“Are you okay?” Marion asked. She was seated next to him in the hired car.
Sam Westbrook had been apologetic but resolute about Bell’s not borrowing a second government vehicle. He was already on the hook for the first truck’s loss and had to find a way of hiding it from the accountants. He did arrange for Isaac to rent a car from a friend who was laid up with a broken leg and couldn’t drive.
“Yes, I’m fine.”
“You seem a little jumpy.”
“Vigilant,” he countered. “Not knowing who my enemies are is making me see them everywhere.”
“Isaac, you can’t go on like this.”
“Don’t you see? I’ve gotten to them. I think that’s why they tried to kill me.” He paused, then explained. “Every time an insurgency reveals itself, be it an attack or just graffitiing their name on a wall, they risk exposure. They must balance that risk with the reward. Understand?”
“Yes.”
“For them to expose themselves and try to kill me shows I am a danger to them, even if I’m not sure why.”
“I don’t like this, Isaac,” she said, unable to stop herself. “I manage to keep myself together when you’re on a case because I know how clever you are. But, right now, you’re not yourself.”
Bell knew not to offer her platitudes. They were too closely connected for that. “You’re not wrong, but that doesn’t change the fact more people are going to die if I can’t solve this. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I walked away.”
“I know.” She touched his cheek. “And I appreciate your honesty.”
Bell parked in front of the Central Hotel and sent a bellhop up to the room with Marion to fetch her things. He found Felix Ramirez in the bar, talking with his head chef. As soon as he saw Bell step into the deserted room, he dismissed the white-aproned chef and rose in greeting.
“You look none the worse for wear, my friend. I’m sorry I couldn’t visit in the hospital. I had a problem with overbooking.” He caught himself. “What do you care about my problems? What matters is you. How are you feeling? Tats reported you had some memory loss?”
“Still do,” Bell said. “I don’t remember driving to Gamboa, let alone back. The whole day is pretty much a blank.”
“Most distressing. But otherwise?”
“Beat up, but not knocked out.”
Felix threw him a toothy smile. “That’s the yanqui spirit. Does that mean you’re staying?”
“It does. I want to meet up with Court Talbot again. I hope talking with him will help with my memory.”
“You do remember he is out on the lake hunting the Viboras?”
“Sam Westbrook reminded me. Has there been any word?”
“No, nothing. But it is a big lake. Let me do this. I have friends in Gamboa. As soon as Talbot returns, I will have them call me, and I will drive us both to meet with him at the dock.”
“Thanks for the offer, I already have a car.”
“Suit yourself. Want an espresso?”
While Marion was a fast packer, Bell felt he had the time. “Love one. Anything happening since I went for my joyride?”
“Nothing much. Tats is trying to work out how the canal’s opening is going to affect the region and how he can profit from it. He knows the Authority will look after the needs of its workers, yet he feels that there will be ships lingering at both ends of the canal waiting their turns to transit. He’s looking for an angle there, and he may be onto something. If he can get goods out to the ships on small boats, the captains won’t have to pay dockage fees or deal with customs.”
“Smart. I assume the Webbs are still awaiting a ship to New York, but what about Herr Leibinger-Holte?”
Felix hesitated as if he’d just remembered something. “Sorry, what? Oh, I haven’t seen much of Ernst. He’s been holed up with the railroad people over in Colón, trying to make a sale. Last he told me was, if he isn’t successful, he’s being ordered to Brazil to pitch their electronic switches for a new hydroelectric dam being built near São Paulo.”
“And what about old Jorge Nuñez? I really like him.”
“He’s a good man, our Jorge. I’m glad you got along. For the past few months, he’s been trying to get a permit to work in the Canal Zone as a tutor for some of the workers’ children without any luck. He mostly takes jobs as a tour guide for visiting Americans or acts as a translator down on the docks. Apart from Spanish and English, he speaks Portuguese, Italian, German, and French.”
“Perhaps I can put in a word,” Bell offered. “If I get Viboras Rojas sorted out, Colonel Goethals will owe me a favor.”
“Damned decent of you,” Felix said with genuine surprise. “It’s refreshing to see someone look beyond the surface and appreciate the depths below.”
Bell said nothing and took an appreciative sip of his strong espresso.
“I like your wife, Isaac. She’s a true beauty.”
“Thank you. And thank you for escorting her to the hospital.”
“Of course. I felt bad I couldn’t stay to see you wake up. But then, I’m sure you preferred seeing her face when you awoke rather than mine.”
Bell chuckled. “For the first few seconds, I thought I was in Heaven, looking at an angel.”
“Had it been me, you would have been certain you were in Hell,” Ramirez said and roared at his own joke. “I look forward to discussing her career over drinks tonight, before dinner.”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” Isaac said to the obviously crestfallen hotelier. “I’m sending her home. She’s too tempting of a target. Kidnapping her would be as effective at stopping me as if the Viboras had put a bullet in my brain.”
“You do not think as a latino-americano, Isaac.” Ramirez took true exception to Bell’s inference. “We treat all women as if they are abençoada Maria, the Blessed Mary herself. No matter how badly the Viboras would want to hurt you, they would not harm your wife.”
“I hate to disagree. Just like there is no honor among thieves, there is no chivalry when it comes to insurgents. If an act will advance their cause, they will strike. They just indiscriminately killed almost thirty men at Pedro Miguel, and in San Diego they fired off a Lewis gun around crowds of women and children. I am not taking any chances.”
“Sí. I get your point. If I had a wife as beautiful as yours, I would want her home safely too. Are you then not concerned while she is at sea?”
Before Bell replied, the front desk clerk entered the dining room and beckoned Felix.
“Duty calls.” The hotelier smiled. “Forgive me.”
“Of course.”
“Who’s going to sea?” Tats Macalister had approached from behind, as silent as a cat. He had a half-eaten piece of fruit in one hand.
“Hmm? Oh, my wife. After my ordeal, she’s agreed to head back to the States.”
“Today?”
“That’s right. There’s a group of nurses rotating back home. Marion’s going to bunk with them as it’s all on short notice.”
“Ah, the Spinster Express.”
“Pardon?”
“It’s what some of the men call the ship taking women who didn’t find husbands here back to America. The vessel is actually named the Spatminster, a Belgian liner contracted by the Authority to transport miners from California.”
Just then, Marion swept into the room, carrying a scarlet hatbox in one hand and a wicker basket in the other. Her boater had a peacock feather stuck in its hatband that matched the emerald sparkle of her eyes. “Good morning, Mr. Macalister.”
“For me, that is not the case, Mrs. Bell, for your husband just informed me that you are leaving us.”
“I’m afraid so,” she said. “On those rare occasions when he uses reasoned arguments for wanting me out of his hair, sometimes a girl has to listen. Isaac, my ship leaves in a few hours, and I wan
t a picnic.” She held up the woven basket. “Cold chicken salad, French bread, a perfectly ripened avocado, and fruit tea. It’s the least you can do.”
“I guess it is,” Bell said. “Where’d you get the food?”
“Chef whipped it up while you gents were chatting. It only took me about a minute to pack, after all.”
“You are a lucky man, Isaac Bell,” Tats said with an admiring grin. “Take her to the overlook near Ancon. It is the best spot from which to see the canal.”
“Good idea,” Bell agreed.
They ran into Jorge Nuñez, Bell’s guide, just outside the Central’s front door.
“Meeting clients, Jorge?” Bell said by way of greeting.
“Hoping to get some business if I loiter in the lobby, Mr. Bell.”
Bell gestured that Marion should see to her luggage in order for him to have a private word with Jorge about the case.
The bellhop already had Marion’s matching valises in the small bench seat behind the car’s open cockpit. She handed over her hatbox and picnic hamper and let him buckle the securing straps. Bell walked over and tipped the man and accepted his offer to crank the engine while he worked the throttle and choke controls.
He had use of a three-year-old Renault AX roadster. Under its distinctive coal scuttle hood was a 1000cc, two-cylinder motor capable of delivering a top speed of thirty-five miles per hour. It was painted green, with faded gold striping, and while it was lovingly maintained, the ravages of its tropical home were apparent. The leather upholstery was brittle and had black mold in its creases. The brightwork was showing pitting. Like with the water truck Bell had totaled, the fender flaring over one of the front wheels had been crumpled and then beaten back into shape. At least the wheels were in good condition, though where a spare tire was supposed to be attached to the chassis, there was nothing but clamps.
The car was right-hand drive, which Bell was getting used to, and they were soon on their way out of the city.
Marion had already been to Ancon Hospital, so she knew almost immediately that Bell had another destination in mind.
“Where are we going?” she called over the sound of air rushing past and the burble-pop of the two-cylinder engine.
“What’s your biggest complaint about California?”
She thought for a second and remembered something she’d said when they’d arrived in Los Angeles. “The beaches are beautiful, but the ocean’s too cold,” she said and then clapped her hands like a little girl. “You know a beach?”
“My new friend Sam Westbrook told me about a spot south of the city when we were walking around a few days ago. Very secluded.”
“But I don’t have a swimming costume.”
“Like I said,” Bell replied wolfishly, “very secluded.”
22
They made it to the pier with just moments to spare. The Spatminster was a white-hulled ship with yellow funnels that had two purple bands ringing them at the top. She had a three-decked superstructure sandwiched among forests of derricks, booms, and masts. Her main deck was so covered with air scoops to ventilate the interior spaces, she reminded Bell of tubas in an orchestra’s brass section.
The gangway was still down, but the docks were mostly deserted. The stevedores and truck drivers had moved down a couple berths to see to the unloading of another ship, a vessel that had made the long run around the cape.
Passengers lined the Spatminster’s railing, and when Marion alit from the Renault, a clutch of women at the top of the gangway shouted and waved. A pair of them came down to greet her, while Bell caught the attention of a porter to hustle Marion’s luggage aboard.
“You made it,” one of the women said. She no longer wore her nurse’s uniform, but Isaac recognized her from the hospital.
“Just, right? Jenny, you remember my husband, Isaac?”
She smiled warmly. “You look a lot better now than when I first saw you, Mr. Bell.”
“Thanks to the care I received at your hospital,” Bell said, tipping his hat.
“And Isaac, this is Ruth Buschman. She’s going to attend the medical school at UCSF in the fall.”
“Congratulations,” he said. His next words were drowned out by a throaty blast of the ship’s horn. The porter was already coming down the ramp with an empty hand truck, having delivered Marion’s luggage to a steward. It was time. “If you ladies will excuse us for one second . . .”
Isaac turned aside and took Marion’s hands. “Thank you for doing this for me.”
Her eyes were glassy wet. “You be careful. Lay as low as you can until your memory comes back. I mean it.”
“I’ll do my best.” It was as close to a promise as he could make. “Stay close with your new friends. I can’t imagine the Viboras have had time to plan anything aboard the ship, but be careful. I’ve made the line aware of your situation.”
“Isaac, there is no ‘situation.’ It’ll be fine.”
“Okay, sorry. You know me. Couldn’t care less about my own safety yet I hate the thought of you crossing a street unescorted.”
“My knight in shining armor.”
Bell picked at his damp, clinging shirt. “In these conditions, I’m afraid the armor’s all rusty.”
They kissed, and the horn trumpeted again. A ship’s officer ahemed to get their attention. “Ma’am, please.”
They parted reluctantly, but, as with so many of their partings, they just smiled, and then Marion turned and went up to the main deck with Ruth and Jenny in tow. At the top, she turned, her blond hair catching the light like a mirror, and waved one last time.
Bell scanned the docks, looking for anyone showing extra interest in him, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Workers bustled around pallets of cargo, horse teams with trailers conveyed crates and burlap sacks, laden trucks were driven off the docks to wherever their loads were needed. A few seagulls were perched atop some bollards.
The skies were threatening more rain.
He turned back to the ship and spotted Marion at the rail, a tiny figure three stories over his head, and waved his hat. She saw him and waved back. He could imagine the smile on her face. She blew him exaggerated kisses and he pretended to catch a few. But then the horn blew again, and heavy smoke coiled from the ship’s funnels, as her twin screws began to churn the water while a tug helped pull her from the dock. Bell waited a few minutes more, then returned to his car.
With rain threatening once again, Bell deployed some wooden braces and unfurled the leather top over the coupe’s open cockpit. He drove to the lookout atop Ancon Hill. There were a couple cars in the newly laid lime-shell parking lot and a scattering of tourists looking down into the yawning mouth of the Panama Canal. A canopy had been erected by the Authority to protect visitors from the sun or rain, depending, and a few benches to sit on and rest their feet.
Bell parked and walked over to where a man was sitting alone on one of the benches, Isaac’s shoes crunching the bed of crushed shells.
“Anything?” he asked.
“A quiet morning,” Jorge Nuñez said. “A couple cars with gringos, looking at the excavation, and a flock of parrots flew by. What’d you expect?”
“Just that, actually, but I needed to be sure.” Bell pulled some cash from his wallet.
“I feel guilty taking it from you.”
“Don’t. You’ve done me a huge service.”
“Is this how an investigation goes?”
“Typically.” Bell handed the money to Nuñez and indicated that he would give the guide a ride back into Panama City. “Hour upon hour of boredom and ten minutes of action.”
“Can you explain why you wanted me to watch this particular parking lot?”
“Because my wife and I had the day to play tourists, and this is where a tourist would typically come. Tats even suggested it. If the Viboras were going to pick up my trail, thi
s would be a good place to start.”
“You’re a clever man, Mr. Bell. You were elsewhere yet would still know if someone is trying to follow you.”
“Exactly. Now that my wife is safely away, I can use myself as bait to draw them out.”
“Is that wise?”
“No, but at least I saved a few hours of boredom that were part of my job.”
Bell spotted the tail as soon as they drove out of the zone. The car was a Model T, and in it were three men. He would have picked up on them anyway, but they were so unprofessional that they actually pointed out Isaac’s car as he and Jorge passed. Traffic was moderate, but he slowed enough to give them time to merge onto the two-lane road.
It was time for those ten minutes of action.
23
As soon as the pursuing Ford had bulled its way into traffic three cars back, Bell said, “Jorge, we’ve picked up a tail. Don’t look back. It’s a Model T with three men in it. Its top is down. I suspect the men are armed. I wish I had time to drop you off before they tagged me, but it wasn’t in the cards.”
Jorge resisted the urge to look over his shoulder. He had stiffened, though, and his eyes had gotten larger and rounder, as fear began to affect him physically. His breathing went a little shallow and rapid. “What are we going to do?”
“I’m going to lure them into a trap,” Bell said, swinging the nimble roadster across a plaza and down a street lined with three-story buildings.
The Model T gained two car lengths. Bell knew that there was a problem with his plan. The Ford had a four-cylinder engine and was capable of close to fifty miles per hour. It would be slower because of the weight of the driver and passengers yet would still have a speed advantage over his two-cylinder Renault.
The car jounced over the cobbled streets, and Bell felt the tonneau cover overhead the back passengers’ compartment luffing like a sail in the wind and slowing the car down even further. “Pop out the roof’s support frame on your side.”
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