“They’ll see you safe out of the neighborhood. You’re a valuable man now, we don’t want folks wondering why you got bruises. But don’t forget, don’t let nobody see that there tube of water. Anybody starts asking questions, and the city of Chicago loses a pretty face.”

They started him out the door. The saloonkeeper called, “By the way, if you’re wondering what it is and how it’ll work, don’t. And if you happen to figure it out and you don’t like it, remember Daisy’s pretty little nose. And her eyes.”

ISAAC BELL DROPPED DASHWOOD around the corner from the Palmer House at a small hotel that gave out-of-town Van Dorns a discount. Then he drove to the Levee District and parked on a street that hadn’t changed much in a decade. Motortrucks lined up at the newspaper depot instead of wagons, but the gutter was still paved with greasy cobbles, and the ramshackle buildings still housed saloons, brothels, lodging houses, and pawnshops.

By the dim light of widely scattered streetlamps, he could make out the intersection of old and new brick where Harry Frost’s dynamite had demolished the depot walls. A man was sleeping in the doorway the frightened newsboys had huddled in. A streetwalker emerged from the narrow alley. She spotted the Packard and approached with a hopeful smile.

Bell smiled back, looked her in the eye, and pressed a ten-dollar gold piece into her hand. “Go home. Take the night off.”

He did not believe for one minute that the Van Dorn Detective Agency had run Harry Frost out of Chicago. The criminal mastermind had left town under his own steam for his own reasons. For it was chillingly clear to Bell that Harry Frost was as adaptable as he was unpredictable. Roving in that Thomas Flyer, the city gangster would take deadly, free-ranging command of the Midwest’s prairies and the vast plain beyond the Mississippi while the politicians and bankers and crooks in his Chicago organization covered his back, wired money, and executed his orders.

Bringing a telegrapher in the Thomas was a stroke of warped genius. Harry Frost could send Dave Mayhew climbing up railroad telegraph poles to tap into the wires, eavesdrop on the Morse alphabet, and tell him what the stationmasters were reporting about the progress of the race. Diabolical, thought Bell. Frost had drafted hundreds of dedicated assistants to track Josephine for him.

A drunk rounded the corner, smashed his bottle in the gutter, and burst into song.

“Come Josephine, in my flying machine . . .

“Up, up, a little bit higher

“Oh! My! The moon is on fire . . .”

Chapter 28

28