“‘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?”

“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.

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-”

“I am not surprised that you don’t know Mr. Rubenoff. His clients tend toward up-and-coming lines like automobile manufacture and moving pictures. But, out of sentiment, he allows his holding companies to retain their grip on some smaller, more conventional banks, and even buy another now and then. In fact, ‘Uncle Andrew’ asked me would I pay a visit on his behalf to one nearby while I was in your neighborhood. I believe it’s called the First Farmers Bank of Pittsfield.”