The Race by Clive Cussler (best book reader txt) 📕

“I am so relieved that Archie has a fighting chance. Dr. Nuland-Novicki said the most important thing was getting through the first twenty-four hours, and he has.”

“When can I visit him?” asked Van Dorn.

“Not yet. Lillian’s the only one they’ll allow in his room. Even Archie’s mother is cooling her heels in the hallway. The other reason I’m chipper is, Marion arrives any day from San Francisco. She’s hired on with Whiteway to take moving pictures of the race.”

Van Dorn fell silent for a moment, reflecting on their exchange. When he spoke again, it was soberly. “What you say is true about hunches—or, if not entirely true, is certainly agreed upon by experienced fieldmen.”

“The unrecognized observation is a compelling phenomenon.”

“But,” said Van Dorn, raising a meaty finger for emphasis, “experienced fieldmen also agree that hunches and sixth senses have enriched bookmakers since the first horse race in human history. This morning I learned that you’ve doubled your bets, summoning to Belmont Park some of my best men who are already thinly dispersed about the continent.”

“‘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