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Bell saw steel flash behind Alasdair MacDonald.
11
ISAAC BELL WHISKED HIS OVER-UNDER, TWO-SHOT derringer out of his hat in a blur of motion and fired at the third gangster, who was lunging at Alasdair MacDonald’s back with a knife. The range was close, nearly point-blank. The heavy.44 slug stopped him in his tracks, and the blade fell from his hand. But even as the roar of gunfire sent patrons stampeding for cover, the dandy with the bloody nose was thrusting another knife at the Scotsman’s belly.
MacDonald gaped, as if astonished that a friendly brawl would turn deadly.
Isaac Bell realized that he was witnessing a premeditated attempt at murder. A fleeing spectator blocked his vision. Bell slammed him out of his way and fired again. Above MacDonald’s bloody nose, the knife wielder grew a red hole between the eyes. His knife fell inches short of Alasdair MacDonald’s belt.
Bell’s derringer was empty.
The remaining killer, the one floored, rose behind MacDonald with a fluid ease that showed him neither hurt nor slowed by the blow he had taken to his ear. A long-bladed knife flipped open in his hand. Bell was already pulling his Browning No. 2 semiautomatic from under his coat. The killer thrust his knife at MacDonald’s back. Tucking the pistol to his body to shield it from the running men, Bell fired. He knew that he would have stopped the killer dead with a shot to the brain. But someone crashed into him just as he pulled the trigger.
He did not miss by much. The shot pierced the dandy’s right shoulder. But the Browning’s pinpoint accuracy was gained at the cost of stopping power, and the killer was left-handed. Although the.380 caliber slug staggered him, momentum was on the killer’s side, and he managed to sink his blade into Alasdair MacDonald’s broad back.
MacDonald still looked astonished. His eyes met Bell’s even as the detective caught him in his arms. “They tried to kill me,” he marveled.
Bell eased the suddenly dead weight to the sawdust and knelt over him. “Get a doctor,” Bell shouted. “Get an ambulance.”
“Laddie!”
“Don’t talk,” said Bell.
Blood was spreading rapidly, so fast that the sawdust floated on it instead of absorbing it.
“Give me your hand, Isaac.”
Bell took the huge splayed hand in his.
“Please give me your hand.”
“I’ve got you, Alasdair-Get a doctor! ”
Angelo Del Rossi knelt beside them. “Doc’s coming. He’s a good one. You’ll be O.K., Professor. Won’t he, Bell?”
“Of course,” Bell lied.
MacDonald gripped Bell’s hand convulsively and whispered something Bell could not hear. He leaned closer. “What did you say, Alasdair?”
“Listen.”
“I can’t hear you.”
But the big Scotsman said nothing. Bell whispered into his ear, “They came after you, Alasdair. Why?”
MacDonald opened his eyes. They grew wide with sudden recognition, and he whispered, “Hull 44.”
“What?”
MacDonald closed his eyes as if falling asleep.
“I’m a doctor. Get out of my way.”
Bell moved aside. The doctor, youthful, brisk, and apparently competent, counted MacDonald’s pulse. “Heartbeat like a station clock. I have an ambulance on the way. Some of you men help me carry him.”
“I’ll do it,” said Bell.
“He weighs two hundred pounds.”
