“‘Texas’ Walt Hatfield,” Bell answered boldly and without apology. “Eddie Edwards from Kansas City. Arthur Curtis from Denver. James Dashwood from San Francisco.”
“I wouldn’t put Dashwood in that company.”
“I’ve worked with the kid in California,” said Bell. “What Dash lacks in experience he makes up in doggedness. He is also the finest pistol shot in the agency. He would have drilled Harry Frost a third eye in his forehead.”
“Be that as it may, it costs money to move men around. Not to mention the danger of derailing cases they’re working on.”
“I conversed with their field office managers before I summoned them.”
“You should have conversed with me. I can tell you right now that I am sending Texas Walt straight back to Texas to finish his San Antone train robbery case and Arthur Curtis to Europe to open the Berlin office. Archie Abbott turned up some good locals. Arthur’s the man to run them, as he speaks German.”
“I need the best, too, Joe. I’m juggling four jobs: protecting Josephine, protecting the cross-country air race, hunting Frost, and investigating what exactly happened to Marco Celere.”
“There, too, evidence points squarely at dead.”
“There, too, we’re short a corpse.”
“I exchanged wires with Preston Whiteway last night. He’ll settle for either body: Celere’s so we can convict Frost or Frost’s so we can bury him.”
“Frost dead, is my vote, too,” said Bell. “Josephine would be safe, and I could hunt for Celere at my leisure.”
“Why bother if Frost is dead?”
“I don’t like murders without bodies. Something is off-kilter.”
“Another hunch?”
“Do you like murders without bodies, Joe?”
“No. You’re right. Something’s off.”
There was a quiet, tentative knock at the door. Van Dorn barked, “Enter!”
An apprentice scuttled in with a telegram for Isaac Bell.
Bell read it, his expression darkening, and he told the apprentice, who was balanced on his toes poised to flee, “Wire them that I want a darned good explanation for why it took so long to get those wanted posters into that bank.”
The apprentice ran out. Van Dorn asked, “What’s up?”
“Frost is not dead.”
“Another hunch?”
“Harry Frost just withdrew ten thousand dollars from the First National Bank of Cincinnati. Shortly after he left, our office there finally managed to drop off the special banks-only wanted posters, warning that Frost might come in looking for money. By the time the bank manager called us, he was gone.”
“A long shot that paid off, those posters,” said Van Dorn. “Well done.”
“It would have been a lot better done if someone did their job properly in Cincinnati.”
“I’ve been considering cleaning house in Cincinnati. This tears it. Did they say anything about Frost’s wounds?”
“No.” Bell stood up. “Joe, I have to ask you to personally oversee the Josephine squad until I get back.”
“Where are you going?”
“Massachusetts, east of Albany.”
“What are you looking for?”
“Young Dashwood unearthed an interesting fact. I had asked him to look into Marco Celere’s background. Turns out Frost wasn’t the only one who wanted to kill him.”
Van Dorn shot his chief investigator an inquiring glance. “I’m intrigued when more than one person wants to kill a man. Who is it?”
“A deranged Italian woman—Danielle Di Vecchio—stabbed Celere, screaming, ‘Ladro! Ladro!’ Ladro means ‘thief’ in Italian.”
“Any idea what set her off?”
“None at all. They locked her up in a private insane asylum. I’m going up to see what I can learn from her.”
“Word to the wise, Isaac: these private asylum fellows can be difficult. They hold such sway over patients, they become little Napoleons—Ironic, since many of their patients think they’re Napoleon.”
“I’ll ask Grady to research a chink in his armor.”
“Just make sure you’re back before the race starts. You younger fellows are better suited to chasing flying machines around the countryside and sleeping out of doors. Don’t worry about Josephine. I’ll look after her personally.”
BELL CAUGHT the Empire State Express to Albany, rented a powerful Ford Model K, and sped east on twenty miles of dirt roads into a thinly populated section of northwestern Massachusetts. It was hilly country, with scattered farms separated by dense stands of forest. Twice he stopped to ask directions. The second time, he got them from a mournful-looking young truck driver who was changing a flat tire by the side of the dusty road. A wagon in tow contained a disassembled flying machine with its wings folded.
“Ryder Private Asylum for the Insane?” the driver echoed Bell’s question.
“Do you know where it is?”
“I should think I do. Just over that hill. You’ll see it from the top.”
The driver’s costume—flat cap, vest, bow tie, and banded shirtsleeves—told Bell that he was likely the aeroplane’s mechanician. “Where are you taking the flying machine?”
“Nowhere,” he answered with a woebegone finality that brooked no further questions.
Bell drove the Model K to the crest of the hill and saw below a dark red brick building hulking in the shadows of a narrow valley. Fortresslike crenellations and towers at either end did nothing to lighten the aura of despair. The windows were small and, Bell saw as he drew near, barred like a penitentiary’s. A high wall of the same bleak-colored brick surrounded the grounds. He had to stop the auto at an iron gate, where he pressed a bell button that eventually drew the attention of a surly guard with a billy club dangling from his belt.
“I am Isaac Bell. I have an appointment with Dr. Ryder.”
“You can’t bring that in here,” he said, pointing at the car.
Bell parked the Ford on the side of the driveway. The guard let him through the gate. “I ain’t responsible for what happens to that auto out there,” he smirked. “All the loonies ain’t inside.”
Bell stepped closer and gave him a cold smile. “Consider that auto your primary responsibility until I return.”
“What did you say?”
“If anything happens to that auto, I will take it out of your hide. Do you believe me? Good. Now, take me to Dr. Ryder.”
The owner of the asylum was a trim, precise, exquisitely dressed man in his forties. He looked, Bell thought, like a fussy sort, overly pleased with a situation that gave him total control over the lives of hundreds of patients. He was glad he had heeded Joe Van Dorn’s warning about little Napoleons.
“I don’t know that it will be convenient for you to visit Miss Di Vecchio this afternoon,” said Dr. Ryder.
“You and I spoke by long-distance telephone this morning,” Bell reminded him. “You agreed to a meeting with Miss Di Vecchio.”
“The lunatic patient’s state of mind does not always concur with an outsider’s convenience. An untimely encounter could be distressing for both of you.”
“I’m willing to risk it,” said Bell.
“Ah, but what of the patient?”
Isaac Bell looked Dr. Ryder in the eye. “Does the name Andrew Rubenoff ring a bell?”
“Sounds like a Jew.”
“In fact, he is a Jew,” Bell answered with a dangerous flash in his eye. He would never abide bigotry, which was going to make taking Ryder down a peg even more satisfying. “And a fine Jew he is. Heck of a piano player, too.”
“I am afraid I have not met the, ah, gentleman.”
“Mr. Rubenoff is a banker. He’s an old friend of my father’s. Practically an uncle to me.”
“I have no banker named Rubenoff. And now if you’ll excuse—”
“I am not surprised that you don’t know Mr. Rubenoff. His clients tend toward up-and-coming lines like automobile manufacture and moving pictures. But, out of s
entiment, he allows his holding companies to retain their grip on some smaller, more conventional banks, and even buy another now and then. In fact, ‘Uncle Andrew’ asked me would I pay a visit on his behalf to one nearby while I was in your neighborhood. I believe it’s called the First Farmers Bank of Pittsfield.”
Dr. Ryder turned white.
Bell said, “The Van Dorn Detective Agency’s Research boys root up the darnedest information. First Farmers of Pittsfield holds your mortgage, Dr. Ryder, the terms of which allow the bank to call in your loan if the value of the collateral plummets—as it has for most private asylums, including the Ryder Private Asylum for the Insane, as the new state-run institutions siphon off patients. I will meet with Miss Di Vecchio in a clean, pleasant, well-lighted room. Your personal quarters, which I understand are on the top floor of the turret, will be ideal.”
DANIELLE DI VECCHIO took Bell’s breath away. She entered Ryder’s cozy apartment tentatively, a little fearful—understandably, Bell thought—but also curious, a tall, well-built, very beautiful woman in a shabby white dress. She had long black hair and enormous dark eyes.
Bell removed his hat and gestured for the matron to leave them and close the door. He offered his hand. “Miss Di Vecchio. Thank you for coming to see me. I am Isaac Bell.”
He spoke softly and gently, mindful that she had been incarcerated under court order for slashing a man with a knife. Her eyes, which were darting around the room, drinking in furniture, carpets, paintings, and books, settled on him.
“Who are you?” Her accent was Italian, her English pronunciation clear.
“I am a private detective. I am investigating the shooting of Marco Celere.”
“Ladro!”
“Yes. Why do you call him a thief?”
“He stole,” she answered simply. Her eyes roamed to the window, and the way her face lit up told Isaac Bell that she had not been out of doors for a long time and probably not seen green trees and grass and blue sky even from a distance.
“Why don’t we sit in this window seat?” Bell asked, moving slowly toward it. She followed him carefully, warily as a cat yet aching to be caressed by the breeze that stirred the curtains. Bell positioned himself so he could stop her if she tried to jump out the window.
“Can you tell me what Marco Celere stole?”
“Is he dead from this shooting?”
“Probably,” answered Bell.
“Good,” she said, then crossed herself.
“Why did you make the sign of the cross?”
“I’m glad he’s dead. But I’m glad it wasn’t me who took life. That is God’s work.”
Doubting that God had deputized Harry Frost, Isaac Bell took a chance on Di Vecchio’s mental state. “But you tried to kill him, didn’t you?”
“And failed,” she answered. She looked Bell in the face. “I have had months to think about it. I believe that a part of my soul held back. I don’t remember everything that happened that day, but I do recall that when the knife missed his neck it carved a long cut in his arm. Here . . .” She ran her fingers in an electric glide down the inside of Bell’s forearm.
“I was glad. But I can’t remember whether I was glad because I drew blood or glad because I didn’t kill.”
“What did Marco steal?”
“My father’s work.”
“What work was that?”
“My father was aeroplano cervellone—how do you say?—brain. Genius!”
“Your father invented flying machines?”
“Yes! Bella monoplano. He named it Aquila. Aquila means ‘eagle’ in American. When he brought his Aquila to America, he was so proud to immigrate to your country that he named her American Eagle.”
She began talking a mile a minute. Marco Celere had worked for her father in Italy as a mechanician, helping him build the aeroplanes he invented. “Back in Italy. Before he made his name short.”
“Marco changed his name? What was it?”
“Prestogiacomo.”
“Prestogiacomo,” Bell imitated the sound that rolled off her tongue. He asked her to spell it and wrote it in his notebook.
“When Marco came here, he said it was too long for Americans. But that was a lie. Everyone knew Prestogiacomo was ladro. Here, his new name, Celere, only means ‘quick.’ No one knew the kind of man he really was.”
“What did he steal from your father?”
What Marco Celere had stolen, Di Vecchio claimed, were new methods of wing strengthening and roll control.
“Can you explain what you mean by roll control?” Bell asked, still testing her lucidity.
She gestured, using her long graceful arms like wings. “When the aeroplano tilts this way, the conduttore—pilota—changes the shape of wing to make it tilt that way so to be straight.”
Recalling his first conversation with Josephine, Bell asked, “Did your father happen to invent alettoni?”
“Yes! Si! Si! That’s what I am telling you. Alettoni.”
“Little wings.”
“My father,” she said, tapping her chest proudly, “my wonderful babbo. Instead of warping the whole wing, he moved only small parts of it. Much better.”
Bell passed his notepad to her and handed over his Waterman fountain pen. “Can you show me?”
She sketched a monoplane, and depicted the movable hinged parts at the back of the outer edges of the wings. It looked very much like the yellow machine that Josephine was flying.
“Alettoni—hinged little wings—is what Marco stole from your father?”
“Not only. He stole strength, too.”
“I don’t understand.”
“My father learned how wings act to make them strong.”
In a fresh torrent of English peppered with Italian and illustrated with another sketch, Danielle explained that monoplanes had a habit of crashing when their wings suddenly collapsed in flight, unlike biplanes, whose double wings were structurally more sound. Bell nodded his understanding. He had heard this repeatedly in the Belmont Park infield. Monoplanes were slightly faster than biplanes because they presented less wind resistance and weighed less. Biplanes were stronger—one of the reasons they were all surprised when Eddison-Sydney-Martin’s Farman had broken up. According to Danielle Di Vecchio, Marco Celere had proposed that the monoplane’s weakness came not from the “flying wire” stays underneath the wings but the “landing wires” above them.
“Marco tested his monoplano with sandbags to make like the strain of flying—what is your word?”
“Simulate?” “Si. Simulate the strain of flying. My father said a static test was too simplistic. Marco was pretending the wings do not move. He pretended that forces on them do not change. But wings do move in flight! Don’t you see, Mr. Bell? Forces of wind gusts and strains of the machine’s maneuvers—carico dinamico—attack its wings from many directions and not only push but twist the wings. Marco’s silly tests took no account of these,” she said scornfully. “He made his wings too stiff. He is meccanico, not artista!”
She handed Bell the drawings.
Bell saw a strong similarity to the machine that Josephine had persuaded Preston Whiteway to buy back from Marco Celere’s creditors. “Is Marco’s monoplane dangerous?” he asked.
“The one he made in San Francisco? It would be dangerous if he had not stolen my father’s design.”
Bell said, “I heard a rumor that a monoplane Marco sold to the Italian Army broke a wing.”
“Si!” she said angrily. “That’s the one that made all the trouble. His too-stiff monoplano—the one he tested with sandbags back in Italy—smashed.”
“But why couldn’t your father sell his Eagle monoplano to the Italian Army if it was better than Marco’s?”
“Marco ruined the market. He poisoned the generals’ minds against all monoplano. My father’s monoplano factory went bankrupt.”
“Interesting,” said Bell, watching her reaction. “Both your father and Marco had to leave Italy.”
“Mar
co fled!” she answered defiantly. “He took my father’s drawing to San Francisco, where he sold machines to that rich woman Josephine. My father emigrated to New York. He had high hopes of selling his Aquila monoplano in New York. Wall Street bankers would invest in a new factory. Before he could interest them, creditors seized everything in Italy. He was ruined. So ruined that he killed himself. With gas, in a cheap San Francisco hotel room.”
“San Francisco? You said he came to New York.”
“Marco lured him there, promising money for his inventions. But all he wanted was my father to fix his machines. He died all alone. Not even a priest. That is why I tried to kill Marco Celere.”
She crossed her shapely arms and looked Bell in the eye. “I am angry. Not insane.”
“I can see that,” said Isaac Bell.
“But I am locked with insane.”
“Are you treated well?”
She shrugged. Her long graceful fingers picked at her dress, which a hundred launderings had turned gray. “When I am angry, they lock me alone.”
“I will take Dr. Ryder aside and have a word with him.” Firmly aside, by the scruff of his neck, with his face jammed against a wall.
“I have no money for lawyers. No money for ‘medical experts’ to tell the court I am not lunatic.”
“May I ask why your father could not find other buyers for his Eagle flying machine?”
“My father’s monoplano is so much better, so fresh and new, that some of it is still—how do you say?—innato. Tempestuous.”
“Temperamental?”
“Yes. She is not yet tamed.”
“Is your father’s flying machine dangerous?”
“Shall we say ‘interesting’?” Danielle Di Vecchio replied with an elegant smile. And at that moment, thought the tall detective, they could be thousands of miles from Massachusetts, flirting in a Roman salon.
“Where is it?” he asked.
The Italian woman’s dark-eyed gaze drifted past Bell, out the window, and locked on the hilltop. Her face lighted in a broad smile. “There,” she said.
Bell looked out the window. What on earth was she imagining?
The truck with the flat tire had towed its wagon to the crest of the hill. “A boy,” she explained. “A nice boy. He loves me.”