“Of course. I felt bad I couldn’t stay to see you wake up. But then, I’m sure you preferred seeing her face when you awoke rather than mine.”
Bell chuckled. “For the first few seconds, I thought I was in Heaven, looking at an angel.”
“Had it been me, you would have been certain you were in Hell,” Ramirez said and roared at his own joke. “I look forward to discussing her career over drinks tonight, before dinner.”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” Isaac said to the obviously crestfallen hotelier. “I’m sending her home. She’s too tempting of a target. Kidnapping her would be as effective at stopping me as if the Viboras had put a bullet in my brain.”
“You do not think as a latino-americano, Isaac.” Ramirez took true exception to Bell’s inference. “We treat all women as if they are abençoada Maria, the Blessed Mary herself. No matter how badly the Viboras would want to hurt you, they would not harm your wife.”
“I hate to disagree. Just like there is no honor among thieves, there is no chivalry when it comes to insurgents. If an act will advance their cause, they will strike. They just indiscriminately killed almost thirty men at Pedro Miguel, and in San Diego they fired off a Lewis gun around crowds of women and children. I am not taking any chances.”
“Sí. I get your point. If I had a wife as beautiful as yours, I would want her home safely too. Are you then not concerned while she is at sea?”
Before Bell replied, the front desk clerk entered the dining room and beckoned Felix.
“Duty calls.” The hotelier smiled. “Forgive me.”
“Of course.”
“Who’s going to sea?” Tats Macalister had approached from behind, as silent as a cat. He had a half-eaten piece of fruit in one hand.
“Hmm? Oh, my wife. After my ordeal, she’s agreed to head back to the States.”
“Today?”
“That’s right. There’s a group of nurses rotating back home. Marion’s going to bunk with them as it’s all on short notice.”
“Ah, the Spinster Express.”
“Pardon?”
“It’s what some of the men call the ship taking women who didn’t find husbands here back to America. The vessel is actually named the Spatminster, a Belgian liner contracted by the Authority to transport miners from California.”
Just then, Marion swept into the room, carrying a scarlet hatbox in one hand and a wicker basket in the other. Her boater had a peacock feather stuck in its hatband that matched the emerald sparkle of her eyes. “Good morning, Mr. Macalister.”
“For me, that is not the case, Mrs. Bell, for your husband just informed me that you are leaving us.”
“I’m afraid so,” she said. “On those rare occasions when he uses reasoned arguments for wanting me out of his hair, sometimes a girl has to listen. Isaac, my ship leaves in a few hours, and I want a picnic.” She held up the woven basket. “Cold chicken salad, French bread, a perfectly ripened avocado, and fruit tea. It’s the least you can do.”
“I guess it is,” Bell said. “Where’d you get the food?”
“Chef whipped it up while you gents were chatting. It only took me about a minute to pack, after all.”
“You are a lucky man, Isaac Bell,” Tats said with an admiring grin. “Take her to the overlook near Ancon. It is the best spot from which to see the canal.”
“Good idea,” Bell agreed.
They ran into Jorge Nuñez, Bell’s guide, just outside the Central’s front door.
“Meeting clients, Jorge?” Bell said by way of greeting.
“Hoping to get some business if I loiter in the lobby, Mr. Bell.”
Bell gestured that Marion should see to her luggage in order for him to have a private word with Jorge about the case.
The bellhop already had Marion’s matching valises in the small bench seat behind the car’s open cockpit. She handed over her hatbox and picnic hamper and let him buckle the securing straps. Bell walked over and tipped the man and accepted his offer to crank the engine while he worked the throttle and choke controls.
He had use of a three-year-old Renault AX roadster. Under its distinctive coal scuttle hood was a 1000cc, two-cylinder motor capable of delivering a top speed of thirty-five miles per hour. It was painted green, with faded gold striping, and while it was lovingly maintained, the ravages of its tropical home were apparent. The leather upholstery was brittle and had black mold in its creases. The brightwork was showing pitting. Like with the water truck Bell had totaled, the fender flaring over one of the front wheels had been crumpled and then beaten back into shape. At least the wheels were in good condition, though where a spare tire was supposed to be attached to the chassis, there was nothing but clamps.
The car was right-hand drive, which Bell was getting used to, and they were soon on their way out of the city.
Marion had already been to Ancon Hospital, so she knew almost immediately that Bell had another destination in mind.
“Where are we going?” she called over the sound of air rushing past and the burble-pop of the two-cylinder engine.
“What’s your biggest complaint about California?”
She thought for a second and remembered something she’d said when they’d arrived in Los Angeles. “The beaches are beautiful, but the ocean’s too cold,” she said and then clapped her hands like a little girl. “You know a beach?”
“My new friend Sam Westbrook told me about a spot south of the city when we were walking around a few days ago. Very secluded.”
“But I don’t have a swimming costume.”
“Like I said,” Bell replied wolfishly, “very secluded.”
22
They made it to the pier with just moments to spare. The Spatminster was a white-hulled ship with yellow funnels that had two purple bands ringing them at the top. She had a three-decked superstructure sandwiched among forests of derricks, booms, and masts. Her main deck was so covered with air scoops to ventilate the interior spaces, she reminded Bell of
