“You will recall that Whiteway’s mother—a forceful woman—writes articles on the immorality of divorce that Whiteway is obliged to publish in his Sunday supplements. If Preston desires Josephine’s hand in marriage, he will definitely prefer hanged in order to receive his mother’s blessing, and his inheritance.”

“I would love to make Josephine a widow,” growled Van Dorn. “It’s the least that Harry Frost deserves. Only, first we’ve got to catch him.”

Isaac Bell said, “May I recommend you put Archie Abbott in charge of protecting Josephine? There’s no more happily married detective in America.”

“He’d be a fool not to be,” Van Dorn replied. “His wife is not only remarkably beautiful but very wealthy. I often wonder why he bothers to keep working for me.”

“Archie’s a first-class detective. Why would he stop doing what he excels at?”

“All right, I’ll give your friend Archie the protective squad.”

Bell said, “I presume you will assign detectives to Josephine, not PS boys.”

Van Dorn Protective Services was a highly profitable offshoot of the business that supplied top-notch hotel house detectives, bodyguards, valuables escorts, and night watchmen. But few PS boys possessed the spirit, vigor, enterprise, skill, and shrewdness to rise to the rank of full-fledged detective.

“I will assign as many full detectives as I can,” the boss replied. “But I do not have an army of detectives for this job—not while I’m sending so many of my best men abroad to set up our overseas offices.”

Bell said, “If you can spare only a limited corps to protect Josephine, may I recommend that you comb the agency for detectives who have worked as mechanicians?”

“Excellent! Disguised as mechanicians, a small squad can stick close by, working on her flying machine—”

“And set me loose on Frost.”

Van Dorn heard the harsh note in Bell’s voice. He shot an inquiring glance at him. Seen in profile, as he maneuvered the big auto through heavy traffic, his chief investigator’s hawk nose and set jaw looked to be chiseled from steel.

“Can you keep a clear head?”

“Of course.”

“He bested you last time, Isaac.”

Bell returned a wintery smile. “He bested a lot of detectives older than I was back then. Including you, Joe.”

“Promise to keep that in mind, and you can have the job.”

Bell let go of the shifter and reached across the Locomobile’s gasoline tank to envelop the boss’s big hand in his. “You have my word.”

Chapter 3

3

“MAULED BY A BEAR,” said North River town constable John Hodge, as Isaac Bell’s eyes roamed inquiringly over his scarred face, withered arm, and wooden leg. “Used to be a guide, taking the sports hunting and fishing. When the bear got done, I was only fit for police work.”

“How did the bear make out?” asked Bell.

The constable grinned.