“Of course, the Italian making Josephine’s machine and the big one I am working for Steve Stevens.”

Bell shifted gears deliberately. “What do you think of the Stevens machine?”

“It would not be fair for me discussing it.”

“Why not?”

“As you working for Josephine.”

“I protect Josephine. I don’t work for her. I only ask if you can tell me anything that might help me protect her.”

“I am not seeing what Stevens’s machine is doing with that.”

Bell changed tactics again, asking, “Did you ever encounter a Russian in Paris named Sikorsky?”

A huge smile separated Platov’s mutton-chop whiskers. “Countryman genius.”

“I understand vibration is a serious problem with more than one motor. Might Sikorsky want your thermo engine for his machines?”

“Maybe one day. Are excusing me, please? Duty calling.”

“Of course. Sorry to take so much of your time . . . Oh, Mr. Platov? May I ask one other question?”

“Yes?”

“Who was the one Italian you did know in Paris?”

“The professor. Di Vecchio. Great man. Not practical man, but great ideas. Couldn’t make real, but great ideas.”

“My Di Vecchio monoplane is a highflier,” said Bell, wondering why Danielle said she didn’t know of Platov. “I would call it an idea made real.”

Platov shrugged enigmatically.

“Did you know Di Vecchio well?”

“Not at all. Only listening to lecture.” Suddenly he looked around, as if confirming they were alone, and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial mutter. “About Stevens’s two-motor biplane? You are correct. Two-motor vibrations very rattling. Shaking to pieces. Excusing now, please.”

Isaac Bell watched the Russian parade across the infield, bowing to the ladies and kissing their hands. Platov, the tall detective thought, you are smoother than your thermo engine.

And he found it impossible to believe that the ladies’ man never introduced himself to Professor Di Vecchio’s beautiful daughter.

BELL CONTINUED STUDYING his topographic maps to pinpoint where Frost might attack. Dash returned, reporting he had spotted Johnny Musto, buying drinks for newspaper reporters.

“No law against that,” Bell observed. “Bookies live on information. Like detectives.”

“Yes, Mr. Bell. But I followed him back to the rail yard and saw him slipping the same reporters rolls of cash.”

“What do you make of it?”

“If he’s bribing them, what I can’t figure out is what they would do for him in return for the money.”

“I doubt he wants his name in the papers,” said Bell.

“Then what does he want?”

“Show me where he is.”

Dash pointed the way, saying, “There’s a boxcar over by the river where the fellows are shooting dice. Musto’s taking bets.”

“Stick close enough to hear, but don’t let him see you with me.”

Bell smelled the Brooklyn gambler before he heard him when a powerful scent of gardenia penetrated the thicker odors of railroad ties and locomotive smoke. Then he heard his hoarsely whispered “Bets, gentlemen. Place your bets.”