Bell drove the Model K to the crest of the hill and saw below a dark red brick building hulking in the shadows of a narrow valley. Fortresslike crenellations and towers at either end did nothing to lighten the aura of despair. The windows were small and, Bell saw as he drew near, barred like a penitentiary’s. A high wall of the same bleak-colored brick surrounded the grounds. He had to stop the auto at an iron gate, where he pressed a bell button that eventually drew the attention of a surly guard with a billy club dangling from his belt.

“I am Isaac Bell. I have an appointment with Dr. Ryder.”

“You can’t bring that in here,” he said, pointing at the car.

Bell parked the Ford on the side of the driveway. The guard let him through the gate. “I ain’t responsible for what happens to that auto out there,” he smirked. “All the loonies ain’t inside.”

Bell stepped closer and gave him a cold smile. “Consider that auto your primary responsibility until I return.”

“What did you say?”

“If anything happens to that auto, I will take it out of your hide. Do you believe me? Good. Now, take me to Dr. Ryder.”

The owner of the asylum was a trim, precise, exquisitely dressed man in his forties. He looked, Bell thought, like a fussy sort, overly pleased with a situation that gave him total control over the lives of hundreds of patients. He was glad he had heeded Joe Van Dorn’s warning about little Napoleons.

“I don’t know that it will be convenient for you to visit Miss Di Vecchio this afternoon,” said Dr. Ryder.

“You and I spoke by long-distance telephone this morning,” Bell reminded him. “You agreed to a meeting with Miss Di Vecchio.”

“The lunatic patient’s state of mind does not always concur with an outsider’s convenience. An untimely encounter could be distressing for both of you.”

“I’m willing to risk it,” said Bell.

“Ah, but what of the patient?”

Isaac Bell looked Dr. Ryder in the eye. “Does the name Andrew Rubenoff ring a bell?”

“Sounds like a Jew.”

“In fact, he is a Jew,” Bell answered with a dangerous flash in his eye. He would never abide bigotry, which was going to make taking Ryder down a peg even more satisfying. “And a fine Jew he is. Heck of a piano player, too.”

“I am afraid I have not met the, ah, gentleman.”

“Mr. Rubenoff is a banker. He’s an old friend of my father’s. Practically an uncle to me.”

“I have no banker named Rubenoff. And now if you’ll excuse—”