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Now it was Kelly’s turn to reach behind his back and retrieve his Colt revolver. He was just bringing it level to pull the trigger when Bell hurled his derringer like a baseball pitcher receiving the signal from the catcher to throw a fastball. At four feet away, he couldn’t miss. The little gun, solid as a piece of quartz, thudded off Kelly’s face just above the nose and between the eyes.
Blood gushed from the gash and quickly covered the lower half of Kelly’s face. The blow staggered him more than the slug in his shoulder. There was no gasp of pain, no bloodcurdling cry. He made no sound other than a great sigh. The gun was still in his hand, but he did not lift it to aim. He couldn’t. Bell put his head down and charged the strong man like a porpoise into a great white shark, accelerating with every step, thrusting his head into Kelly’s stomach with all his strength. The ex-boxer merely grunted and brushed Bell away, throwing him halfway across the room with a strength nothing less than phenomenal.
Bell crashed into a wall with a crunch that forced the breath from his lungs. If the impact had been any harder, he’d have been in traction for two months. But his bone-jarring charge had not been in vain. During the collision of his one hundred eighty-five pounds against Kelly’s two-fifty, he had snatched the revolver from the hand of the killer.
There was no command to cease another assault, no “Stop or I’ll shoot.” Bell had been through the mill and knew you don’t waste words on a killer dead set on sending you to a marble slab at the county coroner’s. He had no illusions about beating Kelly in a man-to-man fight. The murderer was stronger and more ruthless. Bell barely got off two shots before Kelly recovered enough to reach out and grasp Bell around the neck with the ferocity of a gorilla, his massive hands choking the life out of the detective. He fell against Bell, pressing him into the carpet, his massive weight crushing Bell’s torso and pinning his arms so he couldn’t fire the Colt again. Kelly squeezed calmly and purposely, as though the bullets he had taken were a mere annoyance.
Bell couldn’t move, and there was no reaching up in an attempt to pull off the fingers digging into his neck. Kelly’s strength went way beyond Bell’s. Bell didn’t doubt that he wasn’t the first man Kelly had strangled. Unless he did something very rapidly, he wouldn’t be the last. Blackness was edging his line of vision, and getting darker by the moment.
What stunned Bell more than the realization that he was only seconds away from death was what happened to the two bullets he had pumped into Kelly. He was certain he had struck the Goliath in the body. Bell looked up into two eyes that were as dark as evil and the blood that had turned the lower face into a horrific mask of crimson. What was keeping him alive, why wasn’t his strength ebbing? The man wasn’t human.
Then, perceptibly, Bell felt the pressure begin to ease slightly. Rather than try to pry the hands from around his neck, Bell reached up and embedded his thumbs in Kelly’s expressionless eyes, knowing it would be the final move before darkness closed over him. In a violent, corkscrew motion, Bell twisted his body out from under Kelly.
The big boxer groaned and covered his eyes with his hands. Unseeing, he crawled toward Bell, who kicked out viciously, catching Kelly in the stomach. Only then did he see the two bullet holes seeping blood through Kelly’s shirt below the rib cage. What kept him going? Bell wondered. He should have died before now. But, instead, Kelly reached out and grabbed Bell by the leg.
Bell felt himself being pulled across the carpet, now stained and soaked with Kelly’s blood. He lashed out with his free foot. It bounced off Kelly, who acted as if he never felt it. The grip on Bell’s calf tightened. Fingernails dug through his pants into his flesh. He was pulled closer to Kelly, seeing an agonized face, the eyes glaring with hatred.
It was time to end this ghastly fight. Bell’s right hand still held the Colt. With deadly calm, he raised the barrel until the muzzle was only inches from Kelly’s face, deliberately pulled the trigger, and sent a .44 caliber bullet into Kelly’s right eye.
There was no terrible scream or horrible gurgling sound. Kelly exhaled an audible gasp from his throat and rolled over on the carpet like some great beast in its death throes crumpling to the earth.
Bell sat up on the floor and massaged his throat, panting from the exertion. He turned his head and stared at the doorway as men came rushing into the suite. They stopped in stunned shock at the sight of the sea of blood and the great hump of a man whose face was unrecognizable because of the bloody, congealing mask. The face looked particularly grotesque due to the gold teeth showing through the open lips that slowly became coated red.
Kelly had died hard, and for what? Money? A debt? A vendetta? Not the latter. Bell had never launched an investigation against the Barbary Coast giant. Someone must have paid him to kill and paid him extremely well.
Bell wondered if he would ever know the answer.
THE NEXT MORNING, Bell stepped out of the big porcelain bathtub, toweled off the water that dripped down his body, and gazed in the mirror. His throat didn’t look pretty. It was swollen, with purple bruises so obvious that he could see the shape of Red Kelly’s fingers where they had dug into his flesh. He put on a clean white shirt and was pleased to see that the high, starched collar, though it chafed his tender skin, covered the bruises.
They weren’t the only purplish green marks on his aching body. He had several from falling over the chair, and from being thrown across the room and into the wall by Kelly’s brute strength. They were tender to the touch and would not fade anytime soon.
After dressing in his trademark linen suit, Bell left the hotel and stopped off at the Western Union office and sent a telegram to Joseph Van Dorn that told of the attempt on his life. When he came slowly through the door of the office, Agnes Murphy openly stared at him. She stood up with a look of motherly concern in her eyes. “Oh, Mr. Bell. I heard about your unfortunate incident. I do hope you’re all right.”
“A few bruises, Agnes, nothing more.”
Curtis and Irvine heard his voice and came from the conference room, followed by Alexander from his office. Both agents vigorously shook his hand—a bit too vigorously, Bell thought, wincing at the discomfort that traveled over his aching body. Alexander merely stood back, as if he was a spectator in an audience.
“Glad to see you alive and kicking,” said Curtis. “We heard it was quite a fight.”
“It was as close as I ever came to buying the farm,” said Bell.
“After talking to you over the phone,” said Curtis, “I wired your identification of Red Kelly to our San Francisco office. They’re going to check out Kelly and any of his clients who might have wanted you eliminated.”
“A terrible thing,” Alexander said without emotion. “Unthinkable, that someone would attempt to assassinate a Van Dorn agent.”
B
ell gave Alexander a long hard look. “I can only wonder how Kelly knew where I was staying.”
“Kelly was a well-known crime boss on the Barbary Coast in San Francisco,” said Irvine. “Could any of your former friends who you put in jail or friends and families of those who were executed because you arrested them be from San Francisco?”
“None that I can name,” answered Bell. “If I had to make a guess, I’d have to say the Butcher Bandit was behind it.”
“Knowing you were on the case,” said Irvine, “he’d certainly have a motive.”
Alexander said, “We won’t rest until we get to the bottom of this.” To Bell, his words rang hollow. “I can’t tell you how glad I am that you are alive and well.” Then he turned and walked back to his office.
As soon as he was out of earshot, Bell said, “Another nail in the coffin, gentlemen. The key to the bandit’s whereabouts is San Francisco.”
