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“Eustace. You’ve got some explaining to do.”
EUSTACE WEED OPENED HIS MOUTH. He could not speak. Tears welled in his eyes.
Bell watched him sternly. When he spoke, the chief investigator’s voice was glacial: “I’ll tell you what happened. You nod. Understand?”
Eustace was trembling.
“Understand?” Bell repeated.
Eustace nodded.
Bell let go his wrist, palming the copper tube as he did, shook it speculatively, then tossed it to Andy Moser, who took one look and glowered, “When the gas melts the wax, what’s inside leaks out. What is it? Water?”
Eustace Weed bit his lip and nodded.
Bell pulled a notepad from his coat. “Do you recognize this fellow?”
Eustace Weed blinked at a drawing like you’d see in the newspaper.
“A saloonkeeper in Chicago. I don’t know his name.”
“How about this one?”
“He worked for the saloonkeeper. He took me to him.”
“And this one?”
“He’s the other one who took me to see him.”
“How about this man?”
Bell showed him a sketch of a grim-faced man, more frightening than the others, who looked like a prizefighter who had never lost a bout. “No. I never saw him.”
“This fellow is a Van Dorn detective who has lived for the past two weeks across the hall from Miss Daisy Ramsey and her mother. He shares his rooms with another fellow, a bigger fellow. When one has to go out, the other is there, across the hall. When Daisy goes to work at the telephone exchange, a Van Dorn man watches the sidewalk and another watches the telephone exchange. Do you understand what I’m saying to you, Eustace?”
“Daisy is safe?”
“Daisy is safe. Now, tell me everything. Quickly.”
“How do you know her name?”
“I asked you her name back in Topeka, Kansas. You told me, confirming what we were already turning up in Chicago. It’s our town.”
“But you can’t watch over her forever.”
“We don’t have to.” Bell held up the pictures again. “These two will be locked back in Joliet prison to resume serving well-deserved twenty-year sentences. This saloonkeeper is about to go out of business and open a small dry-goods store in Seattle, a city to which he is moving for his health.”
ON A REMOTE STRETCH of dun-colored ranchland between Los Angeles and Fresno, the Southern Pacific West Side Line that the air racers were supposed to follow crossed the tracks of the Atchison, Topeka amp; Santa Fe. Intersecting at that same point were local short-line railroads that served the raisin growers and cattlemen of the San Joaquin Valley. The resultant junction of rails, switches, and underpasses was so confusing that dispatchers and train conductors called it the Snake Dance. The Whiteway Cup Air Race stewards had marked the correct route with a conspicuous canvas arrow.
Dave Mayhew, Harry Frost’s telegrapher, climbed down from a pole and read aloud his Morse alphabet transcriptions.
“Josephine’s way in the lead. Joe Mudd had trouble getting off the ground. Now he’s stuck in a cotton field in Tipton.”
“Where’s her support train?” asked Frost.
“Keeping pace. Right under her.”
“Where’s Isaac Bell?”
