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“That’s why Di Vecchio kept yelling that Celere sold them a lousy flying machine and ruined it for other inventors.”
“Did Di Vecchio accuse Celere of trying a gigolo stunt with Danielle?”
“That’s what Di Vecchio was warning him off about. ‘Don’t touch my daughter.’”
“Sounds like your fishermen stumbled onto a heck of a shout fest.”
“They didn’t exactly stumble. They lived there, too.”
Bell watched the young detective’s face closely. “You’ve turned up a lot of information, Dash, maybe enough to make it worth the wait. Did you get a lucky break or did you know what you were looking for?”
“Well, that’s the thing, Mr. Bell. Don’t you see? They were arguing outside the hotel where Di Vecchio died. The night he died.”
27
ISAAC BELL FIXED HIS PROTÉGÉ with an intense gaze, his mind leaping to the possibility that an angry argument had ended in murder. “The same night?”
“The same night,” answered James Dashwood. “In the same house where Di Vecchio asphyxiated himself by blowing out a gaslight and leaving the gas on.”
“Are you certain he killed himself?”
“I looked into the possibility. That’s why I thought I should report face-to-face, to explain why I’m thinking what I’m thinking.”
“Go on,” Bell urged.
“I was already investigating the suicide, like you ordered, when I heard about the shouting match. You told me about Marco Celere’s original name being Prestogiacomo. I discovered he was staying there under that name. You always say you hate coincidences, so I reckoned there had to be a connection. I spoke with the San Francisco coroner. He admitted that they don’t do much investigating into how an Italian immigrant happens to die in San Francisco. There’s a lot of them in the city, but they keep to themselves. So I wondered, what if I pretended that the dead man wasn’t Italian but American? And pretended he wasn’t poor but earning three thousand dollars a year, and had a house and maids and a cook? What questions would I ask when that fellow got gassed in a hotel room?”
Bell concealed a proud smile, and asked sternly, “What do you conclude?”
“Gas is a heck of a way to get away with killing someone.”
“Did you turn up any clues that would support such speculation?”
“Di Vecchio had a big bump on his head, the night clerk told me, like he fell out of bed when he passed out. Could have woke up groggy, tried to get up, and fell. Or he could have been conked on the head by the same fellow who turned on the gas. Trouble is, we’ll never know.”
“Probably not,” Bell agreed.
“Could I ask you something, Mr. Bell?”
“Shoot.”
“Why did you ask me to investigate his suicide?”
“I’m driving the last flying machine Di Vecchio built. It does not operate like a machine made by a man who would kill himself. It is unusually sturdy, and it flies like a machine made by a man who loved making machines and was looking forward to making many more. But that is merely an odd feeling, not evidence.”
“But if you add your odd feeling to the odd bump on Di Vecchio’s head, together they’re sort of like a coincidence, aren’t they?”
“In an odd way,” Bell smiled.
“But like you say, Mr. Bell, we’ll never know. Di Vecchio’s dead, and so’s the fellow who might have conked him.”
“Maybe. .” said Isaac Bell, thinking hard. “Dash? This engine in the Paris air meet that Di Vecchio said Celere bought with a woman’s money. You said some sort of engine. What did you mean by ‘some sort of engine’?”
Dashwood grinned. “That confused the heck out of the poor nuns. Threw them for a loop.”
“Why?”
“The fishermen called it polpo. Polpo means ‘octopus.’”
