“San Francisco? You said he came to New York.”

“Marco lured him there, promising money for his inventions. But all he wanted was my father to fix his machines. He died all alone. Not even a priest. That is why I tried to kill Marco Celere.”

She crossed her shapely arms and looked Bell in the eye. “I am angry. Not insane.”

“I can see that,” said Isaac Bell.

“But I am locked with insane.”

“Are you treated well?”

She shrugged. Her long graceful fingers picked at her dress, which a hundred launderings had turned gray. “When I am angry, they lock me alone.”

“I will take Dr. Ryder aside and have a word with him.” Firmly aside, by the scruff of his neck, with his face jammed against a wall.

“I have no money for lawyers. No money for ‘medical experts’ to tell the court I am not lunatic.”

“May I ask why your father could not find other buyers for his Eagle flying machine?”

“My father’s monoplano is so much better, so fresh and new, that some of it is still – how do you say? – innato. Tempestuous.”

“Temperamental?”

“Yes. She is not yet tamed.”

“Is your father’s flying machine dangerous?”

“Shall we say ‘interesting’?” Danielle Di Vecchio replied with an elegant smile. And at that moment, thought the tall detective, they could be thousands of miles from Massachusetts, flirting in a Roman salon.

“Where is it?” he asked.

The Italian woman’s dark-eyed gaze drifted past Bell, out the window, and locked on the hilltop. Her face lighted in a broad smile. “There,” she said.

Bell looked out the window. What on earth was she imagining?

The truck with the flat tire had towed its wagon to the crest of the hill. “A boy,” she explained. “A nice boy. He loves me.”

“But what is he doing with your father’s machine?”

“My father took it with him from Italy. His creditors can’t touch it here. It is his legacy. My inheritance. That boy helped my father in America. He is eccellente meccanico!”

“Not artista?” Bell asked, testing her reaction with a smile. He could not be sure, but she seemed as sane as he was.

“Artists are rare, Mr. Bell. I’m sure you know that. He wrote that he was coming. I thought he was dreaming.” She jumped up and waved out the window, but it was unlikely that he could see her. Bell passed her the hem of the white curtain. “Wave this. Maybe he’ll see it.” She did. But he did not respond, his gaze likely on the myriad barred windows.

She slumped down on the window seat. “He’s still dreaming. Does he imagine I can just walk out of here?”

“What is his name?” Bell asked.

“Andy. Andy Moser. My father liked him very much.”

Isaac Bell was struck by a wonderful possibility. He asked, “How fast is your father’s monoplane?”

“Very fast. Father believed that only speed would overcome winds. The more speedy the aeroplano, the safer in bad weather, Father said.”

“Faster than sixty miles per hour?”

“Father hoped for seventy.”

“Miss Di Vecchio, I have a proposition for you.”

“MR. MOSER, YOUR SITUATION is about to improve vastly,” Isaac Bell said to the sad-faced mechanician who was grilling a frankfurter on a fire he had built a safe distance from the crated American Eagle monoplane.

“How do you know my name?”

“Read this!”

Bell thrust a fine parchment-paper envelope he had lifted from Dr. Ryder’s writing desk into Moser’s grease-stained hand.

“Open it.”

Andy Moser slid a finger under the seal, unfolded a sheet of writing paper covered in an elegant Florentine cursive script, and read slowly, moving his lips.

Isaac Bell had seized an opportunity to help the beautiful Italian woman while helping himself solve the vexing problem he had warned Archie about. The field of competitors vying for the Whiteway Cup was growing so large that too many support trains would be jockeying for the same railroad tracks. Keeping up with Josephine’s flying machine to guard her life would be a nightmare even with the help of the auto patrols that Archie had envisioned.

But what, Bell had asked himself, if he took “the high ground”? With his own airship, he could ride herd on the race. He could watch Josephine in the air while he stationed men ahead at the racetracks and fairgrounds that would provide infields to alight on.

Danielle Di Vecchio needed money to plead her case to get out of Ryder’s asylum.

Isaac Bell needed a speedy airship. He bought hers.

“Danielle says I’m supposed to go with you, Mr. Bell.”

“And bring my flying machine,” said Bell, grinning at the wagon. Disassembled and folded up for travel, it looked like a dragonfly in a cage.

“And teach you how to drive it?”

“As soon as I set you up in a first-class hangar car.”

“But I don’t know how to fly it. I’m only a mechanician.”

“Don’t worry about that. Just get her running, and show me the controls. How long will it take to put it back together?”

“A day, with a good helper. Have you ever driven a flying machine?”

“I drive a one-hundred-mile-an-hour Locomobile. I have driven a V-Twin Indian racer motorcycle, a 4-6-2 Pacific locomotive, and a fifty-knot steel-hulled turbine yacht built by Sir Charles Algernon Parsons himself. I imagine I’ll pick it up.”

“Locomotives and steel yachts don’t leave the ground, Mr. Bell.”

“That’s why I’m so fired up! Finish your lunch and wave good-bye to Danielle. She’s watching from the fourteenth window from the left, second from the bottom. She can’t wave through the bars, but she can see you.”

Moser gazed sadly down the hill. “I hate leaving her behind, but she says you’re going to help get her out.”

“Don’t you worry, we’ll get her out. And in the meantime, Dr. Ryder has promised that her treatment will improve, dramatically. Will your truck make it to Albany?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll go ahead and charter a train. It will be waiting in the Albany yards, steam up for Belmont Park. Mechanicians will be standing by to help you reassemble the American Eagle the second you arrive.”

“Belmont Park? Are you intending to enter the American Eagle in the cross-country race?”

“No,” Bell laughed. “But it’s going to help me keep an eye on Josephine Josephs.”

Andy Moser looked incredulous. Of all he had read and heard since Isaac raced up in his Model K Ford, this took the cake. “You know the Sweetheart of the Air?”

“I am a private detective. Josephine’s husband is trying to kill her. The American Eagle is going to help me save her life.”

After Bell chartered his support train in Albany, he wired San Francisco to alert Dashwood to the fact that Marco Celere’s original name was Marco Prestogiacomo. He might well have still been Prestogiacomo when he landed in San Francisco, and Bell hoped that this new information would speed up Dashwood’s unusually slow progress.

“I’M NOT GOING TO WASTE flying time watching Dmitri Platov demonstrate his thermo engine,” Josephine told Isaac Bell a day later. “I doubt it will work. And even if it does, that horrible Steve Stevens is too fat to drive a flying machine, even one of Marco’s.”

“One of Marco’s? What do you mean?”

“It’s a biplane he invented for heavy lifting, to carry a bunch of passengers.”

Bell said, “I wasn’t aware that Marco had another machine in the race.”

“Steve Stevens bought it from his creditors. Lucky him. It’s the only machine in the world that will lift him. He paid twenty cents on the dollar. Poor Marco got nothing.”

Bell escorted her to her monoplane. Van Dorn mechanicians spun her propeller, and when the blue smoke of her motor turned white, she tore down the field and took to the sky for yet another of her long-distance practice runs.