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Bell joined the laughter. Then he said, “Both heelers were finally killed with a stiletto.”
“I didn’t see that in the paper.”
“You’ll see it tomorrow. Eddie Edwards just spoke with the coroner. The papers will go wild when they see all three victims connected by a stiletto.”
“How about connected by a Tammany boss under investigation who’s killing off witnesses?” asked Kisley.
“Not likely. Bribing witnesses and jurors is more a boss’s strategy. But here’s the thing that strikes me. Look at the order of when they were killed—each stiletto victim stood a rung higher on the ladder of political power—Ghiottone, at the bottom; then Quiller, a heeler and block captain, one step up; then Lehane, the district election leader’s heeler. Makes me wonder who’s next.”
“District leader?”
“More likely his heeler.”
Helen Mills rushed into the bull pen. Detectives straightened neckties, smoothed hair, and brushed crumbs from their vests. She spotted Bell and handed him a small envelope.
“What’s this?”
“Claypool.”
Bell slit it open with his knife. Out fell a photograph, so recently developed it smelled of fixer. The picture was slightly blurred, as Claypool was turning his face, but it was him for sure, and anyone who knew the camera-shy lawyer would recognize him.
“Where’d you get this?”
“I snapped it. Some girls from school came into town. We pretended we were tourists, and I snapped him while snapping them, when he left his office for lunch.”
Bell slipped it into his memo book. “Nicely done, Helen. Take the girls to Rector’s Lobster Palace. Tell Charlie it’s on me and I said to give you the best table in the house.”
Detectives watched her leave.
Fulton said, “Quiller four days ago. Then Sullivan, Lehane’s heeler, yesterday.”
“Working their way up to a full-fledged alderman,” said Kisley.
Isaac Bell put down the knife and picked up his fountain pen. “Which of them are under investigation?”
“Which ain’t?” asked Kisley, holding up the Times with a front page column headline that read
TWO ALDERMEN HELD IN BRIBERY SCANDAL
“Of the forty crooks on the Board of Aldermen, James Martin’s in deepest at the moment. Alderman Martin was always looking for patronage. Ten years if convicted, and sure to be convicted. Word is, he won’t make bail.”
“Why can’t an alderman make bail? The whole point of serving on the Boodle Board is to get rich.”
“Broke,” called Scudder Smith, who was nursing a flask in the corner. “Lost it all to a gal and poker.”
Bell said, “Are you sure about that, Scudder?”
Scudder Smith, a crackersjack New York reporter before Joseph Van Dorn persuaded him to become a detective, said, “You can take it to the bank.”
“Hey, where you going, Isaac?” asked Kisley.
The tall detective was already on his feet, pocketing the knife and his memo book, clapping on his hat, and striding out the door. “Criminal Courts Building. See if the gal and the gamblers left Alderman Martin anything to trade for bail.”
Midway through the door, he paused.
“Harry?”
“What’s up?” asked Harry Warren.
