It was time to end this ghastly fight. Bell’s right hand still held the Colt. With deadly calm, he raised the barrel until the muzzle was only inches from Kelly’s face, deliberately pulled the trigger, and sent a .44 caliber bullet into Kelly’s right eye.

There was no terrible scream or horrible gurgling sound. Kelly exhaled an audible gasp from his throat and rolled over on the carpet like some great beast in its death throes crumpling to the earth.

Bell sat up on the floor and massaged his throat, panting from the exertion. He turned his head and stared at the doorway as men came rushing into the suite.

They stopped in stunned shock at the sight of the sea of blood and the great hump of a man whose face was unrecognizable because of the bloody, congealing mask.

The face looked particularly grotesque due to the gold teeth showing through the open lips that slowly became coated red.

Kelly had died hard, and for what? Money? A debt? A vendetta? Not the latter.

Bell had never launched an investigation against the Barbary Coast giant. Someone must have paid him to kill and paid him extremely well.

Bell wondered if he would ever know the answer.

THE NEXT MORNING, Bell stepped out of the big porcelain bathtub, toweled off the water that dripped down his body, and gazed in the mirror. His throat didn’t look pretty. It was swollen, with purple bruises so obvious that he could see the shape of Red Kelly’s fingers where they had dug into his flesh. He put on a clean white shirt and was pleased to see that the high, starched collar, though it chafed his tender skin, covered the bruises.

They weren’t the only purplish green marks on his aching body. He had several from falling over the chair, and from being thrown across the room and into the wall by Kelly’s brute strength. They were tender to the touch and would not fade anytime soon.

After dressing in his trademark linen suit, Bell left the hotel and stopped off at the Western Union office and sent a telegram to Joseph Van Dorn that told of the attempt on his life. When he came slowly through the door of the office, Agnes Murphy openly stared at him. She stood up with a look of motherly concern in her eyes. “Oh, Mr. Bell. I heard about your unfortunate incident. I do hope you’re all right.”

“A few bruises, Agnes, nothing more.”

Curtis and Irvine heard his voice and came from the conference room, followed by Alexander from his office. Both agents vigorously shook his hand—a bit too vigorously, Bell thought, wincing at the discomfort that traveled over his aching body. Alexander merely stood back, as if he was a spectator in an audience.

“Glad to see you alive and kicking,” said Curtis. “We heard it was quite a fight.”

“It was as close as I ever came to buying the farm,” said Bell.