“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.
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 detectives 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.
NEITHER SHOT MAN WAS mortally wounded. Bell made sure that they would not bleed to death and handcuffed them with the others in Scully’s milk truck. They started downhill, Scully driving the truck, Bell in his Locomobile bringing up the rear. Just as they reached the Cranbury Turnpike, Mike and Eddie, the Van Dorns assigned to help Scully, appeared in an Oldsmobile, and the caravan headed for Trenton to turn the bank robbers and the crooked cops over to the State’s Attorney.
Two hours later, nearing Trenton, Bell saw a road sign that jogged his photographic memory. The sign was a stack of town and road names lettered on white arrows that pointed south: the Hamilton Turnpike, the Bordentown Road, the Burlington Pike, and the West-field Turnpike to Camden.
Arthur Langner had written appointments on a wall calendar. Two days before he died he had met with Alasdair MacDonald, the turbine-propulsion specialist who had been contracted by the Navy’s Steam Engineering Bureau. MacDonald’s factory was in Camden.
Her father loved his guns, Dorothy Langner had pleaded. As Farley Kent loved his hulls. And Alasdair MacDonald his turbines. A wizard, she had called MacDonald, meaning he was her father’s equal. Bell wondered what else the two men had in common.
He squeezed the Locomobile’s horn bulb. The Oldsmobile and milk truck skidded to a dusty halt. “There’s a fellow I ought to see in Camden,” Bell told Scully.
“Need a hand?”
“Yes! Soon as you turn this bunch in, could you get to the Brooklyn Navy Yard? There’s a naval architect in the drawing loft named Farley Kent. See if he’s on the up-and-up.”
Bell turned the Locomobile south.
“ON CAMDEN’S SUPPLIES, THE WORLD RELIES,”
a billboard greeted Isaac Bell as he entered the industrial city, which occupied the eastern shore of the Delaware River across from Philadelphia. He passed factories that made everything from cigars to patent drugs to linoleum and terra-cotta and soup. But it was the shipyard that dominated. The incongruously named New York Shipbuilding Company lined the Delaware and Newton Creek with modern covered ways and gigantic gantries thrusting at the smoky sky. Across the river sprawled Cramp Ship Builders and the Philadelphia Navy Yard.
Evening was falling before Bell found the MacDonald Marine Steam Turbine Company inland from the riverfront in a warren of smaller factories that supplied the shipyard with specialty items. He parked the Locomobile at the gates and asked to see Alasdair MacDonald. MacDonald was not in. A friendly clerk said, “You’ll find the Professor down in Gloucester City—just a few blocks from here.”
“Why do you call him the Professor?”
“Because he’s so smart. He was apprenticed to the inventor of the naval turbine, Charles Parsons, who revolutionized high-speed ship propulsion. By the time the Professor emigrated to America, he knew more about turbines than Parsons himself.”
“Where in Gloucester City?”
“Del Rossi’s Dance Hall—not that he’s dancing. It’s more saloon than dance hall, if you know what I mean.”
“I’ve encountered similar establishments out west,” Bell said drily.
“Cut over to King Street. Can’t miss it.”
Gloucester City was just down the river from Camden, the two cities blending seamlessly. King Street was near the water. Saloons, quick-and-dirties, and boardinghouses hosted workingmen from the shipyards and the bustling river port. Del Rossi’s was as unmissable as MacDonald’s clerk had promised, boasting a false front mocked up to look like a proscenium arch in a Broadway theater.
Inside was bedlam, with the loudest piano Bell had ever heard, women shrieking with laughter, perspiring bartenders knocking the necks off bottles to pour faster, exhausted bouncers, and wall-to-wall sailors and shipyard hands—five hundred men at least—determined to win the race to get drunk. Bell studied the room over a sea of flushed faces under clouds of blue smoke. The only occupants of the saloon not in shirtsleeves were himself, in his white suit, a handsome silver-haired gent in a red frock coat whom he guessed was the proprietor, and a trio of dandified gangsters tricked out in brown derbies, purple s
hirts, bright waistcoats, and striped ties. Bell couldn’t see their shoes but suspected they were yellow.
He plowed through broad shoulders toward the frock coat.
“Mr. Del Rossi!” he shouted over the din, extending his hand.
“Good evening, sir. Call me Angelo.”
“Isaac.”
They shook hands. Del Rossi’s were soft but bore the long-healed burns and cuts of ship work in his youth.
“Busy night.”
“God bless our ‘New Navy.’ It’s like this every night. New York Ship launches the Michigan next month and just laid the keel for a twenty-eight-knot destroyer. Across the river, the Philadelphia Navy Yard is building a new dry dock, Cramp launches South Carolina come summer, plus they’ve already nailed a contract for six 700-ton destroyers—six, count ’em, six. What can I do for you, sir?”
“I’m looking for a fellow named Alasdair MacDonald.”
Del Rossi frowned. “The Professor? Follow the sound of fists cracking jaws,” he answered with a nod toward the farthest corner from the door.
“Excuse me. I better get over there before someone floors him.”
“That’s not likely,” said Del Rossi. “He was heavyweight champ of the Royal Navy.”
Bell sized MacDonald up as he worked his way across the room, and he took an immediate shine to the big Scotsman. He looked to be in his forties, tall, with an open countenance and muscles that rippled under a shirt soaked with perspiration. He had several boxing scars over his eyebrows—but not a mark on the rest of his face, Bell noticed—and enormous hands with splayed-out knuckles. He cupped a glass in one, a whiskey bottle in the other, and as Bell drew close he filled the glass and stood the bottle on the bar behind him, his eyes fixed on the crowd. It parted suddenly, explosively, and a three-hundred-pound bruiser lumbered at MacDonald with murder in his eye.
MacDonald tracked him with a wry smile, as if they were both in on a good joke. He took a swig from his glass and then, without appearing to rush, closed his empty hand into an enormous fist and landed a punch almost too fast for Bell to see.