“The rules stipulate that to conclude the final leg of the race the winner must first fly a circle completely around this building—the San Francisco Inquirer Building—before he alights on the Army Signal Corps’s grounds at the Presidio.”

“Protecting such an ambitious route will be an enormous job,” Van Dorn said with a stern smile. “As I advised earlier, you need a detective agency with field offices that span the nation.”

Isaac Bell removed his hat and spoke earnestly. “We believe that your cross-country race is important, Preston. The United States lags far behind France and Italy in feats of distance flying.”

Whiteway agreed. “Excitable foreigners like the French and Italians have a flair for flying.”

“Phlegmatic Germans and Britons are making a go of it, too,” Bell observed drily.

“With war brewing in Europe,” Van Dorn chimed in, “their armies offer enormous prizes for feats of aviation to be employed on the battlefield.”

Whiteway intoned solemnly, “A terrible gulf yawns between warlike kings and autocrats and us overly peaceable Americans.”

“All the more reason,” said Isaac Bell, “for ‘America’s Sweetheart of the Air’ to vault our nation to a new level above the heroic exploits of the Wright brothers and aerial daredevils circling crowds of spectators on sunny days. And as Josephine advances the United States, she will also advance the brand-new field of aviation.”

Bell’s words pleased Whiteway, and Van Dorn looked at his chief investigator admiringly for deftly flattering a potential client. But Isaac Bell meant what he said. To make aeroplanes a fast, reliable mode of modern transportation, their drivers had to tackle wind and weather across the vast and lonely American landscape.

“Harry Frost must not be allowed to derail this great race.”

“The future of air flight is at stake. And, of course, the life of your young aviatrix.”

“All right!” said Whiteway. “Blanket the nation from coast to coast. And to hell with what it costs.”

Van Dorn offered his hand to shake on the deal. “We will get on it straightaway.”

“There is one other thing,” Whiteway said.

“Yes?”

“The squad of detectives who protect Josephine?”

“Handpicked, I assure you.”

“They must all be married men.”

“Of course,” said Van Dorn. “That goes without saying.”

BACK IN BELL’S AUTO, roaring down Market Street, a beaming Van Dorn chuckled, “Married detectives?”

“Sounds like Josephine traded a jealous husband for a jealous sponsor.”

Isaac Bell left unspoken the thought that the supposedly naive farm girl had made a swift transition from a rich husband to pay for her airships to a rich newspaper publisher to pay for her airships. Clearly, a single-minded woman who got what she wanted. He looked forward to meeting her.

Van Dorn said, “I had a strong impression that Whiteway would prefer Frost hanged to being locked up.”