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“You must know where he went.”
“I don’t know.”
“When did he come?”
“Four days ago.”
“And you haven’t seen him since?”
“No. He left.”
Bell sat silent. He had learned a lot, though hardly enough. But he doubted that Rizzo knew any more. The “guy with the sign” could be Branco or not, but even if he was Branco, Rizzo couldn’t find him. Still, not a bad night’s work, and Bell decided he had to act as if Branco was attempting to make contact with J. B. Culp. For if he was, President Roosevelt was still in danger.
It was time to shift his Black Hand Squad up to Storm King.
“What do you want me to do, Boss?”
“I want you to raise your hands.”
“What?”
“My son, twelve inches from your head is the muzzle of a .45 automatic.”
“What?”
“Raise your hands.”
“What did you say?”
“In your fondest prayers, it won’t be a flesh wound. Elevate!”
“Who are you?”
“Bell. Van Dorn Agency.”
The Black Hand gangster shouted a string of curses.
Bell sprang from his booth, threw open the confessor’s door, and pressed his gun barrel inside Rizzo’s good ear.
“Such language in church!”
33
“I hope you weren’t seeking privacy, Mr. Bell, but there isn’t a restaurant man in New York who would seat such a beautiful woman out of sight.”
Rector’s, the big, bright, loud Broadway lobster palace, was just around the corner from the Knickerbocker Hotel. The proprietor, an old friend of Joseph Van Dorn’s from Chicago, had seated Marion Morgan at a highly visible banquet table ordinarily reserved for Broadway actresses.
Bell said, “Convey my apologies to any patrons whose view I block . . . We’ll start with champagne. Billecart-Salmon Brut Rosé.”
“I suspected as much, Mr. Bell. It’s on its way to the table.”
Bell and bottle arrived simultaneously.
“Billecart-Salmon Brut Rosé?” said Marion. “What are you celebrating?”
“Dinner with the prettiest girl in New York. And the news that we nailed one of Branco’s top lieutenants.”
“Congratulations.”
