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“Do you think Zolner sent her away to keep her out of danger?”
“Possibly. Or she could be fed up with him and gone south early for the winter. Except I’ve got a very strong feeling that Fern Hawley’s gone on ahead to lay the groundwork for his next move.”
Dashwood played the devil’s advocate as Bell had taught him to. “Based on what?”
“Based on Pauline’s report that the Comintern sent a shipload of grain alcohol to The Bahamas. Nassau is only a hundred eighty miles from Miami, Bimini’s even closer, and Florida is a booze funnel into the entire South. He’ll have New York in the East, Detroit in the Midwest, and Florida in the South.
“At that point, he can paste a new label on millions of bottles—‘Genuine Old Cominterm, America’s Favorite.’”
• • •
ISAAC BELL PACED IMPATIENTLY.
“Whisky haulers have heard about a booze tunnel under the Detroit River. Strong-arm men have heard about this tunnel. The cops have heard about this tunnel. Crooks have heard about this tunnel. Gangsters have heard about this tunnel. Wouldn’t you think that Detroit newspapermen have not only heard about this tunnel but would also have some inkling of where it is?”
“It’s a big story,” Scudder Smith agreed. He was toying with his hat and looked like a man who was reconsidering not drinking.
“You’re picking up bar tabs for every reporter in town,” Bell reminded him. “One of them must be writing the big story.”
“No editor would run it. It would get the reporter shot—which wouldn’t trouble most editors excessively—but it could get the editor himself shot, too, and that possibility would trouble him.”
Isaac Bell did not smile.
“Funny enough,” said Scudder. “You know who’s really looking for the tunnel?”
“Volstead officers,” said Bell. “The payoffs would make them rich men.”
“Or dead.”
Bell said, “Go back to the pressrooms, go back to the blind pigs where newspapermen hang out. There must be some cub reporter out there scrambling for a scoop that would make his name.”
• • •
SCUDDER SMITH came back much sooner than Bell had expected.
“Now what?”
Scudder grinned ear to ear. “I have redeemed myself.”
“Did you find a reporter who found the tunnel?”
“No. But I found several reporters who know who might have shot Sam Rosenthal.”
“Might have?”
“I don’t know who actually pulled the trigger, but I definitely know who replaced him. Abe Weintraub, like we guessed. Admiral Abe.”
“I thought he disappeared. I thought he was dead.”
“So did I. So did they. But then I caught a rumor that the admiral was seen gumming his supper at the Hotel Wolverine.”
“‘Gumming’?”
“Apparently someone—an amazingly formidable someone—knocked Abe’s teeth out. I checked. I found a Wolverine waiter who said he ate sweetbreads. Sweetbreads and champagne. Sweetbreads are expensive. A meal you eat when you’re celebrating. As if you became the new Purples’ boss.”
“And easy to chew,” said Bell. “Any idea who knocked his teeth out?”
“Everyone agrees that whoever did it must be dead by now.”
