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Roundsman O’Riordan cast a jaundiced eye on the Staten Island scowmen. “Watch ’em, closely,” he ordered, hoping they were not up to no good. Arresting a gang of muscle-bound oyster tongers would cost broken arms and busted teeth on both sides.
“How do we get to the Roosevelt Hospital at 59th Street?” called the shaggy oldster at the helm.
“If you got a nickel, take the Ninth Avenue El.”
“We got a nickel.”
Jimmy Richards and Marv Gordon paid their nickels and rode to 59th Street, staring at tall buildings and crowds of people they could scarcely believe, many of whom stared back at them. Wandering the huge hospital wards, they finally asked directions from a pretty Irish nurse and found their way to a private room with only one bed. The patient in the bed was completely wrapped in bandages, and they would never have recognized Cousin Eddie Tobin except that hanging on a clothes tree was the snappy suit of clothes that the Van Dorns had staked Eddie when they hired him to apprentice last winter.
A tall,
yellow-haired dude, lean as wire rope, was bending over him, holding a glass so Eddie could drink from a straw. When he saw them in the doorway, his eyes turned gray as a nor’easter, and a big hand slid inside his coat where he could keep a pistol, if he was the sort to pack one and he looked like he was.
“May I help you gentlemen?”
Jimmy and Marv instinctively raised their hands. “Is that little Eddie Tobin? We’re his cousins come to visit.”
“Eddie? Do you know these fellows?”
The bandaged head was already craning painfully toward them. It nodded, and they heard little Eddie croak, “Family.”
The blue-gray eyes turned a warmer shade. “Come on in, boys.”
“Fancy digs,” said Jimmy. “We looked in the ward. They sent us up here.”
“Mr. Bell paid for it.”
Isaac Bell offered his hand and shook their horny mitts. “Everyone chipped in. Van Dorns look out for their own. I’m Isaac Bell.”
“Jimmy Richards. This here’s Marv Gordon.”
“I’ll leave you boys to your visit. Eddie, I’ll see you soon.”
Richards lumbered out after him into the hall. “How’s he doing, Mr. Bell?”
“Better than we hoped. He’s a tough kid. It’s going to take a while, but the docs are saying he’ll come out of it in pretty good shape. But I have to warn you, he won’t win any beauty contests.”
“Who did it? We’ll straighten them out.”
“We’ve already straightened them out,” said Bell. “It’s a Van Dorn fight, and your cousin is a Van Dorn.”
Richards didn’t like it. “None of us was happy when Eddie joined the law.”
Isaac Bell smiled. “The law does not like their appellation given to private detectives.”
“Whatever you say, bub. We appreciate what you’re doing for him. You ever need a church burned down or someone drowned, Eddie knows how to find us.”
ISAAC BELL WAS PORING through the noon reports from the squads hunting for Billy Collins when Archie Abbott telephoned from Grand Central. “Just got off the train. Something is missing from the Newport Torpedo Factory.”
“What?”
“Is the Old Man still in town?”
“Mr. Van Dorn’s in his office.”
“Why don’t you meet me downstairs?”
“Downstairs” meant privacy in the Hotel Knickerbocker’s cellar bar. Ten minutes later, they were hunched over a dark table. Archie beckoned the waiter. “You might want a drink before we report to the boss. I certainly do.”
