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29
Expropriation,” said Wish Clarke, “is the word favored in the revolutionary lexicon.”
“Bank robbers!” said John D. Rockefeller. “We must inform the police . . . Officer!” He stepped into the street, waving at a Cossack.
“No,” said Isaac Bell, blocking him and forcing his arm down. “They’ve got twenty men around the square and on the roofs. The cops can’t stop it. They’ll only make it bloodier.”
“You should not have given them that gun.”
“It would appear that way,” Wish said serenely.
“Speaking of the devil . . .” said Bell.
The tall detective drew his revolver and herded Edna, Nellie, and Rockefeller toward the nearest street out of the square as Wish forged ahead, clearing a path for their retreat.
“Here he comes.”
A two-horse phaeton charged into the square.
A gunner and a belt feeder hunched over the Maxim gun. They had perched the Sokolov mount up on the high back bench where the driver ordinarily sat. The revolutionary handling the reins had shifted to the lower front bench.
The gunner triggered the weapon with an unearthly roar.
Shooting over the driver and horses’ heads, he tried to aim at the bank carriage. People ran from the noise, which was amplified and echoed by the buildings, and fled the galloping horses, whose iron shoes threw sparks from the cobblestones.
The phaeton leaned into a sharp turn, tall wheels skidding. Bell hoped the weight of the machine gun would capsize the inherently unstable vehicle. But just as it seemed it would spill the attackers to the ground, the wheels slid on the cobbles and it righted itself.
A bomb sailed from a roof, trailing the smoke of a fuse. It detonated in the air with a flash and a loud bang that scattered the Cossacks on rearing mounts. A second bomb flew from a roof. It landed on the cobblestones, bounced under the team pulling the lead money carriage, and exploded, blowing open the doors of the carriage.
Men, women, and animals screamed.
The revolutionaries dove into the maelstrom. Firing pistols, they ran to the carriage. One man leaped into it and threw bulging bank sacks to his partners. The Maxim gun kept firing.
The phaeton lurched and skidded and the gunner and belt feeder held on by clinging to the weapon. Bullets aimed at the bank carriage raked the rooftops instead. Then the driver got his animals under control and pulled up short. Still firing—the weapon had never ceased roaring since they entered the square—the gunner lowered his barrel. The torrent of flying lead stitched a path down the building’s stone walls.
The Maxim exploded with a thunderous Boom! and a ball of fire.
“Darn,” smiled Wish Clarke.
Sheets of flame enveloped the gunner and the belt feeder, the driver and the phaeton itself. The horses bolted. The burning wagon raced across the square and tipped over suddenly. The traces parted. The horses galloped away.
“What happened?” shouted Rockefeller.
“Their gun blew up,” said Wish Clarke. The detective shook his head in mock dismay. “The medicos keep telling me that demon rum plays havoc with one’s powers of memory. I hate to admit they’re right, but it appears that when I filled the Maxim’s cooling sleeve, I must have mixed up the cans of water and gasoline.”
“Railyards,” said Isaac Bell. “Now!”
“But there is no train until tomorrow,” Rockefeller protested.
Bell gripped his arm. “Social Democrat revolutionaries just tried to rob a Russian State Bank. Soldiers were injured. The revolutionaries escaped. The authorities will surround the city and close the roads to capture the criminals and recover the money.”
“But there is no train—”
“We’re taking a different train.”
—
“Never, never, never jump on the back of a moving railcar,” said Isaac Bell. “Always hop the front of the car.”
