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“Hey, what are you doing?”
“Pressing charges.”
“That’s not how it’s done.”
“I’ll promise you this,” Van Dorn retorted coldly. “Next time you try to beat up a Van Dorn, we won’t press charges. We’ll throw you in the river.”
“But—”
“Answer this! Where did Clay go?”
“I don’t know. He doesn’t tell me where he goes.”
“Where’s the people who worked in his office?”
“Ran for it when this rumpus started.”
“How long have you worked for Clay?”
“Years.”
Joseph Van Dorn was still holding the telephone and still breathing hard. “How long were you waiting for me?”
“Two days— Mister, you ain’t gonna call the cops, are youse?”
Van Dorn said, “You’ll owe?”
“Sure.”
“Make no mistake. If you give me your marker, I’ll collect.”
“I ain’t a welsher.”
“O.K. I’ll take you at your word. You pick up your boys and leave quietly. Got a man who does bullet wounds?”
“Sure.”
“All right. You owe me.”
“Me, too,” growled Isaac Bell.
“Hear that?” Van Dorn pointed at Bell. “Him, too. Whenever we come to you with a question, you’ll give us a straight answer. Square?”
“Square,” said the gangster. “Want to shake on it?”
“Get out of here!”
* * *
The Hudson dusters carried their fallen down the back stairs.
Joseph Van Dorn gave Isaac Bell a tight grin. “Heck of a scrap. Thanks, Isaac. Saved my bacon.”
“Who is Clay?”
“Henry Clay. A private detective.” Van Dorn pointed at a brass wall plaque that was smeared with the blood of a gangster Bell had shot. “Henry Clay Investigations Agency.”
“What is he to you?”
