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“Wait,” said Bell. “Take two boys and plenty of firepower. And warn McCoy if he did do business with this roughneck element, he’s in danger. Whoever we’re looking for has a strong aversion to witnesses.”
Tobin turned to Harry Warren. The head of the Gang Squad assigned two of his hardest cases with a brisk nod, and Tobin led them to the weapons vault.
“We’ll take a new tack,” Bell told the rest. “The rumrunner who got shot at Roosevelt Hospital told the docs that his name was Johnny. Johnny was about twenty-five years old, medium height, strong build, blond hair cut short, bunch of scars. It’s possible he’s not American. He didn’t do much talking at the hospital with a couple of holes in his leg, so no one heard whether he had an accent. Get out there and find his friends.”
The detectives trooped out quickly and in seconds Bell was alone, racking his brain for what else he could do. The front-desk man telephoned.
“Lady to see you, Mr. Bell.”
“What’s her name?”
“Won’t say,” the desk detective whispered. A steady fellow normally, with a pistol under his coat and a sawed-off shotgun clamped beside his knee, he sounded almost giddy. “She’s a knockout.”
Bell went to the reception room.
The most beautiful woman he had ever seen was smiling, facing the door, in a tailored traveling suit with an open jacket and a skirt that hung straight to the middle of exquisite calves. She had straw-blond hair, sea-coral-green eyes, and a musical voice.
“I’m no lady. I’m your wife.”
“Marion!”
Bell swept her into his arms. “I’m so happy to see you.” He held her so close, he could feel her heart racing. “What are you doing here? Of course, you came to see Dorothy. She’s at the hospital.”
“I’ll see Dorothy later. How are you?”
“Working an angle on the gang that shot Joe. Hard to tell how he’s doing, but he’s hanging in there.”
“I meant, how are you getting on?”
“Plugging away,” he answered quickly, uncharacteristically repeating himself. “Staying on top of it. The boys are terrific. Everyone’s pitching in, working at it overtime.”
Marion Morgan Bell had traveled three thous
and miles to examine her husband with a clear, cool gaze. She saw a shadow of apprehension in his eyes for the friend who was his mentor. She saw cold resolve to pursue Joe’s attackers. And she sensed that the man she loved with all her heart had somehow managed to brace every muscle in his body with hope.
“Good,” she said, greatly relieved. “I’ll go see Dorothy now.”
She held Bell’s hand as he walked her downstairs to put her in a taxi.
“I didn’t tell you I was coming because I didn’t know for sure when I’d arrive and I knew you’d have your hands full.”
“How did you get here so fast?”
“I caught a lift to Chicago on Preston and Josephine’s special.” Preston Whiteway owned a chain of newspapers. His wife, Josephine, was a famous aviatrix. Their private train, absurdly overpowered by a 4-8-2 ALCO locomotive, had set the latest speed record for Los Angeles to Chicago. “I just missed the Twentieth Century Limited, so I got Josephine to sneak me onto her pilot friend’s mail plane. The new De Havilland? You would have loved it. We averaged one hundred nine miles an hour.”
“I wasn’t aware that airmail planes had room for a passenger.”
“It was a tight squeeze. I was practically in the pilot’s lap, but he was so sweet about it.”
“I’ll bet.”
“We beat the Twentieth Century by four hours!”
“How long can you stay in New York?” Bell asked.
“The Four Marx Brothers asked me to direct a comedy in Fort Lee.”
“Aren’t they a vaudeville act?”
