Bell rounded the solitary boxcar in a dark corner of the yard.

A marble-eyed thug nudged Musto.

“Why, if it ain’t one of my best customers. Never too late to increase your investment, sir. How much shall we add to yer three thousand on Miss Josephine? Gotta warn youse, though, de odds is shifting. The goil commands fifteen-to-one, since some bettors are notin’ that she’s pullin’ up on Stevens.”

Bell’s smile was more affable than his voice. “I’m a bettor who’s wondering if gamblers are conspiring to throw the race.”

“Me?”

“We’re a long way from Brooklyn, Johnny. What are you doing here?”

Musto objected mightily. “I don’t have to throw no race. Win, lose, draw, all de same to me. Youse a bettin’ man, Mr. Bell. And a man of the woild, if I don’t mistake youse. Youse know the bookie never loses.”

“Not so,” said Bell. “Sometimes bookies do lose.”

Musto exchanged astonished glances with his bodyguards. “Yeah? When?”

“When they get greedy.”

“What do youse mean by dat? Who’s greedy?”

“You’re bribing newspaper reporters.”

“Dat’s ridiculous. What could dos poor hack writers do for me?”

“Tout one flying machine over another to millions of readers placing bets,” said Isaac Bell. “In other words, skew the odds.”

“Oh yeah? And what machine would I happen to be toutin’?”

“Same one you’ve been touting all along: Eddison-Sydney-Martin’s headless pusher.”

“The Coitus is a flying machine of real class,” Musto protested. “It don’t need no help from Johnny Musto.”

“But it’s getting a lot of help from Johnny Musto regardless.”

“Hey, it’s not like I’m fixin’ the race. I’m passin’ out information. A public service, youse might call it.”

“I would call that a confession.”

“You can’t prove nothin’.”

Isaac Bell’s smile had vanished. He fixed the gambler with a cold eye. “I believe you know Harry Warren?”

“Harry Warren?” Johnny Musto stroked his double chin. “Harry Warren? Harry Warren? Lemme think. Oh yeah! Ain’t he de New York Van Dorn who spies on the gangs?”

“Harry Warren is going to wire me in two days that you reported to him at Van Dorn headquarters at the Knickerbocker Hotel at Forty-second Street and Broadway in New York City. If he doesn’t, I’m coming after you—personally—with all four feet.”

Musto’s bodyguards glowered.

Bell ignored them. “Johnny, I want you to pass the word: betting fair and square on the race is fine with me, throwing it is not.”

“Not my fault what other gamblers do.”

“Pass the word.”

“What good’ll that do youse?”

“They can’t say they weren’t warned. Have a pleasant journey home.”

Musto looked sad. “How’m I goin’ ta get back ta New York in two days?”