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

her flying machine last fall in upper New York State?”

“Where did you hear that?” Whiteway bristled. “I kept it out of the papers.”

“In our business,” Van Dorn replied mildly, “we tend to hear before you do.”

Bell asked, “Why did you keep it out of the papers?”

“Because my publicists are booming Josephine to build interest in the race. They are promoting her with a new song that I commissioned entitled ‘Come, Josephine in My Flying Machine.’ They’ll plaster her picture on sheet music, Edison cylinders, piano rolls, magazines, and posters to keep people excited about the outcome.”

“I’d have thought they’d be excited anyway.”

“If you don’t lead the public, they get bored,” Whiteway replied scornfully. “In fact, the best thing that could happen to keep people excited about the race will be if half the male contestants smash to the ground before Chicago.”

Bell and Van Dorn exchanged another look, and Van Dorn said, disapprovingly, “We presume that you utter that statement in confidence.”

“A natural winnowing of the field will turn it into a contest that pits only the best airmen against plucky tomboy Josephine,” Whiteway explained without apology. “Newspaper readers root for the underdog. Come with me! You’ll see what I’m talking about.”

Trailed by an ever-expanding entourage of editors, writers, lawyers, and managers, Preston Whiteway led the detectives down two floors to the art department, a lofty room lit by north windows and crammed with artists hunched over drawing boards, illustrating the day’s events.

Bell counted twenty men crowding in after the publisher, some with pencils and pens in hand, all with panic in their eyes. The artists ducked their heads and drew faster. Whiteway snapped his fingers. Two ran to him, bearing mock-ups of sheet music covers.

“What have you got?”

They held up a sketch of a girl on a flying machine soaring over a field of cows. “‘The Flying Farm Girl.’”

“No!”

Abashed, they held up a second drawing. This depicted a girl in overalls with her hair stuffed under what looked to Bell like a taxi driver’s cap. “‘The Aerial Tomboy.’”

“No! God in Heaven, no. What do you men do down here for your salaries?”

“But Mr. Whiteway, you said readers like farm girls and tomboys.”

“I said, ‘She’s a girl!’ Newspaper readers like girls. Draw her prettier! Josephine is beautiful.”

Isaac Bell took pity on the artists, who looked ready to jump out the window, and interjected, “Why don’t you make her look like a fellow’s sweetheart?”

“I’ve got it!” yelled Whiteway. He spread his arms and stared bug-eyed at the ceiling, as if he could see through it all the way to the sun.

“‘America’s Sweetheart of the Air.’”

The artists’ eyes widened. They looked carefully at the writers and editors and managers, who looked carefully at Whiteway.

“What do you think of that?” Whiteway demanded.

Isaac Bell observed quietly to Van Dorn, “I’ve seen men more at ease in gun battles.”

Van Dorn said, “Rest assured the agency will bill Whiteway for your idea.”

A brave old senior editor not far from retirement spoke up at last: “Very good, sir. Very, very good.”

Whiteway beamed.

“ ‘America’s Sweetheart of the Air’!” cried the managing editor, and the others took up the chant.

“Draw that! Put her on a flying machine. Make her pretty—no, make her beautiful.”

Invisible smiles passed between the detectives. Sounded to Isaac Bell and Joseph Van Dorn like Preston Whiteway had fallen for his personal entry.

Back in Whiteway’s private office, the publisher turned grave. “I imagine you can guess what I want from you.”

“We can,” Joseph Van Dorn answered. “But perhaps it would be better to hear it in your own words.”

“Before we start,” Bell interrupted, turning to the only member of the entourage who had followed them back into Whiteway’s office and taken a faraway chair in the corner, “may I ask who you are, sir?”

He was dressed in a brown suit and vest, celluloid stand-up collar, and bow tie. His hair was brilliantined to his skull like a shiny helmet. He blinked at Bell’s question. Whiteway answered for him.

“Weiner from Accounting. I had him deputized by the American Aeronautical Society, which will officially sanction the race, to preside as Chief Rule Keeper. You’ll be seeing a lot him. Weiner will keep a record of every contestant’s time and settle disputes. His word is final. Even I can’t overrule him.”

“And he enjoys your confidence in this meeting?”

“I pay his salary and own the property he rents to house his family.”

“Then we will speak openly,” said Van Dorn. “Welcome, Mr. Weiner. We are about to hear why Mr. Whiteway wants to engage my detective agency.”

“Protection,” said Whiteway. “I want Josephine protected from her husband. Before Harry Frost shot at her, he murdered Marco Celere, the inventor who built her aeroplanes, in an insane fit of jealous rage. The vicious lunatic is on the run, and I fear that he is stalking her—the only witness to his crime.”

“There are rumors of murder,” said Isaac Bell. “But, in fact, no one has seen Marco Celere dead, and the district attorney has filed no charges as there is no body.”

“Find it!” Whiteway shot back. “Charges are pending. Josephine witnessed Frost shooting Celere. Why do you think Frost ran? Van Dorn, I want your agency to investigate the disappearance of Marco Celere and build a murder case that will require that hick-town prosecutor to get Harry Frost locked up forever. Or hanged. Do what you must, and damn the expense! Anything to protect the girl from that raving lunatic.”

“Would that Frost were only a raving lunatic,” said Joseph Van Dorn.

“What do you mean?”

“Harry Frost is the most dangerous criminal not currently behind bars that I know of.”

“No,” Whiteway protested. “Harry Frost was a first-class businessman before he lost his mind.”

ISAAC BELL DIRECTED A COLD GLARE at the newspaper publisher. “Perhaps you are not aware how Mr. Frost got started in business.”

“I am aware of his success. Frost was the top newsstand distributor in the nation when I took command of my father’s papers. When he retired—at the age of thirty-five, I might add—he