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Isaac Bell spread his hand over Scully’s face and gently closed his eyes. “Sleep tight, my friend.”
A whistle blew. “All aboard!” Conductors shouted. “20th Century Limited to Chicago. Allllllll aboooooard.”
Scully’s hat had fallen under his head. Bell reached for it to cover his face. His hand came away sticky with warm blood.
“Mother of God,” breathed the cop leaning over his shoulder.
Bell turned Scully’s head and saw the shiny brass head of a hatpin sticking out of the soft flesh in t
he nape of his neck.
“All aboard! All aboard! 20th Century Limited for Chicago. Allllllll aboooooard!”
Bell searched Scully’s pockets. Tucked inside his coat was an envelope with his name on it. Bell stood up and tore it open. Printed in block letters was a note from the killer:
EYE FOR AN EYE, BELL.
YOU EARNED WEEKS SO WE WON’T COUNT HIM.
BUT YOU OWE ME FOR THE GERMAN.
“Mr. Bell! Mr. Bell!” A Van Dorn apprentice raced up, breathless.
“Wire from Mr. Van Dorn.”
Bell read it in a glance.
Yamamoto Kenta had been found floating in the Potomac.
All was lost.
The tall detective knelt beside his friend again and resumed methodically searching his pockets. In Scully’s vest he found a train ticket for the 20th Century Limited with through connections to San Francisco.
“Boarrrrd! All aboa-”
The conductor’s final warning was drowned out by the engineer signaling Ahead with a majestic double blast on his whistle. Isaac Bell stood up, thinking furiously. John Scully must have been following a suspected spy or saboteur who was headed to San Francisco, where the Great White Fleet would replenish before crossing the Pacific Ocean.
He spoke sharply to the Van Dorn apprentice, who was staring with wide-open eyes at the fallen detective. “Look at me, son.”
The boy tore his gaze from Scully.
“There’s a lot to be done, and you’re the only Van Dorn here who can do it. Round up every witness. Those workmen there, those Chinese fellows with the cart, and these folks hanging about. Someone saw something. This officer will help you, won’t you?”
“I’ll do what I can,” said the cop dubiously.
Bell pressed money into his hand. “Hold them here while this young gentleman telephones Van Dorn headquarters for every available agent. On the jump, son! Then straight back here and get to work. Remember, people are glad to talk if you give them the chance.”
The floor shook. The 20th Century Limited was rolling toward Chicago.
Isaac Bell bolted onto the platform, ran the length of the express train’s red carpet, and jumped.
THE FLEET
*
34
MAY 1, 1908
