The Race (Isaac Bell 4)

“Looks like they spotted Harry Frost at Saint George.”

St. George, on Staten Island, was a resort town where the Kill Van Kull met the Upper Bay. It was home to grand hotels with beautiful views of New York’s harbor. The busy waterfront served ferries, tugs, coal barges, steam yachts, fishing boats, and oyster scows.

“How sure are you it was Frost?”

“You know some of my folks are in the oyster business.”

“I do,” said Bell without further comment.

For certain Staten Island families, the oyster business extended into realms of activity that the New York Police Department’s Harbor Patrol dubbed piracy. Little Eddie was straight as they came, and Bell would trust the kid with his life. But blood was thick, which made Eddie Tobin an unusually well-informed private detective when it came to the dark side of maritime traffic in the Port of New York.

“A feller who looked a lot like Harry Frost – big, red-faced, gray beard – was flashing money to hire a boat.”

“What kind of boat?”

“He said it had to be steady – wide like an oyster scow. And fast. Faster than the Harbor Patrol.”

“Did he find one?”

“A couple of really fast ones kinda disappeared since then. Both run by fellers who’ll do it for the dough. Frost – if it was Frost – was flashing plenty.”

Isaac Bell slapped his shoulder. “Good work, Eddie.”

The apprentice detective’s face, branded by a brutal gang beating that had nearly killed him, shifted into a lopsided smile. His eyes had survived, though one was partly shaded by a drooping lid, and they glowed with pride at the chief investigator’s compliment.

“Can I ask you what do you think it means, Mr. Bell?”

“If it was Frost – and not some crook trying to smuggle something off a ship or bust his pal out of jail and spirit him off to a friendlier jurisdiction – it means Harry Frost wants a stable gun platform and a fast getaway.”

Bell extracted his long legs from the Eagle’s driving nacelle and leaped out, landing on the grass like an acrobat. “Andy! On the jump!”

“Hold on!” the Aero Club certifier cried. “Where are you going, Mr. Bell? We haven’t even started the test.”

“Sorry,” said Bell. “We’ll have to complete this another time.”

“But you must hold your certificate to enter the race. It’s in the rules.”

“I’m not in the race. Andy! Paint her yellow.”

“Yellow?”

“Whiteway Yellow. The same yellow as Josephine’s. Tell her boys I said to give you as much dope as you need and to lend a hand with the brushes. I want my machine yellow by morning.”

“How are people going to tell you apart? Your machines look near the same already. It’s going to be very confusing.”

“That’s the idea.” said Isaac Bell. “I’m not making this easy for Harry Frost.”

“Yeah, but what if he shoots at you thinking you’re her?”

“If he shoots, he’ll reveal his position. Then he’s all mine.”

“What if he hits you?”

Isaac Bell didn’t answer. He was already beckoning his detectives and addressing them urgently. “Young Eddie’s turned up a heck of a clue. Station riflemen on boats on the East River and the Upper Bay and up the Hudson all the way to Yonkers. We’ve got Harry Frost where we want him.”

BOOK THREE

“up, up, a little bit higher”