Explosions of photographers’ flashlights at the foot of the gangway told Bell that the newspaper reporters had caught sight of Marion and Lillian disembarking, and he could imagine from experience the shouted queries. Had Miss Morgan come back to New York to take new moving pictures? Was it true Miss Morgan had been married to an insurance executive? Had the ceremony actually been performed by the captain of the Mauretania? What did Mrs. Abbott think of the new fashions in London? Was there truth to the rumors that her father had secretly amassed a controlling interest in the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe?

The Second Class gangway would rise as soon as First Class had cleared the ship. Third Class, Marion had told Bell, was doomed to spend the night aboard. Two names on the passenger list couldn’t be found. Miscounts were not uncommon, but everyone in Third Class—immigrants and citizens alike, including the moving picture people—would be held on the ship for officials to tally again. Isaac Bell had to wonder whether those missing had been the Acrobat’s accomplices. The chief officer bamboozled that night in the smoking room was probably wondering, too.

“O.K., Archie. Go telephone Harry Warren. I’ll get Clyde. You grab Block and our PS boy. When things settle down, we’ll go off together from Second Class.”

Bell hurried back toward Second Class. He found Clyde Lynds in the embarkation vestibule and tipped the seamen Captain Turner had assigned to guard him. “I’ll take it from here, gents, thanks.”

Clyde, grip in hand, was anxiously studying the crowds.

“See anyone down there you know?” Bell asked, watching for his reaction.

“I doubt it,” Clyde answered, even as his eye locked on the knot of Gophers staring back in his direction. “Been quite a while since I was in town.”

“In the theater, you said?”

“My last stepfather, minus one, was a stage manager.”

“At what theater?”

“All over. Downtown. Fourteenth Street. Then for a while on Broadway. The Hammerstein.”

“Did you live in that neighborhood?” Bell asked. Blinky Armstrong was aiming his opera glasses exactly where he and Clyde were standing.

“Around the corner on Forty-sixth Street.”

“Isn’t that near Hell’s Kitchen?”

Clyde laughed, nervously. “Fortunately, not too near.”

But near enough, thought Bell, that a gang of Gophers just might have gathered to welcome you home. Had the kid somehow offended them? Or had the Krieg Trust perhaps hired Gophers to grab him as he left the boat? From the little Bell could see through the waiting room windows, it appeared that the Gophers’ numbers had swelled. He counted a dozen gangsters converging on the back of the ship. They shoved through the crowd surrounding the foot of the Second Class gangway, which was ascending.