James Dashwood drew from a shoulder holster a long-barreled Colt that had been smithed to a fare-thee-well. “Right here, Mr. Bell.”

“Do you see those French doors on the third-floor balcony?”

“Third floor.”

“Those stairs lead up from the balcony to the roof. I’d prefer not to engage in a public gun battle with anyone trying to escape from that room through those doors. Do you see the knob?”

Dashwood’s keen eyes penetrated the shadows to focus on the barely visible two-inch bronze knob. “Got it.”

“If it moves, shoot it.”

Bell tugged his gold watch from its pocket and traced the second hand. “In twenty seconds, our boys will knock on the hall door.”

Twenty-three seconds later, the knob turned. Dashwood, who had been trained by his mother—a former shootist with Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show—fired once. The knob flew from the door.

“Hop in,” said Bell. “Let’s hear what this fellow has to tell us.”

Moments later, the heavyset Van Dorns exited the front of the bordello, balancing a man between them like friends helping a drunk. Bell eased the Packard along the curb, and they bundled the man into the backseat.

“Do you realize who I am?” he blustered.

“You are Alderman William T. Foley, formerly known as ‘Brothel Bill,’ less for your handsome mug than for your managemental prowess in the vice trade.”

“I’ll have you arrested.”

“You’re running for reelection on the reform ticket.”

“The alderman was carrying these,” said one of the detectives, presenting Bell with two pocket pistols, a dagger, and a sap.

“Where is Harry Frost?”

“Who?” Bill Foley asked innocently. Like any successful Chicago criminal who had graduated to public office, Foley could recognize Van Dorn detectives when seated between them in the back of a Packard. He was emboldened by the knowledge that they were less likely to shoot him in an alley or drown him in Lake Michigan than certain other parties in town. “Harry Frost? Never heard of him.”

“You were spending his money tonight in the most expensive sporting house in Chicago. Money he paid you this afternoon to cash a five-thousand-dollar check at the First Trust and Savings Bank. Where is he?”

“He didn’t leave a forwarding address.”

“Too bad for you.”

“What are you going to do, turn me in to the sheriff? Who happens to be my wife’s uncle.”

“You’re running for reelection on the reform ticket. Our client publishes a newspaper in this town that you would not want as your enemy.”

“I’m not afraid of Whiteway’s papers,” Foley sneered. “Nobody in Chicago gives a hang for that California pup who—”