If his coat and hat made him look like a New York City police detective, or a high-ranking Water Supply Board cop, Isaac Bell was not about to say he wasn’t. Two birds with one stone on this trip included a second visit with J. B. Culp. This time, it would be on his home turf, Raven’s Eyrie, which Bell could see gleaming halfway up the mountain in the noonday sun. In his bag were evening clothes. First he would look like a police detective under the mountain.
He found the site where they were sinking a new access shaft to the siphon tunnel. The original shaft had been started too close to the mountain edge, where the granite proved too weak to withstand the aqueduct’s water pressure.
“Can I help you, sir?” the gate man asked warily.
“Where’s Davidson?”
“I’ll send somebody for him.”
“Just point me the way.”
The gate man pointed up the hill.
Bell stepped close, cop close. “Precisely where?”
“There’s a contractor’s shed about a hundred feet from the new shaft.”
Bell moved closer, his shoulder half an inch from the man’s cheek. “If you use that telephone to warn him, I will come back for you when I’m done with him.”
Davidson’s official job was to provide expert advice on the labor situation. That was window dressing. His real job was collecting contract fees from the Contractors’ Protective Society—or, as former newspaperman Detective Scudder Smith put it, “Tammany’s on-site fleecer of contractors and taxpayers.” Originally a Municipal Ownership League proponent of public utilities, Davidson had switched sides after the city’s Ramapo Water Grab victory and become, as Captain Coligney had noted, thoroughly Tammanized.
Across the Hudson—where the Catskills water tunneled under and emerged from the uptake—a stretch of aqueduct was being bored by a company that had paid Davidson an “honorarium” of five percent of the contract fee for his expert advice. Or so reliable rumor unearthed by Van Dorn operators had it. Vaguer rumors had Davidson shaking down Antonio Branco for $20,000 for a provisioning contract. Trouble was, hearsay was not evidence, and graft charges would never make it to court before the statute of limitations expired.
But despite his apparent immunity, Davidson was scared. Rattled, it seemed to Bell, at least too rattled to question Bell’s masquerade as a cop. “I got the telegraph” were the first words out of the heeler’s mouth.
“What telegraph?” asked Bell.
“The message. They left him hanging there for me. Warning me off.”
“From what?”
“None of your business.”
Bell said, “If you want me to run you in, the boat’s heading back to New York. Or we can take the train if you prefer trains.”
“Go right ahead.”
“What?”
“Arrest me. I’ll be safer in your custody than I am standing here.”
“Fine with me,” Bell bluffed, “if you think you’ll be safer in a city jail.”
Davidson wet his lips. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Go see Finn. He’ll set you straight.”
“Which Finn?”
Davidson looked at him sharply. “There is only one Finn, and if you don’t know him, you’re not who you say you are.”
Bell tried to bull through it. “I’m asking politely one more time. Which Finn?”
Davidson turned on his heel and walked again, leaving the tall detective with a strong feeling he had egg on his face. He hurried into the village, found a telephone building next to the post office, and phoned Captain Coligney. It took a while to connect to the long-distance wire, and he assumed that the local operator was listening in.
“Do you know a ‘Finn’ in connection with our hanging?”
“I’m afraid you’re talking about Brandon Finn. Not beholden to the powers in the usual way. Informal, if you know what I mean.”
“You mean he operates off the usual tracks?”
“And covers his tracks.”
“Who does Brandon Finn report to?”
“The Boss. But only on a strictly informal basis. Why do you ask?”
“It might be smart to keep an eye on him.”
“Too late,” said Coligney. “He died.”
“Of what?”
“They don’t know yet.”
Bell composed a telegram in Van Dorn cipher.
PROTECT CLAYPOOL HOME AND OFFICE
If Brandon Finn was linked directly to Boss Fryer, then whoever was killing the Tammany men was nearing the top of the heap. If Claypool was the fixer who started the ball rolling, then he could be next.
Archie Abbott took for granted that he delighted women the way catnip fired up cats. So when an attractive brunette taking tea in the Knickerbocker Hotel lobby not only failed to notice him but looked straight through him as if he didn’t exist, Abbott took it as a radical challenge to the proper order of things.
“Good afternoon.”
She had arresting blue eyes. They roved over Abbott’s square chin, his aquiline nose, his piercing eyes, his high brow, his rich red hair, and his dazzling smile. She said, “I’m afraid we’ve not been introduced, sir,” and returned her gaze to her magazine.
“Allow me to remedy that,” said Abbott. “I am Archibald Angell Abbott IV. It would be an honor to make your acquaintance.”
She did not invite him to sit beside her. At this point, were he not known to the Knickerbocker’s house detectives as a fellow Van Dorn, two well-dressed burly men would have quietly materialized at his elbows and escorted him to the sidewalk while explaining that mashers were not permitted to molest ladies in their hotel—and don’t come back!
“My friends call me Archie.”
“What does your wife call you?”
“I hope she will call me whatever pleases her when we finally meet. May I ask your name?”
“Francesca.”
“What a beautiful name.”
“Thank you, Archibald.”
“Just Archie is fine.”
“It pleases me to call you Archibald.”
Abbott’s sharp eye had already fixed on her left hand, where a wedding ring made a slight bulge in her glove. “Are you married, Francesca?”
“I am a widow.”
“I am terribly sorry,” he lied.
“Thank you. It has been two years.”
“I notice you still wear the ring.”
“The ring keeps the wrong type from getting the wrong idea.”
“May I sit down?”
“Why?”
Abbott grinned. “To see whether I’m
