ISSAC BELL RUSHED THROUGH the crowded construction site. He spotted a mob of people milling around the gate to the 20th Century Limited. A cop was shouting, “Stand back! Stand back!,” and pleading for a doctor. With an awful feeling he was too late, Bell shoved into the center of the crowd.
The cop tried to stop him.
“Van Dorn!” Bell shouted. “Is that one of my men?”
“Take a look.”
John Scully lay on his back, his eyes staring wide open, his hands folded over his chest.
“Looks like a heart attack,” said the cop. “He yours?”
Bell knelt beside him. “Yes.”
“Sorry, mister. Least he went peaceful. Probably never knew what hit him.”
Isaac Bell spread his hand over Scully’s face and gently closed his eyes. “Sleep tight, my friend.”
A whistle blew. “All aboard!” Conductors shouted. “20th Century Limited to Chicago. Allllllll aboooooard.”
Scully’s hat had fallen under his head. Bell reached for it to cover his face. His hand came away sticky with warm blood.
“Mother of God,” breathed the cop leaning over his shoulder.
Bell turned Scully’s head and saw the shiny brass head of a hatpin sticking out of the soft flesh in the nape of his neck.
“All aboard! All aboard! 20th Century Limited for Chicago. Allllllll aboooooard!”
Bell searched Scully’s pockets. Tucked inside his coat was an envelope with his name on it. Bell stood up and tore it open. Printed in block letters was a note from the killer:
EYE FOR AN EYE, BELL.
YOU EARNED WEEKS SO WE WON’T COUNT HIM.
BUT YOU OWE ME FOR THE GERMAN.
“Mr. Bell! Mr. Bell!” A Van Dorn apprentice raced up, breathless.
“Wire from Mr. Van Dorn.”
Bell read it in a glance.
Yamamoto Kenta had been found floating in the Potomac.
All was lost.
The tall detective knelt beside his friend again and resumed methodically searching his pockets. In Scully’s vest he found a train ticket for the 20th Century Limited with through connections to San Francisco.
“Boarrrrd! All aboa-”
The conductor’s final warning was drowned out by the engineer signaling Ahead with a majestic double blast on his whistle. Isaac Bell stood up, thinking furiously. John Scully must have been following a suspected spy or saboteur who was headed to San Francisco, where the Great White Fleet would replenish before crossing the Pacific Ocean.
He spoke sharply to the Van Dorn apprentice, who was staring with wide-open eyes at the fallen detective. “Look at me, son.”
The boy tore his gaze from Scully.
“There’s a lot to be done, and you’re the only Van Dorn here who can do it. Round up every witness. Those workmen there, those Chinese fellows with the cart, and these folks hanging about. Someone saw something. This officer will help you, won’t you?”
“I’ll do what I can,” said the cop dubiously.
Bell pressed money into his hand. “Hold them here while this young gentleman telephones Van Dorn headquarters for every available agent. On the jump, son! Then straight back here and get to work. Remember, people are glad to talk if you give them the chance.”
The floor shook. The 20th Century Limited was rolling toward Chicago.
Isaac Bell bolted onto the platform, ran the length of the express train’s red carpet, and jumped.
THE FLEET
34
THIS CALLS FOR A DRINK,” SAID THE SPY.
Some special concoction in honor of Isaac Bell.
Just before the telephone line was disconnected when the 20th Century Limited left Grand Central, Katherine Dee had reported that John Scully had gone to that section of kingdom come set aside for Van Dorn detectives. He cradled the instrument and beckoned an observation-car steward.
“Does your bartender know how make a Yale cocktail?”
“He sure does, sir.”
“Does he have the Crême Yvette?” the spy asked sternly.
“Of course, sir.”
“Bring me one, then-oh, and bring these gentlemen what they would like, too,” he added, indicating a pair of pink-jowled Chicago businessmen who were glowering indignantly. “Sorry, gents. I hope I didn’t thwart any important last-minute telephone calls.”
The offer of a free drink was mollifying, and one admitted, “Just calling the office to tell them I’m on the train.”
His friend said, “Guess they’ll figure that out when you don’t skulk back in moping that you missed it.” Traveling men within earshot laughed and repeated the joke to others who hadn’t heard it.
“Look! There’s a fellow who almost did.”
“He must have jumped!”
“Or flew!”
The spy glanced toward the back of the car. A tall man in a white suit was gliding in from the rear vestibule.
“Maybe he’s got no ticket, figuring to ride the rails.”
“There goes the conductor-on him like a terrier.”
“Guard my cocktail,” said the spy. “I just remembered I have to dictate a letter.”
The 20th Century Limited supplied a stenographer, free of charge. He moved quickly to the man’s portable desk at the head of the observation car, pulled his collar up and his hat low, and sat with his back to the detective. “How soon will a letter I post leave the train?”
“Forty minutes. It will go off at Harmon when we exchange the electric engine for a steam locomotive.” He reached for an envelope engraved VIA 20TH CENTURY. “To whom shall I address it, sir?”
“K. C. Dee, Plaza Hotel, New York.”