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“What if the horse was sold to a New York coal wagon teamster after you shoed him?”
“Well, I’ll be,” said Danis, his red face lighting in recognition.
“What do you mean?”
“His name was Redman.”
“Who?”
“Big, strong quarry horse. Seventeen hands. Strong as a mule. Good-natured, too. Just the sweetest temper.”
“Who owns him?”
“Fellow came in all in a rush. He had just bought him, didn’t realize he had a loose shoe. Didn’t know a thing about horses. I wondered how he’d ever hitch up the wagon. I figured I’d lend a hand, but Redman was such a sweet-natured animal they worked it out.”
“Did you get his name?”
“Redman.”
“The man.”
“No. He was a foreigner. Had a real thick accent, and h
e was in a heck of a rush. Gave me two bucks and ran off.”
“Was that here?”
“No, no, no. Not at the fair. Up in Jersey City . . . Wall Street? Yeah, that makes sense.”
“What do you mean?”
“Last I saw, they were heading toward the ferry.”
Asa Somers reported to Grady Forrer and, a while later, he overheard Mr. Bell on the telephone. “We traced the horseshoe to a New Jersey farrier. I’m sorry, Dick, but it looks like a dead end.”
• • •
ISAAC BELL said good-bye to Inspector Condon and hung up the telephone, wondering what next. He was painfully aware that he needed a lucky break or two. But, so far, they weren’t flocking his way.
He noticed Somers skulking about. “Why the long face, Asa?”
“The horseshoe didn’t help?”
“What? No, don’t worry about it. We have to try everything to find what works.”
“I wish mine had.”
“I could say the same about Trucks O’Neal and the Black Bird motors. It’s the nature of the game. You just keep plugging away.”
“Can I have a gun?”
“Not yet.”
“I heard a rumor from some of the boys that when you were an apprentice you bought your own derringer.”
“Like most rumors, that’s not entirely true.”
Somers looked at Bell inquiringly.
