The Race (Isaac Bell 4)

“Is terrible, is terrible.”

Isaac Bell stood up from where he was crouching beneath the rail, brushed Stevens out of his way, and placed a firm hand on Platov’s shoulder. “I wouldn’t blame myself, if I were you, Mr. Platov.”

“Is me. Is captain of ship. Is my machine. Is my error. I have killed a man.”

“But you didn’t intend to. Nor did your amazing machine. It had some help.”

“What the devil are you talkin’ about?” said Stevens.

“The rail broke. That’s what made the machine jump it.”

“That’s Platov’s rail,” shouted Stevens. “That’s his responsibility. He’s the one who put it there. He’s the one responsible for it breakin’. Ah’m callin’ my lawyers. We’re goin’ to sue.”

“Look at this joint,” said Bell. He led Platov to the point where two lengths of rail had parted. Platov crouched beside him, lips pursed tighter and tighter. “Is bolts loosen-ed,” he said angrily.

“Loose?” howled Stevens. “’Cause you-all didn’t make it tight. . What are you doin’, sir?” he said, recoiling, as Bell shoved his fingers under his nose.

“Smell that and shut up.”

“I smell oil. So what?”

“Penetrating oil, to make it easier to unscrew the bolts.”

“No squeak,” Platov said miserably. “No noise.”

“The rail was sabotaged,” said Isaac Bell. “The fishtail bolts were loosened just enough to let the rail slip under pressure.”

“No!” said Platov. “I check rail every test. I check this morning.”

“Ah,” said Bell, “that’s what those are.” He knelt down and picked up some oil-soaked matchsticks. “That’s how he did it,” he mused. “Jammed these into the crack to damp the motion when you tested it. But they would have

fallen out when the rail started vibrating as the thermo engine approached. Diabolical.”

“Rail move,” said Platov. “Thermo engine fly away. . But why!”

“Do you have enemies, Mr. Platov?”

“Platov likes. Platov like-ed.”

“Perhaps back in Russia?” asked Bell, aware that Russian immigrants of every political stripe from radical to reactionary had fled their restive land.

“No. I leave friends, family. I send money home.”

“Then who’d do such a thing?” demanded Steve Stevens.

Isaac Bell said, “Could it be that someone didn’t want you to win the race with Mr. Platov’s amazing motor?”

“Ah’ll show ’em! Platov, make me a new motor!”

“Not possible. Take time. I am being sorry. You need to find ordinary gasoline motor. In fact, you need two motors, mounted on lower wings.”

“Two! What for?”

Platov spread his arms wide as if measuring Stevens’s girth. “For lifting heaviness. Powering equal to thermo engine. Two motors, mounted on lower wing.”

“Well, how the hell am Ah goin’ to find two motors, and who the hell is goin’ to install ’em, with Judd dead?”

“Judd’s assistants.”