Van Dorn fell silent for a moment, reflecting on their exchange. When he spoke again, it was soberly. “What you say is true about hunches—or, if not entirely true, is certainly agreed upon by experienced fieldmen.”

“The unrecognized observation is a compelling phenomenon.”

“But,” said Van Dorn, raising a meaty finger for emphasis, “experienced fieldmen also agree that hunches and sixth senses have enriched bookmakers since the first horse race in human history. This morning I learned that you’ve doubled your bets, summoning to Belmont Park some of my best men who are already thinly dispersed about the continent.”

“‘Texas’ Walt Hatfield,” Bell answered boldly and without apology. “Eddie Edwards from Kansas City. Arthur Curtis from Denver. James Dashwood from San Francisco.”

“I wouldn’t put Dashwood in that company.”

“I’ve worked with the kid in California,” said Bell. “What Dash lacks in experience he makes up in doggedness. He is also the finest pistol shot in the agency. He would have drilled Harry Frost a third eye in his forehead.”

“Be that as it may, it costs money to move men around. Not to mention the danger of derailing cases they’re working on.”

“I conversed with their field office managers before I summoned them.”

“You should have conversed with me. I can tell you right now that I am sending Texas Walt straight back to Texas to finish his San Antone train robbery case and Arthur Curtis to Europe to open the Berlin office. Archie Abbott turned up some good locals. Arthur’s the man to run them, as he speaks German.”

“I need the best, too, Joe. I’m juggling four jobs: protecting Josephine, protecting the cross-country air race, hunting Frost, and investigating what exactly happened to Marco Celere.”

“There, too, evidence points squarely at dead.”

“There, too, we’re short a corpse.”

“I exchanged wires with Preston Whiteway last night. He’ll settle for either body: Celere’s so we can convict Frost or Frost’s so we can bury him.”

“Frost dead, is my vote, too,” said Bell. “Josephine would be safe, and I could hunt for Celere at my leisure.”

“Why bother if Frost is dead?”

“I don’t like murders without bodies. Something is off-kilter.”

“Another hunch?”

“Do you like murders without bodies, Joe?”

“No. You’re right. Something’s off.”

There was a quiet, tentative knock at the door. Van Dorn barked, “Enter!”

An apprentice scuttled in with a telegram for Isaac Bell.

Bell read it, his expression darkening, and he told the apprentice, who was balanced on his toes poised to flee, “Wire them that I want a darned good explanation for why it took so long to get those wanted posters into that bank.”

The apprentice ran out. Van Dorn asked, “What’s up?”

“Frost is not dead.”

“Another hunch?”