As Bell jumped down from the Eagle, Weiner of Accounting bustled up, trailed by the many assistants he had acquired in the course of the race.

“Congratulations, Mr. Bell.”

“For what?”

“You won.”

“Won what?”

“The Atlantic-to-Pacific Cross-Country Air Race. The Whiteway Cup is yours.”

“What the devil are you talking about, Mr. Weiner?”

The accountant explained that in the course of protecting Josephine, Isaac Bell had flown his American Eagle monoplane all the way across America and landed first, with the best overall time.

“I wasn’t in the race. How could I win?”

“I am a certified accountant, sir. I and my staff kept track of every minute flown by every contestant. You won. Fair and square.”

“But I didn’t register. I never even got my flying license.”

Weiner, Bell soon discovered, had put his race time to good use by mastering the art of booming in addition to accounting.

“I am sure,” he answered with a knowing wink, “that Mr. Whiteway will overlook certain minor technicalities when he considers how many newspapers we will sell touting a winner who is not only a dashing detective but is engaged to a beautiful blond moving-picture director. Your public awaits.”

Weiner indicated the mob of photographers and correspondents poised to pounce on the winner. “Don’t worry about the details, Mr. Bell, we’ll make you the most famous man in America.”

Off to the side, out of the hoopla, Bell saw a bandaged “Texas” Walt Hatfield quietly celebrating with James Dashwood. They were passing a flask and puffing on cigars. Dash coughed on the smoke. The Texan slapped him on the back. Dash responded by flicking his new derringer from his wrist, and, when both men laughed, it struck Isaac Bell that if he accepted the Whiteway Cup, the most famous man in America would be far too well known to ever again operate as a Van Dorn detective.

Marion Morgan raced up in a taxi, urging her camera operators to plant their tripods. She threw a glorious smile to Bell and pointed him out to her operators, with the usual stern warning to keep him out of the picture.

Preston Whiteway arrived right behind her, careening onto the field in a newspaper-delivery van driven by his demolished Rolls-Royce’s chauffeur.

“Who won?” he bellowed.

Weiner of Accounting turned expectantly to Isaac Bell.

“You’re looking at him,” said the tall, golden-haired detective.

“Who?”

Isaac Bell took one long last look at the cheering crowds. Then he turned slowly on his heel and pointed at the sky. Joe Mudd’s Revolution Red Liberator wobbled over the hill, lined up into the ocean wind, and floated to the grass.

“Labor?” gasped Whiteway.

“Bricklayers, masons, plasterers, and locomotive firemen.”

“Unionists won my race?”

“Tell your readers they worked for it.”