“I know that. That’s why he likes me. He knows that I’m as devoted as he is to the proletariat.”

“He is Comintern,” Zolner repeated. “If Moscow ordered him to throw you in a fire, he would without a second thought.”

“So are you Comintern.”

“I use my brain to think. They hate thinking that they can’t control.”

“Would Yuri throw you in that fire?”

Zolner gave her a thin smile and turned out the light. “Only if they told him to.”

“Marat,” she whispered in the dark. “I am grateful to Yuri Antipov and I admire Yuri Antipov. But I could never love him the way I love you.”

“Why are you grateful to him?”

She sat up in the canopied bed and hugged her arms around her knees. The sky had cleared, and through the French windows she saw a sliver of moon hanging over the bay. “Yuri helps me understand a world I never knew until I met you two. He’s like a wise uncle. But you are my muse. Yuri was my guide. But you are my comrade-in-arms.”

“Wait until they force you to chose,” Zolner said bleakly.

“I will fight at your side.”

The first mail delivery of the morning brought a letter from the Chief Medical Examiner’s Office to the Van Dorn field office.

Bell was familiar with the powder plant, a sprawling factory he had often seen from the Broadway Limited on the Pennsylvania Railroad’s main line between Altoona and Harrisburg.

“Dear Shep,” he wrote back,

Isaac Bell hurried from the Sayville train station to a one-story white clapboard building that had Ionic columns supporting a wide triangular pediment in the Greek Revival style. Lettering carved in relief and painted black read:

Under his arm were several recent editions of the Long Island weekly he had ordered up from Van Dorn Research. He went inside and spotted his quarry, a retired private detective named Scudder Smith. Smith was wearing shirtsleeves, banded at the elbow, and a red bow tie. He was behind his desk, reading a long yellow galley that reeked of wet ink.

Bell said, “The Research boys found me your stories about rumrunners. Spellbinding.”

Smith looked up, dropped the galley, and jumped to his feet. “Isaac! How in the heck are you?”

“Scudder.” Bell shook his hand. “It’s been too long.”

The two men cast keen eyes on each others’ faces.

Bell, Smith thought, looked as youthful and robust as ever despite the years and the war that had marked so many. Smith, Bell thought, looked like he hadn’t had a drink in years and consequently was much less gnarly than when last he had seen him.

“What are you doing out here?” Scudder asked. “On a job?… Wait a second. How did you know I was here? Newsies don’t hawk the Suffolk County News on the sidewalks of New York.”

“Mr. Van Dorn’s wife showed me the note you sent to the hospital.”

“How is he doing?”

“He’s hanging on. Left me in charge, and I’ve got my hands full trying to keep the agency afloat. But I do know that he hopes there are no hard feelings.”

“Hell no. Getting fired for over-imbibing was the best thing that ever happened to me. Sobered up. Married the girl of my dreams. Helen promptly inherited the paper. So I’m back in my original business, writing news. Beats mixing it up with thugs half my age. And I don’t have to hang out, drinking burnt coffee, in the criminal court pressroom. I walk home for lunch with my beautiful wife, write what I please. I’m even a pillar of the community. You’ll love this, Isaac. They made me an Odd Fellow, a Moose, and a Mason, and the fellows starting a Lions Club asked me to join them, too.”

“Doesn’t it get a little quiet?” Bell asked. As a reporter turned detective, Scudder Smith had been famous at the Van Dorn Agency for knowing every street in the city, every saloon, and every brothel. And there was no better guide to a Chinatown opium den.

Scudder said, “Quiet? Not since Prohibition.”

Bell nodded. “I got the impression sniffing the air it’s been greeted with open arms. I smelled more booze on the sea breeze than salt.”

“Half the town has fired-up home stills. The only ones who don’t smell booze cooking are the cops.” He picked up the galley. “This is my editorial about cops seen treating chorus girls to supper in expensive roadhouses. I don’t know who’ll read it. The entire South Shore is having a ball.”

“Does your wife work on the paper?”

“She can. Practically ran it for her dad for years.”

“So I heard.”

“You heard? What do you mean?”

“Could she take over for a while?”

“Why?”

“So you could come back to New York and lend a hand ’til I get things straightened out.”

“Isaac, old son,” drawled Texas Walt Hatfield. “Shore Ah’d love to help you out, but Hollywood’s got me tangled tighter than a roped calf.”

Texas Walt Hatfield, another former Van Dorn detective, had become a matinee idol who starred in scores of western movies. His drawl had grown thicker and his choice of words more cowboy-ish, but he was still as lean and lethal-looking as a Comanche scalping knife. Bell had run him down in the Plaza Hotel’s Palm Court. Patrons at other tables were gaping, and several people had stopped by to ask for Walt’s autograph, which he supplied with a powerful handshake for the men and an I’ll-meet-you-later smile for the ladies.

“Ah mean, if Ah could get out of my contract, Ah’d be with you lickety-split.”

“Are you sure about that?” asked Bell.

“Heck yes. Ah hanker to get in a gunfight with real bullets.”

Bell nodded discreetly to the maître d’ who was awaiting his signal.

Walt changed the subject. “Ah’m mighty relieved the Boss is hanging on. How you doing running down the varmints who shot him?”

“The Coast Guard’s stonewalling, won’t let me near the crew, so I haven’t had a word from the witnesses, and the cops are stonewalling, being embarrassed they let a killer in the hospital room with a witness they were guarding. But the fellow’s postmortem examination was interesting…” He filled Walt in on the Genickschuss.

“You wouldn’t want to try that with a .45,” drawled Hatfield. “You’d have to rustle up the swampers to mop the walls… And how’s the fair Marion? Forgive my not asking sooner.”

“She’s shooting a comedy over in Fort Lee.”

“So you got your gal with you! That’s plumb perfect.”

The maître d’ reappeared leading a waiter, who was carrying a stick phone with an immensely long cord.

“Excuse me, gentlemen. There is a long-distance telephone call from Los Angeles, California, for Mr. Texas Walt Hatfield.”

“Excuse me a sec, Isaac. Like Ah say, they’re jest all over me like paint.”

He took the phone, held it to his mouth and ear. “Yup. This is Texas Walt. Who’s there?”

He sat up straight, covered the mouthpiece, and muttered to Bell, “It’s Mr. Andrew Rubenoff. He owns the moving picture studio — Yes, suh, Mr. Rubenoff. Yes, suh. Yes, suh… You don’t say… Ah see. O.K. Thank you… What’s that? Hang on, he’s right here.”

Texas Walt passed the telephone to Isaac Bell. “Damnedest thing. Just let me out of my contract temporarily. Now he wants to talk to you. His name’s Rubenoff. Andrew Rubenoff.”

Bell took the telephone, said, “Thank you, Uncle Andy,” and hung up.