“Having taught yourself, did you then learn a lot more from your friend Marco?”

Josephine sighed. “I could not understand his Italian, and he spoke very little English and was always working on the machines.” She brightened. “But he did teach me one thing. It took me quite a while to understand what he was trying to say in English. But I finally pried it out of him. He said, ‘A good flying machine has to fly – it wants to fly.’ Isn’t that wonderful?”

“Is it true?” asked Isaac Bell.

“Absolutely.” She laid a firm hand on the machine again. “So if you will excuse me, Mr. Bell, if you have no more questions, I hope that this one wants to fly. But it is going to take a while to find out for sure.”

“Do you miss Marco Celere?”

Her eyes did not fill, as Archie had reported, but Josephine did admit that she missed the inventor very much. “He was kind and gentle. Not at all like my husband. I miss him very much.”

“Then it must be a comfort to be flying his latest machine.”

“Thanks to Mr. Whiteway’s kindness and generosity. He bought it from Marco’s creditors, you know.” She glanced sidelong at Bell. “It puts me deep in his debt.”

“I imagine you’ll more than pay it back by making a strong pull for the Whiteway Cup.”

“I have to make more than a strong pull. I have to win the Whiteway Cup. I have no money of my own. I was completely dependent on Harry, and now I’m dependent on Mr. Whiteway.”

“I’m sure he will be grateful if you win the race.”

“Not if, Mr. Bell.” Her gaze fixed on the sky where a parchment-colored Blériot was rising, and when she looked back at Bell her eyes had turned opaque. “I will win, Mr. Bell. But not to make him grateful. I will win because I will do my best, and because Marco built the best flying machine in the race.”

Later, when Isaac spoke with Archie, he told his friend, “If I were a betting man, I’d lay money on her.”

“You are a betting man!” Archie reminded him.

“So I am.”

“Belmont Park is swarming with unemployed gamblers who would be delighted to relieve you of your money. The New York reformers just passed a law banning horse-race betting. The Atlantic – Pacific race is the bookies’ godsend.”

“What odds are they offering on Josephine?”

“Twenty-to-one.”

“Twenty? You’re joking. There’s a fortune to be won.”

“The bookies reckon she’s up against the top birdmen in America. And they’re betting we’ll get our pants beat off by the Europeans, who hold all the records in cross-country flying.”

Isaac Bell went looking for a bookmaker who could handle a thousand-dollar bet on Josephine. Only one accepted bets that large, he was told, and was directed to Johnny Musto, a short, wide middle-aged fellow in a checkerboard suit who reeked of an expensive cologne Bell had last smelled in the Plaza Hotel barbershop. The old betting ring under the stands had been replaced, since the Legislature banned horse gambling, with an exhibit hall, showing motors and accessories for aircraft, race cars, and motorboats. Musto was lurking just outside it in the forest of steel pillars that supported the grandstand. He had as thick a Brooklyn accent as Bell had ever heard outside a vaudeville theater.

“Youse sure youse wanna do dis?” asked the bookie, who knew a private detective when he saw one.

“I am absolutely positive,” said Isaac Bell. “In fact, now that you ask, let’s make it two thousand.”

“It’s your funeral, mister. But would it be O.K. if I ask youse a little somethin’ first?”

“What?”

“Is de fix in?”

“Fix? It’s not a horse race.”

“I know it ain’t no horse race. But it’s still a race. Is de fix in?”

“Absolutely not. There’s no fix,” said Isaac Bell. “The race is sanctioned by the American Aeronautical Society. It’s honest as the day is long.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, only dis girl is Harry Frost’s wife.”

“She has nothing to do with Harry Frost anymore.”

“Oh yeah?”

Bell caught a mocking note in the man’s voice. A suggestion that Musto was in on a joke that Bell hadn’t heard yet. “What do you mean by that, Johnny?”

“She ain’t with Harry no more? Den why’s he hangin’ ’round?”

“What?” Bell gripped Musto’s arm so hard, the bookie winced.

“I saw dis fellow yesterday looked just like him.”

Bell loosened his grip but fixed him just as sternly with his eye. “How well do you know Frost?” All the evidence he’d gathered thus far pointed to a man who’d not been seen in public in years.

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.”

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.

The Jonas brothers had driven out from Brooklyn in an ice truck, arriving in daylight to get the lay of the land. Now, with the moon and stars hidden by clouds, they walked boldly in the dark, crossing the racetrack and scrambling over the inside rail into the infield. They headed for Joe Mudd’s aeroplane, choosing it because it was off to one side and easy to find. But as they approached they heard snoring. They slowed and crept closer. Two mechanicians, built like hod carriers, were sleeping under the wings. The Jonases slithered off to the far side of the infield, steering clear of Josephine Joseph’s Celere monoplane, which they had seen earlier, before night fell, was surrounded by humorless Van Dorn detectives armed with shotguns. Far across the field, they chose a different victim, not knowing it was the French-built Farman biplane owned by the Channel-crossing English baronet Sir Eddison-Sydney-Martin.

They confirmed that no one was sleeping nearby, removed the canvas shroud from one double wing, which was faintly silhouetted against the dark sky, and studied its construction. They did not know a lot about flying machines, but they recognized a truss when they saw one. The only difference between this double wing and a railroad bridge was that instead of the truss being constructed of steel uprights and diagonals, the two planes of the wing were supported by wood uprights counterbraced by diagonal wire stays.