The Bootlegger (Isaac Bell 7)

“Wife? Who’s your wife?”

“Mrs. Isaac Bell.”

“It’s Himself!”

The house detectives escorted them solicitously to the elevator. Bell stopped dead when he saw a newspaper.

MAMMOTH HURRICANE PUMMELS SEABOARD

NEW YORK SPARED WHEN STORM SHIFTS EAST

STEAM YACHT FOUNDERS OFF BERMUDA

HEIRESS FEARED DROWNED

Bad luck? Or divine retribution? It seemed, Bell thought, harsh punishment for falling in with the wrong crowd.

“Poor Fern,” said Asa. “She was so nice.”

“I’m not sure Fern would like to be remembered as ‘nice.’”

“Fräulein Grandzau liked her.”

“So did I,” said Bell. “I’ve always liked characters.”

• • •

BELL LED ASA down the carpeted hall to Marion’s door.

He was suddenly aware that every bone and muscle ached. His left arm throbbed like a burning stick. He could feel the sea pounding, as if he had never left the boat, and could hear the Libertys roaring in his ears.

“Almost home, Asa.”

He squared his shoulders and knocked.

A peephole opened. A beautiful sea-coral-green eye peered through it and grew wide.

Bell grinned. “Joe sent me.”

Marion flung open the door. “You’re all right!”

“Tip-top.”

She threw her arms around him.

“Look out, you’ll get dirty.”

“I don’t care . . . Who’s this? . . . Oh, you must be the brave Asa who saved Joe. Come in. Come in, both of you.”

Pauline was behind her, bright and perfumed in a thick terry robe.

“Asa, are you all right?”

Asa swayed and caught himself on the doorknob. “Yes, ma’am. Tip-top.”

“Go take a bath.” She pointed down the hall. “There’s a robe on the hook.”

Joseph Van Dorn was waiting in a wicker wheelchair. Dorothy stood beside him, her eyes at peace.