The Gangster (Isaac Bell 9)

MR. SANTE RUSSO C/O VAN DORN DETECTIVE AGENCY

KNICKERBOCKER HOTEL, NEW YORK CITY

“Tell the haberdasher not to forget to bring a belt. And some shoes. And a handkerchief.”

Bell sat in an armchair while Russo bathed. It had been a long day and night since he left Marion in San Francisco. His wounded neck ached, as did his knees, elbows, shoulder, and hands, from the fight under the train. A knock at the door awakened him. The haberdasher had brought a tailor and a stock boy. They had Russo decked out in an hour.

The blaster marveled at the mirror.

“I am thank-a you very much, Signore Bell. I never look such.”

“You can thank me by taking a close look at this.”

Bell tossed the hollow red tube. Russo caught it on the fly, took one glance, and sat down hard on the bed. “Where you find this?”

“You tell me.”

“Not atta church. Not possible. Nothing left.”

“What do you mean?”

“Big-a bang. Big-a bang ever.”

“Are you saying that this stick could not possibly have been blown clear of that explosion?”

“Not possible.”

Which led Bell to the bigger question. “The sticks you disconnected . . . were they like this one?”

“Same stick. Where you get?”

“What do you mean the same? You just said it wasn’t possible.”

“Not same, same. Same-a . . . marca. Marca!” He pointed at the Stevens name printed on the tube. “Where you get?”

“Same brand?”

“Uhhh?”

“Label?”

Russo shrugged.

“Mark?”

“Si. Marca. Where you get?”

“Mano Nero,” said Isaac Bell.

“Same. Yes. Si. Mano Nero make-a overcharge. Like I say.”

On his way to the Ogden train depot Isaac Bell stopped at Van Dorn’s field offic

e. A wire had come in for him on the private telegraph line, Helen Mills reporting triumphantly, in Van Dorn cipher,

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