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“What time came?”
“The wedding. He knew Whiteway was angling for Josephine. Marco figured I’d be so mad, I’d kill Whiteway, and Josephine would inherit the money and marry him. And if later I killed her, too, he’d get it all.”
Frost’s one good eye sought Bell’s two. “Marco started this. He’s the one who turned her head. So I reckoned the juggler seeing all his balls come crashing down was my sweetest revenge.”
“Another reason to kill her?” asked Bell.
“Marco knew the Stevens biplane would never make it. He needed Josephine to prove that his flying machines can be fighting machines.”
Bell shook his head. “All she wants is to fly.”
“I gave her the chance, she turned it against me. She deserves to be killed,” Frost whispered.
“You’re dying with hatred on your lips.”
ISAAC BELL WAS DEEPLY RELIEVED to find Texas Walt, sitting in the rain, holding his head.
“Feels like John Philip Sousa’s playing a steam calliope where my brain used to be.”
Bell walked him to the Rolls-Royce and drove it to the trestle, Walt cussing a blue streak at every bump. The mechanicians had repaired the Eagle’s undercarriage. Bell made Walt comfortable on the train. Then he took to the air and headed for Fresno, the last overnight stop before San Francisco. Josephine’s yellow machine and Joe Mudd’s red tractor biplane were tied down fifty yards apart on a muddy fairground. Joe Mudd leaned on crutches, joking with the mechanicians working on his undercarriage.
“Hard landing?” Bell asked.
Mudd shrugged. “Just a busted leg. Machine’s O.K. Mostly.”
“Where’s Josephine?”
“She and Whiteway are at the fairground hotel. I’d steer clear, if I were you.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Stormy weather.”
Bell beckoned Josephine’s detective-mechanicians, who were ferrying tools and parts for Marco Celere, who was shaking his head over her motor. “Keep a sharp eye on Celere. Do not let him near Joe Mudd’s machine.”
“What if he makes a run for it?” asked Dashwood.
“He won’t. Celere’s not going anywhere as long as there’s any chance Josephine will win the race.”
He went to the fairground hotel. Preston Whiteway had rented the top floor of the two-story structure. Bell quickened his pace up the stairs when he heard the publisher shouting at the top of his lungs. He knocked loudly and entered. Whiteway was standing over Josephine, who was curled in a tight ball in a parlor chair, staring at the carpet.
Whiteway saw Bell, and instead of asking what had happened with Harry Frost he shouted, “You talk sense to her! Maybe she’ll listen to you!”
“What’s the matter?”
“My wife refuses to finish the race.”
“Why?”
“She won’t tell me. Maybe she’ll tell you. Where the hell’s my train?”
“Just pulled in.”
“I’ll be in San Francisco for the end of the race.”
“Where is Marion?”
“Gone ahead with her cameras,” Whiteway answered. He lowered his voice to a hoarse stage whisper that Josephine could have heard in the next county and pleaded, “See if you can talk sense into her – she’s throwing away the chance of a lifetime.”
