“I’ll come with you.”
“Stay where you are!” Van Dorn shouted. “I’ll take care of it myself.”
He pushed so hard out the door that it banged against the wall of the detectives’ bull pen, knocking street maps and wanted posters askew. When he shoved through the hall door, frosted glass shattered. Then he was gone, storming down the hotel’s grand stairs, barreling across the lobby, and shouting on Broadway, “Cab! You there. Stop now!”
He leaped aboard, next to the driver.
“Wall Street!”
By the time Bell reached the sidewalk, the cab careened around the corner on one wheel, and the horse broke into a gallop.
“Wall Street!” the hotel doormen told Isaac Bell Mr. Van Dorn had bellowed at the cabbie.
Bell ran full tilt to Sixth Avenue, climbed the steep covered stairs to the Elevated three at a time, and reached the platform just as a downtown train pulled away. The next seemed like it would never come.
31
Isaac Bell jumped off the el at the Rector Street stop, pounded down the stairs and across Rector, cut through Trinity Church’s cemetery, and bolted across Broadway, dodging six lanes of streetcars, wagons, autos, freight vans, and carriages. He stopped at the head of Wall Street, praying he had gotten there before Joe Van Dorn. He had never seen the Boss so disturbed and knew his rage would make him reckless, which was a dangerous state in which to confront the provocateur.
But now that he was here, how to find him?
Wall Street stretched nearly half a mile between the soot-blackened graves in Trinity’s cemetery to the East River docks and was lined on both sides by innumerable buildings. The cab Van Dorn had hailed was one of thousands of identical black horse-drawn two-wheelers, and all that Bell had seen of the driver was a wizened man in a black coat and a flat cap.
Many cabbies wore a tall black stovepipe. He could eliminate them as he ran down Wall Street. But his best clue would be an exhausted horse with its coat lathered from galloping top speed from Forty-third Street. He found one in the second block, forelegs spread wide, head down, flanks heaving.
“Ready in a jiff, sir,” the driver called. “He’s not so bad as he looks. Just catching his breath.” He jerked the reins to pull its head up.
Bell kept running. The driver was wearing a top hat.
A block down, a crowd had gathered in the street, blocking traffic. Bell pushed through it. He saw a hansom cab with its traces empty. A horse was in the street, down on the cobblestones. A wizened man in a flat cap knelt beside it, stroking its face.
Bell pushed beside him and pressed ten dollars into his hand. “For the vet. Where did your fare go?”
The cabbie pointed mutely at a small, well-kept office building.
Bell ran to it, shouted to the doorman, “Big fellow, red hair and beard?”
“Blew past me like a maddened grizzly.”
Bell ran into the lobby and grabbed the elevator runner. “Big man. Red beard. What floor?”
The runner hesitated and looked away.
Bell seized his tunic in his fist. “That man is valuable to me.
“Tenth.”
“Take me.”
“Mister, I don’t think you ought to go up there.”
Bell shoved him out of the car, slammed the gate shut, and rammed the control to rise at full speed. He overshot the tenth, brought it back down, threw the door open, and leaped out into the shambles of a business office. Chairs and desks were tumbled everywhere, glass was shattered, and five men in colorful gangster garb lay still on the carpet.
Five more were gripping Joseph Van Dorn by his arms and legs. A sixth was swinging wildly at his face. The man’s fists had already blackened his eye and split his lip, but Van Dorn had not seemed to notice as he battled to free his arms.
Bell pulled his Army and fired two shots into the ceiling.
“Next are in your bellies,” he roared. “Let that man go.”
The gangsters were not easily intimidated. None moved, except the man who had been punching Van Dorn. He reached into his pocket. Bell fired instantly. The heavy .45 slug threw the gangster into a wall.
“Let him loose.”
“Mister, if we let him loose, he’ll start up again.”
“Count on it,” Van Dorn bellowed.
Bell fired, dropping a man who pulled a revolver from his belt. The others let go. Van Dorn slugged two, as he barreled across the wrecked office, and kicked a fallen man who was starting to rise with a knife. Shoulder to shoulder with Isaac Bell, Van Dorn drew a heavy automatic pistol from his coat.
“Louses started swinging the second I came in the door.”
“Where’s our man?”
“Not with these street scum. All right, boyos. You were waiting for me, weren’t you?”
No one answered.
“Where is he?” Van Dorn shouted. “Where is that son of a bitch?”
A weaselly little man with a swollen eye and no teeth whined, “Mister, we’re just doing a job. We didn’t mean no harm.”
“Eleven men ganging one?” Isaac Bell asked incredulously. “No harm?”
“We was just supposed to beat him up.”
“Shut up, Marvyn.”
A gangster, a little older than the rest and clearly the boss, stepped forward and said, “If you know what’s good for you, you two, you’ll just turn around and leave like nothing happened.”
“Cover them.” Van Dorn passed Bell his automatic. Bell leveled both guns at the gangsters, Van Dorn picked up a telephone off the floor.
“Central? Get me the police.”
“Hey, what are you doing?”
“Pressing charges.”
“That’s not how it’s done.”
“I’ll promise you this,” Van Dorn retorted coldly. “Next time you try to beat up a Van Dorn, we
“But—”
“Answer this! Where did Clay go?”
“I don’t know. He doesn’t tell me where he goes.”
“Where’s the people who worked in his office?”
“Ran for it when this rumpus started.”
“How long have you worked for Clay?”
“Years.”
Joseph Van Dorn was still holding the telephone and still breathing hard. “How long were you waiting for me?”
“Two days— Mister, you ain’t gonna call the cops, are youse?”
Van Dorn said, “You’ll owe?”
“Sure.”
“Make no mistake. If you give me your marker, I’ll collect.”
“I ain’t a welsher.”
