The Bootlegger

“It’s way out on Long Island.”

“I know where it is,” said Bell. “Eight miles from the Bayport freight house, where the War Department shipped a dozen surplus Libertys. Where are they keeping it?”

“Stashed it in a boathouse on a private estate.”

Bell grabbed the phone. “Walt, I’ll call you back when I can. Meantime, tell your real estate agent to rent a big place out of town for a roadhouse.”

“Roadhouse?”

“You heard me. Rent a roadhouse!”

Bell banged down the phone.

“How did he find it?”

“It tried to hijack him. Uncle Do

“What changed his mind?”

“Too many of them. And he had little Robin with him. So now he’s hoping when we catch it, we’ll give it to him.”

“Fair enough. But that’s a lot of boat for one old man. Aren’t his nephews in the jailhouse?”

“Jimmy and Marvyn got set loose for good behavior — actually, a paperwork error in their favor. Wes, and Charlie, and Dave and Eddie, and Blaze are up for parole, eventually.”

“Wait a minute. How did that oyster scow manage to keep up with a fifty-knot express cruiser?”

“She ran aground. Busted props and driveshafts.”

Isaac Bell headed for the door. “We’ll get there before they fix her. Where’s Dashwood? James, round up the boys! And get ahold of some Prohibition agents you can trust.”

“Trust? How much?”

“More than the rest. But don’t tell them where we’re going.”

Outside the St. Regis Hotel, grim-visaged detectives piled clanking golf bags from the Van Dorn weapons vault into town cars. The lead motor was an elegant Pierce-Arrow packed with folding ladders and grappling hooks to scale walls and axes and sledgehammers to breach them.

Bell gave the order to move out. Then he took Ed Tobin, Uncle Do

22

Great River opened into the bay between a golf course under construction on one side and marshland on the other. The cha

Isaac Bell had seen this water route from the air in the last of the daylight. After Uncle Do

As soon as it was dark, he set detectives to work in strict silence. The swimmers crossed the tributary with a manila rope. Climbing out on the other side, they used it as a messenger line to pull the heavier wire rope after them and clamped the wire around thick trees. In the event the black boat had been repaired already and tried to make a run for it, the cha

Bell ordered a pair of the heaviest town cars to be parked nose to nose across the road a short distance from the gatehouse. He had invited Prohibition officers on the raid — partly to process arrests, mostly to stay on friendly terms with government agencies that might contract with Van Dorn. They stayed in the blockade cars under James Dashwood’s watchful eye. The Dry agents were impatient, fiddling with their guns and whispering bad jokes. Bell had not told them yet who they were raiding, nor would he until he had every bootlegger on the property in handcuffs.

“Ready when you are, Mr. Bell,” said Ed Tobin.

“Now,” said Bell. Before a night owl neighbor telephoned the police about the roadblock.

The stone gatehouse was dark, with no sign of sentries. But nothing short of dynamite would budge its massive iron-studded door, so they left the battering ram in the Pierce-Arrow and scaled the walls with knotted line and grappling hooks. The first men up — Bell in the lead, followed by Tobin — carried folds of heavy canvas slung over their shoulders. The wall was topped with strands of barbed wire, reminding veterans of the trenches, minus artillery and machine guns. The masonry under the wire was impregnated with broken glass. They clipped the wire, covered the glass with the canvas, and left the ropes and canvas in place for the next men.

Eight detectives cleared the wall. Bell sent two to open the gatehouse door from inside for Dashwood and the Dry agents. The rest followed him to the boathouse on a route he had sketched from the air. They skirted the te

Bell signaled with whispers and shoulder taps to hold up at the door, which he could see dimly by the thin light of the stars. There were a few lit windows in the mansion, which loomed in the distance, but no lights shone in the boathouse. It seemed a miracle, but, so far, no one had heard them.

That was about to change.

“Break it down.”

The birdbath pillar made an excellent battering ram, and the door flew inward with the third thunderous blow. They spilled through, Bell in the lead. It was darker inside than out and eerily quiet, but for the lapping of water.

“Where is everybody?”

“Find the lights.”

Flashlight beams poked the dark until they found a big electrical box. They threw its knife switches and lights shone down from the rafters on two slips. One held a fair-size booze taxi with twin engines. The other was empty.

The black boat had vanished.

“Go get Uncle Do

The detectives whom Bell had sent to the gatehouse had opened it, and the town cars streamed through and up the driveway, playing headlights on the mansion and the empty railroad siding. The Prohibition agents swaggered into the boathouse and looked around, big-eyed.

“Some operation.”

“Look at all that giggle water.”

“One hundred percent.”

Barrels of two-hundred-proof pure grain alcohol were stacked against the inland wall, sharing the space with some crated Liberty airplane motors and a strongbox with its lid propped open.

“Mr. Bell,” a detective called. “There’s no one in the house.”

“Gatehouse is empty,” said another.

“There you are, Uncle Do

“Damn.”

“Are you sure you saw him come in here?”

“Sure as I know my name.”

“In this boathouse?”

“I saw him from a distance. So did little Robin. You don’t believe me, ask her.”

“I believe you, sir.”

“Don’t start calling me sir.”

“Could this have been the boat you saw come after you?”

The old man gestured disdainfully. “There’s only two motors on that boat. And it ain’t black. The boat that chased me was black, longer, and had three motors.”

“You heard all three?”

“Heard ’em bust two props. Followed them home on their third.”

“But it’s not here. Where did it go?”

“Didn’t get past that wire.”

Bell asked whether the black boat might have sunk in the cha

Darbee shook his shaggy head. “First of all, the cha

Bell beckoned Ed Tobin. “Bring your light.” Tobin and Darbee followed him outside. “Point it at the tracks.”

Ed shone his light on the rail. They knelt down and inspected it closely. “Son of a gun,” said Tobin. “Almost no rust on top.”