The Race (Isaac Bell 4)

“Perhaps I misunderstood. Did Marco tell you that Di Vecchio’s daughter stabbed him last year?”

“That crazy woman almost killed him. She left a terrible scar on his arm.”

“Did Marco tell you why?”

“Of course. She was jealous. She wanted to marry him. But Marco wasn’t interested. In fact, he told me that her father was pushing her into it, hoping that Marco would rehire him.”

“Did Marco tell you that she accused him of being a thief?”

Josephine said, “That poor lunatic. All that talk about ‘stealing her heart’? She’s insane. That’s why they locked her up. It was all in her head.”

“I see,” said Bell.

“Marco had no feelings for her. He never did. Never. I can guarantee you that, Mr. Bell.”

Isaac Bell thought quickly. He did not believe her, but in order to protect her life he needed Josephine to trust him.

“Josephine,” he smiled warmly, “you are a very polite young lady, but we’re going to be working very closely. Don’t you think it’s time you call me Isaac?”

“Sure thing, Isaac. If you like.” She studied the detective’s face as if seeing him for the first time. “Do you have a girl, Isaac?”

“Yes. I am engaged to be married.”

She gave him a flirtatious grin. “Who’s the lucky lady?”

“Miss Marion Morgan of San Francisco.”

“Oh! Mr. Whiteway mentioned her. Isn’t she the lady who will be taking moving pictures?”

“Yes, she’ll be here soon.”

“So will Mr. Whiteway.”

Josephine glanced at the ladies’ watch she wore sewn to her flying jacket sleeve.

“Which reminds me, I’ve got to get back to the train. He’s sent a dress designer and a seamstress with another flying costume I’m supposed to wear for the newspaper reporters.” She raised her pretty eyes longingly to the sky. It was the soft blue color of the warm and windless early afternoons before strong sea breezes swept across Belmont Park and made it dangerous to fly.

“You look like you’d rather go flying,” said Bell.

“I sure as heck would. I don’t need a special costume. Did you see that white getup he made me wear the other day? Didn’t stay white long when we pulled the head off the Antoinette. This is all I need,” she said, indicating her worn flared leather gloves, wool jacket belted at her tiny waist, jodhpurs tucked into high laced boots. “Now Mr. Whiteway wants me to pose in a purple silk flying costume. And at night I’m supposed to wear long white dresses and black silk gloves.”

“I saw your outfit last night. Very becoming.”

“Thank you,” she said with another flirtatious grin. “But just between us chickens, Isaac, I couldn’t wait to get back into my overalls and help the boys fixing my machine. I’m not complaining. I know that Mr. Whiteway is anxious for me to draw any publicity I can to help the race.”

Bell walked her to the train yard. “Hasn’t he asked you to call him Preston instead of Mr. Whiteway?”

“All the time. But I don’t want him to get the wrong idea, using first names.”

After Bell got her safely aboard the bright yellow Josephine Special and in the care of the dress designer and the Van Dorn who guarded her train, he hurried to the headquarters car, which had a telegraph key linked to the detective agency’s private system.

“Anything yet from San Francisco?” he asked the duty officer.

“Sorry, Mr. Bell. Not yet.”

“Wire James Dashwood again.”

The young man reached for the key. “Ready, sir.”