“Harry Frost just withdrew ten thousand dollars from the First National Bank of Cincinnati. Shortly after he left, our office there finally managed to drop off the special banks-only wanted posters, warning that Frost might come in looking for money. By the time the bank manager called us, he was gone.”

“A long shot that paid off, those posters,” said Van Dorn. “Well done.”

“It would have been a lot better done if someone did their job properly in Cincinnati.”

“I’ve been considering cleaning house in Cincinnati. This tears it. Did they say anything about Frost’s wounds?”

“No.” Bell stood up. “Joe, I have to ask you to personally oversee the Josephine squad until I get back.”

“Where are you going?”

“Massachusetts, east of Albany.”

“What are you looking for?”

“Young Dashwood unearthed an interesting fact. I had asked him to look into Marco Celere’s background. Turns out Frost wasn’t the only one who wanted to kill him.”

Van Dorn shot his chief investigator an inquiring glance. “I’m intrigued when more than one person wants to kill a man. Who is it?”

“A deranged Italian woman—Danielle Di Vecchio—stabbed Celere, screaming, ‘Ladro! Ladro!’ Ladro means ‘thief’ in Italian.”

“Any idea what set her off?”

“None at all. They locked her up in a private insane asylum. I’m going up to see what I can learn from her.”

“Word to the wise, Isaac: these private asylum fellows can be difficult. They hold such sway over patients, they become little Napoleons—Ironic, since many of their patients think they’re Napoleon.”

“I’ll ask Grady to research a chink in his armor.”

“Just make sure you’re back before the race starts. You younger fellows are better suited to chasing flying machines around the countryside and sleeping out of doors. Don’t worry about Josephine. I’ll look after her personally.”

BELL CAUGHT the Empire State Express to Albany, rented a powerful Ford Model K, and sped east on twenty miles of dirt roads into a thinly populated section of northwestern Massachusetts. It was hilly country, with scattered farms separated by dense stands of forest. Twice he stopped to ask directions. The second time, he got them from a mournful-looking young truck driver who was changing a flat tire by the side of the dusty road. A wagon in tow contained a disassembled flying machine with its wings folded.

“Ryder Private Asylum for the Insane?” the driver echoed Bell’s question.

“Do you know where it is?”

“I should think I do. Just over that hill. You’ll see it from the top.”

The driver’s costume—flat cap, vest, bow tie, and banded shirtsleeves—told Bell that he was likely the aeroplane’s mechanician. “Where are you taking the flying machine?”

“Nowhere,” he answered with a woebegone finality that brooked no further questions.