Intrigued, Bell knelt beside the dying man, watching his hands for a hidden knife or another pocket pistol stashed in his smoldering garments. “How?”

“Marco Celere showed up at Belmont Park six weeks ago.”

“Celere gave me the impression he was in Canada six weeks ago.”

“He was right in the middle of the race,” Frost crowed. “Prancing around the infield like he owned it. You damned Van Dorns never knew.”

“Platov!” said Bell. “Of course!” Marco Celere was the saboteur, though proving it in a court of law would be next to impossible.

“A little late on that one, Mr. Detective,” Frost sneered.

“How did you happen to see him?”

“He spotted me one night I was trying to get near Josephine’s machine. Walked up to me, big as life, and offered a deal.”

“I’d have thought you’d kill him on sight,” said Bell.

“You know that sawed-off coach gun the Italians call a lupa? He had it pointed at my head. Both hammers on full cock.”

“What deal?”

“Should I give you a gift for little Wally?” Frost asked mockingly. “Information you can use to get Celere? You think if I do you a favor, they’ll be nice to me in Hell?”

“I don’t see you getting a better chance than this one. What was the deal?”

“If I held off killing Josephine until after she won the race, then Marco would take me to a place where I could hide out in luxury for the rest of my life.”

“Where would this paradise be?” Bell asked skeptically.

“North Africa. Libya. The Turkish colonies that Italy is going to win in North Africa. He said we’d be safe as houses and live like kings.”

“Sounds like con-man palaver.”

“No. Celere knows his business. I’ve been over there, I seen it with my own eyes. The Ottomans—the Turks—they’re on their last leg and Italy’s so poor and crowded, they’re itching to grab their colonies. So Celere’s setting himself up to be the Italian Army’s gold-haired boy by supplying aerial war machines. He’ll be the national hero when Italy beats Turkey with his machine-gun aeroplanes and bomb carriers. But he knows he’s got to prove himself. They’ll only buy his machines if Josephine wins the race.”

“Why didn’t you take him up on it?”

Rage stiffened Frost’s ravaged face. “I told you, I’m not a chump. If he was so fixed there in North Africa that he could protect me, then he’d hold the key to my cell. I might as well be back in the orphanage.”

“Why didn’t he blow your head off with his lupa?”

“Celere’s like a juggler, always tossing a bunch of balls in the air. He bet on you protecting her and hoped I would change my mind—and that I would kill Whiteway when the time came.”

“What time came?”