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 channel was blocked.
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 tennis courts and removed a stone pillar from under a birdbath in the formal gardens. Stumbling in the dark on the railroad siding, they followed the rails to the boathouse.
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 Donny.”
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 Donny.” Bell took him aside. “No black boat.”
“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 channel before it reached the boathouse.
Darbee shook his shaggy head. “First of all, the channel ain’t deep. If he sunk, we’d see him sticking up. Second, I saw him go in here. And I saw them close that door.”
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.”
Bell ran his fingers along the side of the rail. The base and the web were heavily encrusted with iron oxide, but the running surface atop the head was almost smooth, the rust ground away recently by the wheels of a train.
“The builders told me,” said Bell, “that whoever bought the boat took it away on a railcar. Looks like they did it again.”
“Where?”
“They’ve had the better part of a day to take it anywhere. There’s a telephone inside. Call the railroad and get started tracking a flatcar. Where’s Dashwood?”
“Right here, Isaac. I was just checking the mansion.”
“Let’s see what they left behind.”
They stepped back into the lit boathouse.
Bell saw the blood rush from Dashwood’s face. His skin went dead white, and he seemed to be holding his breath. “Are you all right, James?”
Dashwood narrowed his eyes and appeared to be looking everywhere at once.
“James.”
“Sorry, Isaac.” His color returned as quickly as it had faded. But he still looked tense. “Threw me, for a second, back to the war. When we broke out of the trench and took a village, I’d climb the church belfry or the town hall cupola for a shooting position. When the Germans retreated, they’d booby-trap the place. My spotter stepped on the stairs and it blew him to kingdom come.”
“What did you see here?” Bell asked sharply. “What set you off?”
“It was the emptiness, I think. Deserted. Like we found in France.”
Bell saw the Prohibition agents clustered around the open strongbox. “What have you got there, gents?”
“That’s O.K., Mr. Bell. We’ll be confiscating this. It’s government property now.”
“Is there something in that strongbox?”
The agents moved closer, shielding it with their bodies.
“What is in there?” demanded Bell.
“Just a couple bucks. Looks like they took the money and ran and forgot a couple of bucks.”
“Don’t touch that money.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll count it up and take proper care of it. You go about your business.”
“Don’t touch it!” Bell roared. “It’s a booby trap.”
The Dry agents ignored him and grabbed the cash.
Isaac Bell caught one glimpse of what looked like thousands of dollars, not “a couple of bucks,” as he yanked Dashwood and Ed Tobin backwards through the door. With a flash of light and hollow Boom! an explosion erupted under the barrels of grain alcohol. Flaming liquid leaped to the rafters, and the whole place was afire in seconds.
BOOK THREE
GANGLAND
