“Is this your mark on this wedge?”
Danis leaned over it to look, dripping sweat on Somers’s arm. “I’ll be darned. Where’d you find this?”
“The horse was pulling a coal wagon.”
“Coal wagon? I don’t understand. No teamster’s going to drive his coal wagon all the way to New Jersey to shoe his horse.”
“What if the horse was sold to a New York coal wagon teamster after you shoed him?”
“Well, I’ll be,” said Danis, his red face lighting in recognition.
“What do you mean?”
“His name was Redman.”
“Who?”
“Big, strong quarry horse. Seventeen hands. Strong as a mule. Good-natured, too. Just the sweetest temper.”
“Who owns him?”
“Fellow came in all in a rush. He had just bought him, didn’t realize he had a loose shoe. Didn’t know a thing about horses. I wondered how he’d ever hitch up the wagon. I figured I’d lend a hand, but Redman was such a sweet-natured animal they worked it out.”
“Did you get his name?”
“Redman.”
“The man.”
“No. He was a foreigner. Had a real thick accent, and he was in a heck of a rush. Gave me two bucks and ran off.”
“Was that here?”
“No, no, no. Not at the fair. Up in Jersey City . . . Wall Street? Yeah, that makes sense.”
“What do you mean?”
“Last I saw, they were heading toward the ferry.”
Asa Somers reported to Grady Forrer and, a while later, he overheard Mr. Bell on the telephone. “We traced the horseshoe to a New Jersey farrier. I’m sorry, Dick, but it looks like a dead end.”
• • •
ISAAC BELL said good-bye to Inspector Condon and hung up the telephone, wondering what next. He was painfully aware that he needed a lucky break or two. But, so far, they weren’t flocking his way.
He noticed Somers skulking about. “Why the long face, Asa?”
“The horseshoe didn’t help?”
“What? No, don’t worry about it. We have to try everything to find what works.”
“I wish mine had.”
“I could say the same about Trucks O’Neal and the Black Bird motors. It’s the nature of the game. You just keep plugging away.”
“Can I have a gun?”
“Not yet.”
“I heard a rumor from some of the boys that when you were an apprentice you bought your own derringer.”
“Like most rumors, that’s not entirely true.”
Somers looked at Bell inquiringly.
“Go on, son. If you’re going to be a detective, you have to ask questions. Ask.”
“What wasn’t true?”
“I didn’t buy my derringer. I took a derringer away from somebody. And kept it.”
Darren McKinney ran into the bull pen. “Mr. Bell!”
“McKinney.”
“My Washington fellow came through.”
• • •
SHIPMENTS TO the New York region from the War Department director of sales included a dozen surplus Liberty engines, and crates of spare parts, to the Long Island Railroad freight depot in Bayport, sixty miles from the city. Isaac Bell drew a circle on the map, representing the likely distance a truck would drive from a railroad depot, and dispatched detectives to all the South Shore towns within it.
“Blue Point, Sayville, Patchogue, Great River, Bay Shore, Islip, West Islip.”
“Needle in a haystack,” said McKinney.
But Isaac Bell was optimistic. “We were looking in a hundred-mile haystack. Now we’re down to ten.”
The Van Dorn operator rang. “Long-distance telephone from Texas Walt Hatfield.”
“Detroit?”
“Yes, but not on the private line.”
It was a fairly decent connection. Bell could hear hints of Walt’s drawl. “Ah busted some heads, cleaning up the office. We’re down to two good men.”
“Are you sure about them?”
“Plumb sure. Exceptin’ we had a mite of trouble. They’re both in the hospital, owing to a bushwhacker lobbing a hand grenade into the premises.”
Bell asked how badly they were hurt.
“They’ll recover, but they’re not tip-top at the moment.”
“Who threw the grenade?”
“I’d say the Purple Gang.”
“The Purple Gang are street kids.”
“The little tykes are growing by leaps and bounds. Partly on account of their vicious habits. Partly due to the Eye-talians killing each other off leaving the Purples to play the big time. Most of the Detroit big boys are sleeping in the river. There’s been a complete change of gang bosses.”
“Close the office.”
“The hand grenade sort of did that already. I’ve got a real estate fellow looking for a new space.”
“Close it. Permanently.”
“Now, hold on, Isaac,” Texas Walt drawled. “These hydrophobic skunks will get the wrong idea if we slink out of town with our tails between our legs.”
“We’ll come back—undercover.”
“I already told you it won’t do having folks stopping me for my autograph while I’m masquerading as a criminal.”
Isaac Bell said, “And I told you I’m going to hide you in plain sight—”
Bell looked up at a sudden commotion. Ed Tobin burst into the office, grinning like a bulldog that had sunk its teeth into a steak.
“—Hold the wire, Walt.” Bell put down the phone. “What?”
“Uncle Donny found the black boat.”
“Where?”
“Great River.”
Bell stood up. “Great River?”
“It’s way out on Long Island.”
“I know where it is,” said Bell. “Eight miles from the Bayport freight house, where the War Department shipped a dozen surplus Libertys. Where are they keeping it?”
“Stashed it in a boathouse on a private estate.”
Bell grabbed the phone. “Walt, I’ll call you back when I can. Meantime, tell your real estate agent to rent a big place out of town for a roadhouse.”
“Roadhouse?”
“You heard me. Rent a roadhouse!”
Bell banged down the phone.
“How did he find it?”
“It tried to hijack him. Uncle Donny followed it, hoping to steal it.”
“What changed his mind?”
“Too many of them. And he had little Robin with him. So now he’s hoping when we catch it, we’ll give it to him.”
“Fair enough. But that’s a lot of boat for one old man. Aren’t his nephews in the jailhouse?”
“Jimmy and Marvyn got set loose for good behavior—actually, a paperwork error in their favor. Wes, and Charlie, and Dave and Eddie, and Blaze are up for parole, eventually.”
“Wait a minute. How did that oyster scow manage to keep up with a fifty-knot express cruiser?”
“She ran aground. Busted props and driveshafts.”
Isaac Bell headed for the door. “We’ll
