“Well . . .” Asbury mopped his dripping face with a red handkerchief as he composed his answer. “The race has brought a slew of strangers into town. But I’ve seen none the size of Harry Frost.”

“Did any pique your interest?” Bell asked patiently. As he moved west with the race, he expected to encounter private detectives and law officers so laconic that they would judge the closemouthed Constable Hodge of North River to be recklessly loquacious.

“There’s a big-shot gambler from New York. Has a couple of toughs with him. Made me out to be the Law right off.”

“Broad-in-the-beam middle-aged fellow in a checkerboard suit? Smells like a barbershop?”

“I’ll say. Flies were swarming his perfume like bats at sunset.”

“Johnny Musto, out of Brooklyn.”

“What’s he doing all the way to Peoria?”

“I doubt he came for the waters. Thank you, Asbury. If you go to the galley car on Mr. Whiteway’s train, tell them I said to rustle up some supper for you . . . Dash, go size up Musto. Any luck, he won’t make you for a Van Dorn. You not being from New York,” Bell added, although in fact Dashwood’s best disguise was his altar boy innocence. “Give me your revolver. He’ll spot the bulge in your coat.”

Bell shoved the long-barreled Colt in his desk drawer. His hand flickered to his hat and descended holding his two-shot derringer. “Stick this in your pocket.”

“That’s O.K., Mr. Bell,” Dashwood grinned. He flexed his wrist in a jerky motion that caused a shiny new derringer to spit from his sleeve into his fingers.

Isaac Bell was impressed. “Pretty slick, Dash. Nice little gun, too.”

“Birthday present.”

“From your mother, I presume?”

“No, I met a girl who plays cards. Picked up the habit from her father. He plays cards, too.”

Bell nodded, glad the altar boy was stepping out. “Meet me back here when you’re done with Musto,” he said, and went looking for Dmitri Platov.

He found the Russian strolling down the ramp from Joe Mudd’s hangar car, wiping grease from his fingers with a gasoline-soaked rag.

“Good evening, Mr. Platov.”

“Good evening, Mr. Bell. Is hot in Peoria.”

“May I ask, sir, did you sell a thermo engine in Paris?”

Platov smiled. “May I asking why you asking?”

“I understand that an Italian flying-machine inventor named Prestogiacomo may have bought some sort of a ‘jet’ engine at the Paris air meet.”

“Not from me.”

“He might have been using a different name. He might have called himself Celere.”

“Again, not buying from me.”

“Did you ever meet Prestogiacomo?”

“No. In fact, I am never hearing of Prestogiacomo.”

“He must have made something of a splash. He sold a monoplane to the Italian Army.”

“I am not knowing Italians. Except one.”

“Marco Celere?”

“I am not knowing Celere.”

“But you know who I mean?”