The Wrecker

“Wally and Mack always say, ‘Bloody noses are a sure sign of progress. You know you’re close when your quarry pokes you in the snoot.’ Right now, I could use a good poke in the snoot.” The comment brought a smile to their faces.

Two women, fashionably dressed in the latest hats and gowns, entered the hotel lobby and crossed it in a flourish of feathers and silk. The younger was so striking that many of the lowered newspapers remained on their owners’ laps.

Marion said, “What a beautiful girl!”

Bell had already seen her in a mirror.

“The girl wearing pale blue,” said Marion.

“She is Osgood He

“Do you know her?”

“I met her last week aboard He

“What is she like?”

Bell smiled. “She has pretensions to being a seductress. Flashes her eyes like that French actress.”

“A

“She is intelligent, though, and savvy about business. She’s very young, spoiled by her adoring father, and, I suspect, very i

“Do you want to go over and say hello?”

“Not when I have only minutes left to spend with you.”

Marion returned a pleased grin. “I am flattered. She is young, unspeakably beautiful, and presumably very rich.”

“You are unspeakably beautiful, and when you marry me you will be very rich, too.”

“But I’m not an heiress.”

“I’ve known my fill of heiresses, thank you very much, since we were taught the Boston Waltz in dancing school,” he said, gri

“Oh, Isaac, are you sure you want to marry me?”

“I am sure.”

“Most people would call me an old maid. And they would say that a man your age should marry a girl her age.”

“I’ve never done what I ‘should’ do. Why should I start now when I’ve finally met the girl of my dreams? And made a friend for life?”

“But what will your family think of me? I have no money. They’ll think I’m a gold digger.”

“They will think I am the luckiest man in America.” Isaac smiled. But then he added, soberly, “Any who don’t can go straight to hell. Shall we set a date?”

“Isaac . . . I have to talk to you.”

“What is it? Is something the matter?”

“I am deeply in love with you. I hope you know that.”

“You show me in every way.”

“And I want ever so much to marry you. But I wonder if we could wait a little while.”

“Why?”

“I’ve been offered an exciting job, and it is something I would like to try very much.”

“What sort of job?”

“Well . . . you know who Preston Whiteway is, of course?”

“Of course. Preston Whiteway is a yellow journalist who inherited three of California’s leading newspapers, including the San Francisco Inquirer.” He gave her a curious smile. “The newspaper you happen to work for … He’s said to be quite handsome and a celebrated ‘man-about-town,’ and he flaunts his wealth, which he earns publishing sensationalist headlines. He’s also sunk his hooks into national politics by using the power of his newspapers to get his friends appointed to the United States Senate-first among them Osgood He

“He’s not my Mr. Whiteway, but-Oh, Isaac, he has a wonderful new idea. He came up with it while the paper was reporting on the earthquake-a moving-picture newsreel. He’s calling it Picture World. They’ll take moving pictures of actual events and play them in theaters and nickelodeons. And, Isaac!”-she gripped his arm in her excitement-“Preston asked me to help get it started.”

“For how long?”

“I’m not sure. Six months or a year. Isaac, I know I can do this. And this man will give me a chance to try. You know that I took my degree in law in Stanford’s first graduating class, but a woman can’t get a job in law, which is why I’ve worked nine years in banking. I’ve learned so much. It’s not that I want to work my whole life. But I want to make something, and this is my chance to make something.”

Bell was not surprised by Marion’s desire to work at an exciting job. Nor did he doubt their love. They were both too well aware of their great good fortune at having discovered each other to ever let someone come between them. Some sort of a compromise was in order. And he could not deny that he had his own hands full trying to stop the Wrecker.

“What if we were to promise that in six months we would set a date to marry? When things have settled down? You can still work and be married.”

“Oh, Isaac, that would be wonderful. I so much want to be in at the begi

The bells of the Magneta Clock began to strike four o‘clock.

“I wish we had more time,” she said sadly.

It seemed to Bell like only minutes since they had sat down. “I’ll drive you to your office.”

He noticed that Lillian He

A fire-engine-red, gasoline-powered Locomobile racer was parked directly in front of the St. Francis. It was modified for street traffic with fenders and searchlight headlamps. The hotel doormen were guarding the car from gawking small boys, threatening dire punishment to the first who dared lay dirty fingers on the gleaming brass eagle atop its radiator, much less breathe near its red leather seats.

“You got your race car back! It’s beautiful,” said Marion, showing her delight.

Bell’s beloved Locomobile had been beaten half to death by a five-hundred-mile race against a locomotive from San Francisco to San Diego, with the locomotive steaming on smooth rails and the Locomobile pounding over California’s rock-strewn dirt roads. A race, Bell remembered with a grim smile, that he had won. His trophy had been the arrest of the Butcher Bandit at gunpoint.

“As soon as the factory rebuilt it, I had it shipped out here from Bridgeport, Co

Bell leaned past the big steering wheel to turn the ignition switch on the wooden dashboard. He set the throttle and spark levers. Then he pumped the pressure tank. The doorman offered to crank the motor. Still warm from the drive from the freight depot where Bell had taken delivery, the four-cylinder engine thundered to life on the first heave. Bell advanced the spark and eased the throttle. As he reached to release the brake, he beckoned the smallest of the boys who were watching big-eyed.

“Can you give me a hand? She can’t roll without blowing her horn!”

The boy squeezed the big rubber horn bulb with both hands. The Locomobile bellowed like a Rocky Mountain bighorn. Boys scattered. The car lurched ahead. Marion laughed and leaned across the gas tank to hold Bell’s arm. Soon they were racing toward Market Street, weaving around straining horse carts and streetcars and thundering past slower automobiles.

As they pulled up in front of the twelve-story, steel-frame building that housed the San Francisco Inquirer, Bell spotted the last parking space left by the curb. A fair-haired gent in an open Rolls-Royce veered toward it, blowing his horn.

“Oh, there’s Preston! You can meet him.”

“Can’t wait,” said Bell, stomping his accelerator and brake in quick succession to skid the big Locomobile into the last spot, a half second ahead of Preston Whiteway’s Rolls.