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“How about you? Did you get a letter?”
“No,” the singer said. “Why do you ask?”
“If they are the same gang that kidnapped Maria Vella and are dynamiting businesses, they might be stepping up, trying to see how high they can make threats pay. Luisa is not as famous as you by a long shot. What if they’re experimenting with her to see how it works? Before they go after a really big fish.”
Caruso beamed. He had a big cheerful face with a high brow and it lit up bright as an electric headlight. “So suddenly I am a fish.”
“A big fish.”
“But of course.”
“A big fish makes a big meal,” said Bell. “They demanded four thousand from Luisa. What would they ask from you. Forty?”
“At least.”
“I will keep you posted. Archie will be standing by if you need help while I’m in San Francisco.”
“San Francisco?” Caruso smiled. “Isn’t your fiancée in San Francisco?”
“As a matter of fact, she is,” said Bell, and Caruso broke into a new song not likely to be heard at the opera:
“’Round your heart a feeling stealing
Comes to drive away regret,
When you know you’re not forgotten
By the girl you can’t forget.
“How will the beauteous Marion feel about you sharing a transcontinental railroad train with a fiery soprano?”
Bell joked back that Luisa’s maid, the formidable Rosa Ferrara, took firm charge of the coloratura’s virtue. But he was thinking that if the threat against Luisa Tetrazzini was a test of the Black Hand’s power, then when she refused to pay, they would go all out to make an example of her. And, he realized with sudden icy clarity, that the timing of the Black Hand letter was no coincidence. They knew she was traveling to San Francisco.
The farther from New York they attacked, the more threatening they would appear to future victims.
Shepherding Tetrazzini and her maid Rosa aboard the 20th Century Limited for the first leg across the continent, Isaac Bell kept a sharp eye on the gangs of immigrant laborers. Grand Central was in tumult—tracks and platforms shifted, steam shovels shaking the ground—as the demolition of the old station proceeded simultaneously with construction of the new terminal. Wally Kisley stood watch at the 20th’s gate, dressed like a drummer in a loud checkerboard suit and pretending to read a newspaper. Mack Fulton was wheeling a handcart of luggage about the platform. Archie Abbott glowered officiously in the blue and gray uniform of a New York Central conductor.
At Chicago’s LaSalle Station, where they arrived on time twenty hours later, Van Dorn operatives from the head office guarded their change of trains. They made it to Union Station and boarded the Overland Limited without threat or incident, though Bell was not happy to see newspaper headlines ballyhooing the singer’s journey across the continent. Dinner that evening was the Overland chef’s version of her famous dish, Turkey Tetrazzini, and, at Omaha, opera fans mobbed the platform and forced their way onto the train, shouting, “Brava, Diva! Brava, Diva!”
Tetrazzini held court in the club car, swathed in scarves and uncharacteristically silent. Rosa Ferrara pantomimed the explanation, patting her own throat and whispering, “La Voce! Signora is resting her voice.”
Isaac Bell kept a hand inside his coat, gripping his Colt, and watched the fans’ faces. How easy it would be for a man or even a woman to thrust a stiletto from the crowd. He paid attention to their eyes, looking out for a telltale flash of ice, or fire, until the conductors had shooed the last of them off the train.
Peace prevailed at Ogden, two days later, where a wire from the Denver office was waiting for Bell. The Denver Van Dorns had missed Russo by hours. They speculated that he was headed to San Francisco, but an Italian who fit his description might have bought a ticket in the opposite direction, east to Kansas City.
In other words, thought Bell, Russo could be anywhere—including right here in Ogden. Nine railroad lines converged in the junction city, which would appeal to a man on the run. The lone Van Dorn Ogden operative, an aging, retired sheriff, met the train. Bell authorized him to dispense cash to rail dicks to keep an eye out for Russo.
The Overland continued steaming west, over Great Salt Lake on the Lucin Cutoff Trestle, and across Nevada. At Reno, powerful pusher engines joined on, and the train commenced the steep climb into the Sierra Nevada. Ascending for forty miles, the tracks crested at the seven-thousand-foot elevation. The train entered the long, dark Summit Tunnel and suddenly stopped.
Moments before the clash of brakes, and startled cries of passengers thrown from their seats, Isaac Bell and Luisa Tetrazzini and Rosa Ferraro had been exclaiming at the spectacular views of mountains soaring to the sky and lakes sparkling below. Now, in the dark tunnel, all was confusion. It turned swiftly to chaos when a gun battle broke out at the front of the train, with the crack of pistols, the crash of rifles, and the roar of a 12-gauge as the Overland’s express messenger shot back.
Bell bolted from Tetrazzini’s state
room. “Lock the door behind me.”
10
“Gangway!”
