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Bell dug in his heels, fighting to keep from sliding as he took the weight of both men. The rope jerked in his hands. Through it, he could feel Culp gather his full strength. Suddenly, the magnate whirled about. His leg levered up like a placekicker’s. His boot smashed into Branco’s gut and threw him backwards into the water.
The expressions on Branco’s mobile face flickered like a nickelodeon. Disbelief. Rage. Abject terror in the split second before the river sluiced him under the ice.
Isaac Bell leveled his gun at J. B. Culp, who was still holding the line the detective had thrown to him. “John Butler Culp, you are under arrest. Get on my boat and tie that rope around your ankles.”
The tall, broad-shouldered patrician glanced disdainfully at Bell’s gun. Then he pointed at the black water that had swallowed Antonio Branco.
“Evidence of your vague allegations against me is scanter than ever now. Besides, everyone saw Branco try to kill the President. They’ll all agree that drowning was a well-deserved death for the dago gangster.”
“But now I’ve got you for murder,” said Isaac Bell. “Saw it with my own eyes. I’ll bet, ten-to-one, that the judge and jury will agree on the electric chair for the American gangster.”
EPILOGUE
THE CARTEL BUSTER
One week later
The Van Dorn Detective Agency, Joe Petrosino’s NYPD Italian Squad, Captain Mike Coligney’s Tenderloin Precinct plainclothesmen, and the Treasury Department’s Secret Service landed on Antonio Branco’s suddenly leaderless bombers, extortionists, gorillas, counterfeiters, and smugglers like an army rolling up enemy flanks.
Isaac Bell listed the names of the arrested on the bull pen blackboard, which had been so hastily erased in the weeklong rush that his illustration for the Raven’s Eyrie raid shone through as if it were under tracing paper. Gorillas were superimposed on Culp’s gymnasium. Smugglers covered his gatehouse. Counterfeiters grouped on the power plant.
A cheer went up when Harry Warren and Archie Abbott telephoned good news at the end of the week. Vito Rizzo, whom Bell had arrested in the confessional, had jumped bail granted by a Tammany judge. Warren and Abbott had just hauled him out of a sewer pipe, which pretty much wrapped up the remains of Branco’s organization.
“Harry should have looked there in the first place,” said Walter Kisley.
“O.K., Helen,” said Grady Forrer. “Now’s the time. Give it to him.”
The detectives gathered around Isaac Bell. Helen Mills handed him a narrow box. It was wrapped in tissue paper and tied with a dainty ribbon. Bell shook it. It rattled. “Sounds like diamonds. Right size for a necklace, but I don’t tend to wear them.”
“Open it up, Isaac!”
“The boys at Storm King found it.”
Bell untied the ribbon, tore the tissue paper, and raised the lid. He could see that it had indeed been a necklace box. But inside, nestled in velvet, was a four-inch pocket knife.
“Branco dropped it on account of being punched hard,” said Eddie Edwards.
“Turn it over, Isaac. Read the inscription.”
They had attached a small silver plaque engraved with the words
PROPERTY OF CARTEL-BUSTER BELL
“This calls for a drink!” shouted many Van Dorns.
“Champagne!” said Helen Mills. “I’m buying in the cellar bar.”
The bull pen emptied in a flash.
Bell stayed there alone, opening and closing Antonio Branco’s knife.
“It’s time, Isaac.”
A very sad looking Marion Morgan stood in the doorway in traveling clothes.
Bell took her bag and they hurried across 42nd Street to Grand Central and found her state room on the 20th Century Limited to Chicago, the first leg on her trip back to San Francisco. “I’m going to miss you terribly,” she said.
