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“I’ve got it!” yelled Whiteway. He spread his arms and stared bug-eyed at the ceiling, as if he could see through it all the way to the sun.
“‘America’s Sweetheart of the Air.’”
The artists’ eyes widened. They looked carefully at the writers and editors and managers, who looked carefully at Whiteway.
“What do you think of that?” Whiteway demanded.
Isaac Bell observed quietly to Van Dorn, “I’ve seen men more at ease in gun battles.”
Van Dorn said, “Rest assured the agency will bill Whiteway for your idea.”
A brave old senior editor not far from retirement spoke up at last: “Very good, sir. Very, very good.”
Whiteway beamed.
“ ‘America’s Sweetheart of the Air’!” cried the managing editor, and the others took up the chant.
“Draw that! Put her on a flying machine. Make her pretty – no, make her beautiful.”
Invisible smiles passed between the detectives. Sounded to Isaac Bell and Joseph Van Dorn like Preston Whiteway had fallen for his personal entry.
Back in Whiteway’s private office, the publisher turned grave. “I imagine you can guess what I want from you.”
“We can,” Joseph Van Dorn answered. “But perhaps it would be better to hear it in your own words.”
“Before we start,” Bell interrupted, turning to the only member of the entourage who had followed them back into Whiteway’s office and taken a faraway chair in the corner, “may I ask who you are, sir?”
He was dressed in a brown suit and vest, celluloid stand-up collar, and bow tie. His hair was brilliantined to his skull like a shiny helmet. He blinked at Bell’s question. Whiteway answered for him.
“Weiner from Accounting. I had him deputized by the American Aeronautical Society, which will officially sanction the race, to preside as Chief Rule Keeper. You’ll be seeing a lot him. Weiner will keep a record of every contestant’s time and settle disputes. His word is final. Even I can’t overrule him.”
“And he enjoys your confidence in this meeting?”
“I pay his salary and own the property he rents to house his family.”
“Then we will speak openly,” said Van Dorn. “Welcome, Mr. Weiner. We are about to hear why Mr. Whiteway wants to engage my detective agency.”
“Protection,” said Whiteway. “I want Josephine protected from her husband. Before Harry Frost shot at her, he murdered Marco Celere, the inventor who built her aeroplanes, in an insane fit of jealous rage. The vicious lunatic is on the run, and I fear that he is stalking her – the only witness to his crime.”
“There are rumors of murder,” said Isaac Bell. “But, in fact, no one has seen Marco Celere dead, and the district attorney has filed no charges as there is no body.”
“Find it!” Whiteway shot back. “Charges are pending. Josephine witnessed Frost shooting Celere. Why do you think Frost ran? Van Dorn, I want your agency to investigate the disappearance of Marco Celere and build a murder case that will require that hick-town prosecutor to get Harry Frost locked up forever. Or hanged. Do what you must, and damn the expense! Anything to protect the girl from that raving lunatic.”
“Would that Frost were only a raving lunatic,” said Joseph Van Dorn.
“What do you mean?”
“Harry Frost is the most dangerous criminal not currently behind bars that I know of.”
“No,” Whiteway protested. “Harry Frost was a first-class businessman before he lost his mind.”
ISAAC BELL DIRECTED A COLD GLARE at the newspaper publisher. “Perhaps you are not aware how Mr. Frost got started in business.”
“I am aware of his success. Frost was the top newsstand distributor in the nation when I took command of my father’s papers. When he retired – at the age of thirty-five, I might add – he controlled every newsstand in every railroad station in the country. However cruel he’s been to poor Josephine, Frost commanded great success in forging his continental chain. Frankly, as one businessman to another, I would admire him, if he weren’t trying to kill his wife.”
“I’d sooner admire a rabid wolf,” Isaac Bell countered grimly. “Harry Frost is a brutal mastermind. He ‘forged his continental chain,’ as you put it, by slaughtering every rival in his path.”
“I still say he was a fine businessman before he became a lunatic,” Whiteway objected. “Instead of living on the interest of his wealth when he retired, he invested it in steel, railroads, and Postum Cereals. He possesses a fortune that would do J. P. Morgan proud.”
