The Race

A marble-eyed thug nudged Musto.

“Why, if it ain’t one of my best customers. Never too late to increase your investment, sir. How much shall we add to yer three thousand on Miss Josephine? Gotta warn youse, though, de odds is shifting. The goil commands fifteen-to-one, since some bettors are notin’ that she’s pullin’ up on Stevens.”

Bell’s smile was more affable than his voice. “I’m a bettor who’s wondering if gamblers are conspiring to throw the race.”

“Me?”

“We’re a long way from Brooklyn, Joh

Musto objected mightily. “I don’t have to throw no race. Win, lose, draw, all de same to me. Youse a bettin’ man, Mr. Bell. And a man of the woild, if I don’t mistake youse. Youse know the bookie never loses.”

“Not so,” said Bell. “Sometimes bookies do lose.”

Musto exchanged astonished glances with his bodyguards. “Yeah? When?”

“When they get greedy.”

“What do youse mean by dat? Who’s greedy?”

“You’re bribing newspaper reporters.”

“Dat’s ridiculous. What could dos poor hack writers do for me?”

“Tout one flying machine over another to millions of readers placing bets,” said Isaac Bell. “In other words, skew the odds.”

“Oh yeah? And what machine would I happen to be toutin’?”

“Same one you’ve been touting all along: Eddison-Sydney-Martin’s headless pusher.”

“The Coitus is a flying machine of real class,” Musto protested. “It don’t need no help from Joh

“But it’s getting a lot of help from Joh

“Hey, it’s not like I’m fixin’ the race. I’m passin’ out information. A public service, youse might call it.”

“I would call that a confession.”

“You can’t prove nothin’.”

Isaac Bell’s smile had vanished. He fixed the gambler with a cold eye. “I believe you know Harry Warren?”

“Harry Warren?” Joh

“Harry Warren is going to wire me in two days that you reported to him at Van Dorn headquarters at the Knickerbocker Hotel at Forty-second Street and Broadway in New York City. If he doesn’t, I’m coming after you – personally – with all four feet.”

Musto’s bodyguards glowered.

Bell ignored them. “Joh

“Not my fault what other gamblers do.”

“Pass the word.”

“What good’ll that do youse?”

“They can’t say they weren’t warned. Have a pleasant journey home.”

Musto looked sad. “How’m I goin’ ta get back ta New York in two days?”

Isaac tugged his heavy gold watch chain from his vest pocket, opened the lid, and showed Musto the time. “Run quick and you can catch the milk train to Chicago.”

“Joh

“When you get to Chicago, treat yourself to the Twentieth Century Limited.”

“What about da race?”

“Two days. New York.”

The gambler and his bodyguards hurried off, muttering indignantly.

James Dashwood climbed down from his listening post on the roof of the boxcar.

Bell winked. “There’s one out of the way. But he’s not the only high-rolling tinhorn following the race, so I want you to keep an eye on the others. You’re authorized to place just enough bets to make your presence welcome.”

“Do you think Musto will show up again?” Dash asked.

“He’s not stupid. Unfortunately, the damage is done.”

“How do you mean, Mr. Bell?”

“The reporters he bribed have already wired their stories. If, as I suspect, there’s a saboteur trying to derail the front-ru

29

ILLINOIS THUNDERSTORMS STRUCK AGAIN, cutting the race in half. The trailing fliers, those who had gotten a late start from Peoria due to mechanic failures and mistakes made by tiring birdmen, put down in Springfield. But the leaders, Steve Stevens and Sir Eddison-Sydney-Martin, defied the black clouds towering in the west and forged on, hoping to reach the racetrack at Columbia before the storms blew them out of the sky.

Josephine, midway between the leaders and the trailers, pushed ahead. Isaac Bell stuck with her, eyes raking the ground for Harry Frost.

The leaders’ support trains steamed along with them, then shoveled on the coal to race ahead to greet them at the track with canvas shrouds to protect the aeroplanes from the rain and tent stakes and ropes to anchor them against the wind.

Marco Celere played his kind and helpful Dmitri Platov role to the hilt, directing Steve Stevens’s huge retinue of mechanicians, assistants, and servants in the securing of the big white biplane. Then he scooped up three oilskin slickers and ran to help tie down Josephine’s and Bell’s machines as they dropped from a sky suddenly seared by bolts of lightning.

The twin yellow monoplanes bounced to a stop seconds ahead of a downpour.

Celere tossed a slicker to Josephine and another to Bell, who said, “Thanks, Platov,” then shouted, “Come on, Josephine. The boys’ll tie it down.” He threw a long arm over her shoulder and dragged her away, saying to Platov, “Imagine reporting to Mr. Van Dorn that America’s Sweetheart of the Air got struck by lightning.”

“Here helping, not worrying.” Platov pulled on his own slicker. Enormous raindrops started kicking up dust. For a moment they sizzled in the blazing heat. Then the sky turned black as night, and an icy wind blasted rain across the infield. The last of the spectators ran to the hotel attached to the grandstand.

Bell’s men – Andy Moser and his helpers – dragged canvas over the Eagle.

Eustace Weed, the new mechanician Bell had hired in Buffalo, said, “That’s O.K., Mr. Platov. We’ve got it.”

Celere ran to help Josephine’s ham-handed detective-mechanicians tie down hers and he was reminded how frustrating it was not to be able to work on Josephine’s aeroplane – his aeroplane – to keep it flying at its best. Josephine was good, but not that good. He may be a truffatore confidence man, but if there was one skill he truly possessed, he was a fine mechanician.

Celere waited until the machines were covered and tied down and he was sure that Isaac Bell was not coming back from escorting Josephine to her private car. Then he ran through the pouring rain to where Eddison-Sydney-Martin’s headless pusher was tied down. He made a show of checking the ropes, though it was not likely anyone could see him through the dark and watery haze. The baronet and his mechanicians had fled to their train. It was an opportunity to do mischief. But he had to work fast and do something unexpected.

Thunder pealed. Lightning struck the grandstand roof, and green Saint Elmo’s fire trickled along the gutters and down the leaders. The next bolt struck in the center of the infield, and Marco Celere began to see the wisdom of Bell’s retreat from Mother Nature. He ran for the nearest cover, a temporary wooden shed erected to supply the flying machines with gasoline, oil, and water.

Someone was sheltering in it ahead of him. Too late to turn away, he saw that it was the Englishman Lionel Ruggs, the baronet’s chief mechanician and the chief reason why he had steered clear of the headless pusher, other than surreptitiously drilling a hole in its wing strut back at Belmont Park.

“Whatcha doin’ to the guv’s machine?”

“Just checking its ropes.”

“Spent a long time checkin’ ropes.”

Celere ducked his head as if he were embarrassed. “O.K., you are catching me. I was looking at competition.”

“Lookin’ or doin’?” Ruggs asked coldly.

“Doing? What would I be doing?”

Lionel Ruggs stepped very close to him. He was taller than Celere, and bigger in the chest. He stared inquiringly into Celere’s eyes. Then he cracked a mirthless smile.