“I’ll have you arrested.”

“You’re running for reelection on the reform ticket.”

“The alderman was carrying these,” said one of the detectives, presenting Bell with two pocket pistols, a dagger, and a sap.

“Where is Harry Frost?”

“Who?” Bill Foley asked innocently. Like any successful Chicago criminal who had graduated to public office, Foley could recognize Van Dorn detectives when seated between them in the back of a Packard. He was emboldened by the knowledge that they were less likely to shoot him in an alley or drown him in Lake Michigan than certain other parties in town. “Harry Frost? Never heard of him.”

“You were spending his money tonight in the most expensive sporting house in Chicago. Money he paid you this afternoon to cash a five-thousand-dollar check at the First Trust and Savings Bank. Where is he?”

“He didn’t leave a forwarding address.”

“Too bad for you.”

“What are you going to do, turn me in to the sheriff? Who happens to be my wife’s uncle.”

“You’re running for reelection on the reform ticket. Our client publishes a newspaper in this town that you would not want as your enemy.”

“I’m not afraid of Whiteway’s papers,” Foley sneered. “Nobody in Chicago gives a hang for that California pup who-”

Bell cut him off. “The people of Chicago may continue to put up with your bribery and corruption a bit longer, but they will draw the line at even a hint that Alderman William T. Foley would endanger the life of Miss Josephine Josephs, America’s Sweetheart of the Air.”

Foley wet his lips.

“Where,” Bell repeated, “is Harry Frost?”

“Left town.”

“Alderman Foley, do not try my patience.”

“No, I ain’t kidding. He left. I saw him leave.”

“On what train?”

“In an auto.”

“What kind?”

“Thomas Flyer.”

Bell exchanged a glance with James Dashwood. The Thomas was a rugged cross-country auto, which was why Bell had chosen them for his support train. Such a vehicle – capable of traversing bad roads and open prairie, and even straddling railroad tracks when washouts and broken ground made all else impassable – would make Frost dangerously mobile.

“Which way did he go?”

“West.”

“Saint Louis?”

Alderman Foley shrugged. “I got the impression more like Kansas City – where your air race is going, if I can believe what I read in the newspapers.”

“Is he alone?”

“He had a mechanician and a driver.”

Bell exchanged another look with Dash. There was five hundred miles of increasingly open country between Chicago and Kansas City, and Frost was prepared for the long haul.

“Both are gunmen,” Foley added.

“Names?”

“Mike Stotts and Dave Mayhew. Stotts’s the driver. Mayhew’s the mechanician. Used to be a telegrapher ’til they caught him selling horse-race results to the bookies. Telegraphers are sworn to secrecy, you know.”

“What I don’t know,” said Bell, frowning curiously at Foley, “is why you’ve turned unusually talkative all of a sudden, Alderman. Are you making this up as we go along?”

“Nope. I just know Harry ain’t coming back. I done him his last favor.”

“How do you know Frost isn’t coming back?”

“Never thought I’d see the day, but you damned Van Dorns ran him out of town.”

ISAAC BELL LED JAMES DASHWOOD into a chophouse to feed him supper while the kid reported what he had discovered in San Francisco.

“Last you wired me, Dash, you found that Celere and Di Vecchio were both in San Francisco last summer. Celere had arrived earlier, working as a translator, then built a biplane he subsequently sold to Harry Frost, who shipped it back to the Adirondacks and hired Celere to work on Josephine’s flying machines at their camp. Both Celere and Di Vecchio had fled Italy one step ahead of their creditors. Di Vecchio killed himself. What new do we know?”

“They got in a fight.”

Two immigrant Italian fishermen, Dashwood explained, had overheard a long and angry shouting match in the street outside their boardinghouse. Di Vecchio accused Marco Celere of stealing his wing-strengthening design.

“I already know that,” said Bell. “Celere would claim it was the other way around. What else?”

“Di Vecchio started it, shouting that Celere copied his entire machine. Celere shouted back that if that was true, why had the Italian Army bought his machines and not Di Vecchio’s?”

“What did Di Vecchio answer?”

“He said that Celere had poisoned the market.”

Bell nodded impatiently. This, too, he had already heard from Danielle. “Then what?”

“Then he started yelling that Celere better keep his hands off his daughter. Her name is-”

“Danielle!” said Bell. “What did keeping his hands off his daughter have to do with the Italian Army buying his aeroplane design?”

“Di Vecchio shouted, ‘Find another woman to do your dirty work.’”

“What dirty work?”

“He used a word that my translators found very hard to repeat.”

“A technical word. Alettone?”

“Not technical. The girl knew what it meant, but she was afraid to say it in front of Mother Superior.”

“Mother Superior?” Bell echoed, fixing his protégé with a wintery eye. “Dash, what have you been up to?”

“They were nuns.”

“Nuns?”

“You always told me people want to talk. But you have to make them comfortable. The girl was the only Italian translator I could get the fishermen to talk to. Once they started telling the story, they wouldn’t shut up. I think because the nun was so beautiful.”

Isaac Bell reached across the tablecloth to slap Dashwood on the shoulder. “Well done!”

“But finding her was what took me so long. Anyway, she was translating great guns until that word stopped her dead. I pleaded with them. I even offered to pray with them, and she finally whispered, ‘Gigolo.’”

“Di Vecchio accused Marco Celere of being a gigolo?”

Bell was hardly surprised, recalling that soon after Josephine and Harry Frost appeared in San Francisco the young bride had persuaded her husband to buy Celere’s biplane. “Did he mention any specifics?”

“Di Vecchio said that Celere persuaded an Italian Army general’s daughter to get him to buy his machine. From what they heard, the fisherman thought it wasn’t the first time he’d gotten women to make deals for him.”

“Did he accuse Celere of taking money from women?”

“There was some sort of engine he bought at a Paris air meet. It sounded like a woman put up the money. But in San Francisco, he was broke again. I think the Army deal fell through.”

“The machine smashed with the general on it.”

“That’s why Di Vecchio kept yelling that Celere sold them a lousy flying machine and ruined it for other inventors.”

“Did Di Vecchio accuse Celere of trying a gigolo stunt with Danielle?”

“That’s what Di Vecchio was warning him off about. ‘Don’t touch my daughter.’”

“Sounds like your fishermen stumbled onto a heck of a shout fest.”

“They didn’t exactly stumble. They lived there, too.”

Bell watched the young detective’s face closely. “You’ve turned up a lot of information, Dash, maybe enough to make it worth the wait. Did you get a lucky break or did you know what you were looking for?”

“Well, that’s the thing, Mr. Bell. Don’t you see? They were arguing outside the hotel where Di Vecchio died. The night he died.”

ISAAC BELL FIXED HIS PROTÉGÉ with an intense gaze, his mind leaping to the possibility that an angry argument had ended in murder. “The same night?”

“The same night,” answered James Dashwood. “In the same house where Di Vecchio asphyxiated himself by blowing out a gaslight and leaving the gas on.”

“Are you certain he killed himself?”

“I looked into the possibility. That’s why I thought I should report face-to-face, to explain why I’m thinking what I’m thinking.”