Dorothy Langner mentioned Kent and Wheeler. I gathered they were Langner counterparts.
Counterparts? MacDonald laughed. That's the joke of the dreadnought race, don't you see?
No I don't. What do you mean?
It's like a shell game, with a pea under every shell and every pea packed with dynamite. Farley Kent devises watertight compartments to protect his hulls from torpedoes. But up in Newport, Ron Wheeler improves torpedoes-builds a longer-range torpedo that carries heavier explosives, maybe even figures out how to arm it with TNT. So Artie has to-had to-increase gun range so the ship can fight farther off, and Chad Gordon had to cast stronger armor to take the hits. Enough to drive a man to drink . . . MacDonald refilled their glasses. God knows how we'll get along without those lads.
But speed you say is also vital. What about you in Steam Engineering? Bell asked. They say you're a wizard with turbines. Wouldn't Alasdair MacDonald's loss be as devastating to the dreadnought program?
MacDonald laughed. I'm indestructible.
Another fistfight broke out across the dance hall.
Excuse me, Isaac, said MacDonald, and he waded cheerfully into it.
Bell shouldered after him. The flashily dressed gangsters he'd seen when he came in were hovering around the impromptu ring of cheering men. MacDonald was trading punches with a young heavyweight who had the arms of a blacksmith and admirable footwork. The Scotsman appeared slower than the younger man. But Bell saw that Alasdair MacDonald was allowing his opponent to land punches as a way of gauging what he had. So subtle was he that none of the blows scored any damage. Suddenly Alasdair seemed to have learned all he needed to. Suddenly he was fast and deadly, throwing combinations. Bell had to admit they outclassed the best he had thrown when he boxed for Yale, and he recalled with a grateful smile Joe Van Dorn steering him into graduate study in Chicago's saloons.
The blacksmith was weaving. MacDonald finished him off with an upper cut that was no harder than it had to be to do the job, then helped him to his feet, slapped his back, and bellowed for all to hear, You did good, laddie. I just got lucky . . . Isaac, did you note this fellow's footwork? Don't you think he's got a future in the ring?
He'd have floored Gentleman Jim Corbett in his prime.
The blacksmith accepted the compliment with a glassy-eyed grin.
MacDonald, whose own eyes were still restlessly scanning the crowd, noticed the gangsters coming purposefully his way. Oh, here's another contender-two more. No rest for the weary. All right, lads, you're runts, but there's two of ya. Come and get it.
They weren't quite runts, although MacDonald outweighed them handily, but they moved with assurance and held their hands well. And when they attacked, it was clearly not the first time they had teamed up. Talented street fighters, Bell assessed them, tough slum kids who had fought their way into the upper ranks of a gang. Full-fledged gangsters now, out for a night of mayhem. Bell moved closer in case things got out of hand.
Hurling filthy curses at Alasdair MacDonald, they attacked him simultaneously from both sides. There was a viciousness to the concerted assault that seemed to anger the Scotsman. Face flushed, he feinted a retreat, which drew them forward into a powerful left jab and a devastating right. One gangster staggered backward, blood spurting from his nose. The other crumpled up, holding his ear.
Bell saw steel flash behind Alasdair MacDonald.
Chapter 11
ISAAC BELL WHISKED HIS OVER-UNDER , TWO-SHOT derringer out of his hat in a blur of motion and fired at the third gangster, who was lunging at Alasdair MacDonald's back with a knife. The range was close, nearly point-blank. The heavy .44 slug stopped him in his tracks, and the blade fell from his hand. But even as the roar of gunfire sent patrons stampeding for cover, the dandy with the bloody nose was thrusting another knife at the Scotsman's belly.
MacDonald gaped, as if astonished that a friendly brawl would turn deadly.
Isaac Bell realized that he was witnessing a premeditated attempt at murder. A fleeing spectator blocked his vision. Bell slammed him out of his way and fired again. Above MacDonald's bloody nose, the knife wielder grew a red hole between the eyes. His knife fell inches short of Alasdair MacDonald's belt.
Bell's derringer was empty.
The remaining killer, the one floored, rose behind MacDonald with a fluid ease that showed him neither hurt nor slowed by the blow he had taken to his ear. A long-bladed knife flipped open in his hand. Bell was already pulling his Browning No. 2 semiautomatic from under his coat. The killer thrust his knife at MacDonald's back. Tucking the pistol to his body to shield it from the running men, Bell fired. He knew that he would have stopped the killer dead with a shot to the brain. But someone crashed into him just as he pulled the trigger.
He did not miss by much. The shot pierced the dandy's right shoulder. But the Browning's pinpoint accuracy was gained at the cost of stopping power, and the killer was left-handed. Although the .380 caliber slug staggered him, momentum was on the killer's side, and he managed to sink his blade into Alasdair MacDonald's broad back.
MacDonald still looked astonished. His eyes met Bell's even as the detective caught him in his arms. They tried to kill me, he marveled.
Bell eased the suddenly dead weight to the sawdust and knelt over him. Get a doctor, Bell shouted. Get an ambulance.
Laddie!
Don't talk, said Bell.
Blood was spreading rapidly, so fast that the sawdust floated on it instead of absorbing it.
Give me your hand, Isaac.
Bell took the huge splayed hand in his.
Please give me your hand.
I've got you, Alasdair-Get a doctor!
Angelo Del Rossi knelt beside them. Doc's coming. He's a good one. You'll be O.K., Professor. Won't he, Bell?
Of course, Bell lied.
MacDonald gripped Bell's hand convulsively and whispered something Bell could not hear. He leaned closer. What
