35
“Detective Bell is at your back door,” said Archie Abbott. “I’m Detective Abbott. Put that gun down before you get hurt.”
J. B. Culp lowered his pistol and backed into his foyer, a large entryway flanked by twin reception rooms. “Judging by your red hair, I’d have recognized you anywhere, Detective Abbott. Even on my private property.”
Abbott said, “Judging by your ruddy complexion, blond hair, and blue eyes, you are not the fugitive Antonio Branco, but John Butler Culp, the man who is harboring him. Put your gun on the table.”
Culp said, “There are people here anxious to meet you and your”—he looked over the burly detectives crowding in behind Abbott—“gang.” Then he raised his voice.
“Sheriff!”
A big bruiser with an Orange County sheriff’s star on his coat stepped from one of the reception rooms. “You’re under arrest, Detective Abbott.”
“I am not,” said Archie Abbott.
“Boys,” the Sheriff called.
Six deputies entered from the other reception room carrying shotguns.
The Sheriff said, “You’re all under arrest.”
“For what?”
“We’ll start with trespassing.”
“We are not trespassing.”
“Drop your weapons and reach for the sky.”
“We are not trespassing,” Abbott repeated. “We are pursuing a fugitive Black Hand gangster named Antonio Branco.”
The Sheriff turned to Culp, who had a small smile playing on his face.
“Mr. Culp, sir, have you seen any fugitives on your property?”
“No.”
The Sheriff turned his attention back to Archie Abbott. “Do you have permits to carry those guns?”
“Of course. We’re Van Dorns.”
“Orange County permits?”
“Now, hold on, Sheriff.”
“You’re trespassing in Orange County. You’re carrying illegal weapons in Orange County. You are endangering public safety in Orange County. And if you are the Detective Abbott I heard Mr. Culp greet, the Orange County District Attorney has received reports about your radical tendencies.”
“Are you nuts? I’m a Princeton man.”
“Last chance: Raise your hands before we start shooting. My boys’ twelve-gauges don’t leave much for the surgeon.”
Isaac Bell walked into the foyer with his hands in the air, trailed by his squad similarly elevated. He saw Culp smirking ear to ear. Archie looked poleaxed. But the out-of-town Van Dorns were tough customers, and Bell intervened quickly before it turned bloody.
“Guns down, gents. Hands up. We’ll settle this later.”
Archie said, “He says he’s the Sheriff.”
Bell said, “The men at the back door are New York Army National Guard officers. And there’s a fellow eating a sandwich in the kitchen who represents the Governor. We’re skunked.”
“Sheriff!” said J. B. Culp.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Culp?”
“Get these trespassers off my property.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Culp.”
“Lock ’em up. I’ll send someone to the jailhouse to press charges in the morning.”
Nine arrested Van Dorns were crammed into a cell in the county lockup that smelled like it was reserved for drunks. The other three had escaped on the boat.
“I want to know how they knew we were coming,” said Isaac Bell.
“They knew we were coming, didn’t they?” said Archie.
“Unless by amazing coincidence the Sheriff, the Army Guard, and the Governor’s man all dropped in on the same night,” said Isaac Bell.
Bell was seething. The cost of the botched raid was almost incalculable. Culp was in the clear. Branco was still on the loose, deadly as ever and protected by Culp. Culp had demonstrated his power to bring in big guns to defend his secret alliance with the gangster. While they had somehow managed the near impossible—catching wind ahead of time about a secret Van Dorn raid.
Archie repeated, “This is awful. They knew we were coming.”
“We will find out how,” Bell repeated.
Bell was dozing on his feet, shoulder to shoulder with the rest of his squad, when he heard Joseph Van Dorn thunder in full voice. The Boss stood outside the cell in a derby hat and a voluminous overcoat.
“Sorriest bunch of miscreants I’ve ever seen in one lockup. They’re an insult to the criminal classes. But hand them over anyway.”
The Sheriff looked abruptly awakened and very anxious. “Mr. Culp is going to be mighty angry.”
“Tell Mr. Culp to take it up with the United States Attorney for the Southern District of New York, which has federal jurisdiction over Orange County. Show him that letter the U.S. Attorney gave me to give to you. Open up, man! We have a train to catch. Come along, boys. Double-time . . . Lord, that jailhouse stink! Good thing I chartered a cattle car to take you home in.”
A scathing nod in Bell’s direction instructed him to join the Boss for a private word. They stood in the vestibule when the train left the station. Van Dorn’s voice was cold, his eyes colder.
“The U.S. Attorney owed me an enormous favor. Springing your squad cleared the books, and he made it abundantly clear that next time we’re on our own. So let me make it abundantly clear, Isaac: No Van Dorn detective will scale the Raven’s Eyrie wall again without my express permission.”
“Except, of course,” said Bell, “if we’re in hot pursuit of Antonio Branco.”
Van Dorn’s cheeks flared as red as his whiskers and the Boss was suddenly as angry as Bell had ever seen him. “If Antonio Branco is halfway over Culp’s wall and you are hanging by his ankles, wire me on the private telegraph and wait for my specific go-ahead.”
As the train neared the city, Archie Abbott whispered, “Isaac, I have to talk to you.”
Bell led him into the vestibule where Van Dorn had expressed his displeasure. “What’s up?”
“It was my fault, Isaac.”
“Everyone did their job. We hit, front and back, right on the nose. It’s not your fault they were waiting.”
“I’m afraid it was,” said Archie.
“What are you talking about?”
Abbott hung his head. He looked mortified, and it began to dawn on Isaac Bell that his old friend Archie Abbott was more deeply downcast than even the Raven’s Eyrie fiasco would warrant.
“What are you saying, Archie?”
“I think I was played for a sucker.”
“Who played you—the girl you’ve been seeing?”
“Francesca.”
“You told Marion you were ‘besotted.’”
“Totally.”
“What did you tell Francesca?”
“Only that I
