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INVESTIGATE DMITRI PLATOV,
Isaac Bell wired Van Dorn researchers in Chicago and New York. He was sure that the Russian inventor had somehow influenced Josephine to marry Preston Whiteway. Why Platov would want her to marry Whiteway was an enigma. But what intrigued the tall detective as much was how Platov had the power to change Josephine’s mind about a decision as deeply important and intensely personal as marriage.
Bell could not ignore such mystery about a man who had the run of the air race infields and was welcomed in every hangar car. Particularly since Dmitri Platov had volunteered to fill in for Eddison-Sydney-Martin’s murdered mechanician days before the Englishman’s propeller broke loose and smashed him into a Kansas creek. And if there was any one mechanician in the race who knew his business, it was Platov.
The researchers’ preliminary report, wired back in half a day, was baffling.
The only information on Dmitri Platov was found in Van Dorn files that contained newspaper clippings about the Whiteway Cup preparations at Belmont Park, and Isaac Bell’s own reports from the infield. Similarly, newspaper reporters had described, with varying degrees of accuracy, Platov’s revolutionary thermo engine, but only in articles about its destruction in the accident that had killed Steve Stevens’s chief mechanician.
Bell pondered the meaning of such a lack of information. It jibed with Danielle Di Vecchio’s assertion that she had never met Platov at the International Aeronautical Salon in Paris nor even heard his name there.
Was it possible that Platov had never been at the Paris air meet? But if he had not been in Paris, then from whom had Marco Celere bought his so-called jet engine?
Bell wired Research:
CONCENTRATE ON THERMO ENGINE.
ON THE JUMP!
Then he called Dashwood into his headquarters car. “I’m taking you off the gamblers. Watch Dmitri Platov. Don’t let him know, but stick to him like his shadow.”
“What am I looking for?”
“He’s making me uncomfortable,” said Bell. “He could be as innocent as he looks. But he had the opportunity to sabotage the Englishman’s pusher.”
“Could he be Harry Frost’s inside man?” asked Dashwood.
“He could be anything.”
ISAAC BELL HALED the few Van Dorns in the Southwest he could get his hands on to defend Josephine’s wedding from Harry Frost’s Colt machine guns. As the private detectives hurried into Fort Worth and reported aboard the Eagle Special, he drummed in his strategy: “Make it impossible for Harry Frost to sneak close enough to do damage. Ransack your contacts. There are darned few of us, but if we pool our links to lawmen, railroad police, informers, gamblers, and criminals beholden to us, we can try to establish a perimeter equal to the Colts’ range and keep him outside it.”
The stolen Colts’ long range was the threat. The machine guns were deadly up to a mile. But Frost could nearly treble the threat by elevating the barrels to loft indirect “plunging fire,” where bullets would rain down on the party indiscriminately from a distance as great as four thousand five hundred yards—the better part of three miles.
“Not as tough as it sounds,” Bell assured the Van Dorns. “Fort Worth’s sheriff is kindly lending a hand with a whole passel of temporary deputies, including ranch hands in the immediate area. They’ll recognize strangers. And we’re getting railroad dicks. The Texas & Pacific line and the Fort Worth & Denver are cooperating.”
“What if Harry Frost gets the same idea and hires his own locals?” asked a Los Angeles detective who had just stepped off the train, wearing a cream-colored bowler hat and a pink necktie.
Bell said, “What do you say to that, Walt?” nodding to his old friend “Texas” Walt Hatfield, who had arrived on horseback.
Lean as a steel rail and considerably tougher, the former Texas Ranger turned Van Dorn detective squinted under the brim of his J. B. Stetson at the California dandy. “Nothin’ to stop Frost from roundin’ up a salty bunch,” he drawled. “But he can’t drive them into town, as they would be types well known by peace officers. However, Isaac,” he said to Bell, “spottin’ Harry Frost ain’t stoppin’ him. I reckon from readin’ reports of your adventures thus far, Frost ain’t scairt of nothin’. He’d charge Hell with a bucket of water.”
Bell shook his head. “Don’t count on Frost acting rashly. We’ll see no reckless attack, no hopeless charge. He told me straight, he’s not afraid of dying. But only after he kills Josephine.”
HAVING SET UP HER CAMERAS and Cooper-Hewitt lamps in the North Side Coliseum, Marion Morgan joined Isaac Bell in his Van Dorn headquarters car. Bell complimented her new split riding skirt, which she had discovered in a Fort Worth department store that catered to wealthy ranchers’ wives, then asked, “How does the wedding venue look?” Preoccupied with establishing the perimeter, he had yet to inspect the inside of the coliseum.
Marion laughed. “Do you recall how Preston described it?”
“‘The most opulent and dynamic pavilion in the entire Western Hemisphere’?”
“He left out one word: ‘livestock.’ The opulent and dynamic livestock pavilion is where they hold their National Feeders and Breeders cattle show. Josephine laughed so hard, she started crying.”
“She’s a dairy farmer’s daughter.”
“She said, ‘I’m getting married in a cow barn.’ In actual fact, it’s a grand building. Plenty of light for my cameras. Skylights in the roof, and electricity for my lamps. I’ll do fine. How about you?”
“Indoors makes it easier to guard,” said Bell.
When he did inspect it, he discovered it was indeed a wise choice, with enormous rail yards for the support trains and wedding guests’ specials, and easily dismantled corrals to make airfield space for the flying machines.
AFTER A THOUSAND-MILE RUN from Chicago on awful roads, Harry Frost’s sixty-horsepower, four-cylinder Model 35 Thomas Flyer touring car was caked in mud, gray with dust, and festooned with towropes and chains, extra gas and oil cans, and repeatedly patched spare tires. But it was running like a top, and Frost felt a
