Johnny Musto puffed up proudly. “The biggest sportin’ men come to Johnny Musto. I took Mr. Frost’s bets when he used to visit Belmont Park.”

“How long ago was that?”

“I dunno. Four years, I guess.”

“You mean the year the track first opened?”

“Yeah, I guess so. Seems longer.”

“What did he look like, Johnny?”

“Big fella, shoulders like a bull. Grew himself a beard. Like’s drawn on dat poster dere.” He nodded at a Van Dorn wanted poster glued to a pillar that depicted Frost with a beard.

“He looks like that picture?”

“’Ceptin’ his grew in all gray. Makes him look a lot older than he used to.”

“A lot older? Then what makes you so sure it’s him?”

“He was mutterin’ to himself just like he used to. Shovin’ past folks like they weren’t dere. Turnin’ red in de face for no reason. Red as a beefsteak. Just like he used to before they locked him in de bughouse.”

“If you were so sure it was Frost, Johnny, why didn’t you turn him in for the reward? Five thousand dollars is a lot of money even for a bookmaker who handles the biggest sportsmen.”

The Belmont Park bookie looked at the tall detective with an expression of disbelief. “You ever go to da circus, mister?”

“Circus? What are you talking about?”

“I’m askin’, do ya go to da circus?”

Bell decided to humor him. “Often. In fact, when I was a youngster, I ran away from home to join a circus.”

“Did ya ever stick your head in de lion’s mouth?”

“Come on, Johnny. You’ve been around. You know that Van Dorns protect people who help them.”

“From Harry Frost? Don’t make me laugh.”

Chapter 8

8

WHEN NIGHT FELL ON BELMONT PARK, the aviators and mechanicians pulled canvas shrouds over their airships to protect their fabric wings from dampness. They anchored the machines to tent pegs driven deep in the ground in case a wind sprang up. Then they trooped off to the rail yard to sleep on their support trains. Somewhere in the distance a bell clock chimed eleven.

Then all was quiet in the infield.

Two shadows materialized from beneath the grandstand.