tan coat stood out among dark coats and pea jackets.
Sand Street passed through a district of factories and storehouses on its route between the navy yard and the Brooklyn Bridge. The damp evening chill carried the scents of chocolate, roasting coffee, coal smoke, harbor salt, and the sharp, pungent aroma of electrical shorts sparking from the trolley wires. Bell saw enough saloons and gambling halls to rival San Francisco's Barbary Coast.
Kent surprised him at the enormous Sand Street Station where streetcars, elevated railway trains, and a trolley line under construction converged on the Brooklyn Bridge. Instead of passing under the station and continuing on to the Heights and the Hotel St. George, the naval architect suddenly darted through an opening in the stone wall that supported a ramp to the Brooklyn Bridge and hurried up the stairs. Bell dodged a trolley and tore after him. Hordes of people were streaming down the steps, blocking his view. He pushed his way to the top. There he caught sight of Farley Kent walking toward Manhattan on the wooden promenade in the center of the bridge. So much for a lady at the Hotel St. George.
The wooden walkway was flanked by elevated rail and trolley tracks and crowded with an evening rush of men walking home from work in Manhattan. Trains and streetcars hurtled past. They were packed with humanity, and Bell-who had spent many years tracking criminals on horseback in the open spaces of the West-understood those who preferred to walk in the cold, even assaulted by the constant shriek and rumble of train wheels.
Kent shot a glance over his shoulder. Bell removed his distinctive broad-brimmed white hat and moved side to side to be shielded by the crowds. His quarry hurried against the foot traffic, head down, staring at the boards and ignoring the dramatic panorama of New York's skyscraper lights and the twinkling carpet of red, green, and white lanterns shown by the tugboats, schooners, steamers, and ferries plying the East River two hundred feet under the bridge.
The stairs on the Manhattan side led down to the City Hall district. The instant Kent hit the pavement he spun on his heel and hurried back toward the river he had just crossed. Bell followed, wondering what Kent was up to as they neared the waterfront. South Street, which passed under the bridge and paralleled the East River, was bordered by a forest of ship masts and bowsprits. Finger piers and warehouses thrust into the stream, forming slips in which moored three-masted sailing ships, tall-funneled steamers, and railroad barges.
Kent turned uptown, away from the Brooklyn Bridge. He hurried for several blocks, walking fast, not bothering to look back. When he reached Catherine Slip, he turned toward the water. Bell saw trading vessels rafted side by side. Deck cranes swung pallets of freight from ship to shore. Longshoremen trundled them into the warehouses. Kent passed the ships and headed for a long and unusually narrow steam yacht, which had not been visible from South Street.
Bell observed from the corner of a warehouse. The narrow yacht, which was fully one hundred feet long, had a sleek knife blade of a steel hull painted white, a tall steering bridge amidships, and a tall smokestack aft. Despite its businesslike appearance, it was luxuriously finished with brass fittings and varnished mahogany. Moored incongruously among the grimy trading vessels, it was, Bell thought, well hidden.
Farley Kent dashed up a gangway. Lighted portholes gleamed from the low cabin. Farley Kent pounded on the door. It opened, spilling light, and he disappeared inside and yanked it shut. Bell followed immediately. He put his hat on his head and crossed t
he pier with quick, firm strides. A deckhand on one of the trading vessels noticed. Bell gave him a grim stare and a dismissive nod, and the man looked away. Bell confirmed that the yacht's decks were still empty of sailors, stepped quietly across the gangway, and pressed his back to the bulkhead that formed the cabin.
Removing his hat again, he peered in a porthole cracked open for ventilation.
The cabin was small but luxurious. Brass ship lamps cast a warm glow on mahogany paneling. In a swift glance, Bell took in a sideboard with crystal glasses and decanters secured in racks, a dining table set within a horseshoe banquette with green leather upholstery, and a voice pipe for communicating throughout the vessel. Hanging over the table was a Henry Reuterdahl oil painting of the Great White Fleet.
Kent was shrugging out of his coat. Watching him was a short, stocky, athletic-looking Navy officer with an erect posture, a puffed-out chest, and a captain's bars on his shoulder boards. Bell could not see his face, but he could hear Kent shout, Damned detective. He knew exactly what to ask.
What did you tell him? the captain asked calmly.
Nothing. I had him thrown out of the yard. Impertinent busybody.
Did it occur to you that his visit concerned Alasdair MacDonald?
I didn't know what the hell to think. He gave me a case of the rattles.
The captain seized a bottle from the sideboard and poured a generous glass. As he thrust it at Kent, Bell finally saw his face-a youthful, vigorous face that ten years ago had been splashed reverently on every newspaper and magazine in the nation. His exploits in the Spanish-American War had rivaled those of Teddy Roosevelt's Rough Riders for coolheaded bravery.
Well, I'll be . . . said Bell, half aloud.
He shoved open the cabin door and strode inside.
Farley Kent jumped. The Navy captain did not, but merely regarded the tall detective with an expectant gaze.
Welcome aboard, Mr. Bell. When I learned the terrible news from Camden, I hoped you'd find your way here.
What is Hull 44?
Better to ask why Hull 44, answered Captain Lowell Falconer, the Hero of Santiago.
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