TWO VAN DORN PROTECTIVE SERVICES operators guarding the roof of the armory were leaning in the notches of the parapet, gazing at the sky. Behind them, a broad-shouldered, heavyset figure emerged silently from the penthouse that covered the stairs, circled a skylight and another penthouse that enclosed the elevator machinery, and crept close.
“If I were Harry Frost coming up the stairs I just climbed,” his voice grated like a coal chute, “you boyos would be dead men.”
The PS operators whirled around to see “Himself,” the grim-visaged Mr. Joseph Van Dorn.
“And the murdering swine would be free to kill the lady birdman the agency is being paid good money to protect.”
“Sorry, Mr. Van Dorn.” Milago ducked his head contritely.
Lewis had an excuse. “We thought the National Guard soldiers guarded their own stairs.”
“The Sunday soldiers of the National Guard,” the livid Van Dorn growled sarcastically, “emerge from their mamas’ homes to defend the city of Chicago against rioting labor strikers and foreign invaders from Canada. They wouldn’t recognize Harry Frost if they met him in an alley. Nor would they know how to conduct their business in an alley. That’s why you’re here.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Van Dorn,” they chorused.
“Do you have your posters?”
They whipped out Harry Frost wanted posters, with and without a beard.
“Do you have your pistols?”
They opened their coats to show holstered revolvers.
“Stay sharp. Watch the stairs.”
DOWN ON THE PARADE GROUND, Marco Celere – disguised as Dmitri Platov – stood shoulder to shoulder with the mechanicians who had come ahead on their support trains. The mechanicians were anxiously scanning the sky for signs of more bad weather.
Celere clapped enthusiastically when Steve Stevens landed first – the least Platov would be expected to do. But all the while that he was smiling and clapping, he imagined fleets of flying machines mowing down the soldiers with machine guns and demolishing their red brick armory by raining dynamite from the sky.
25
THE SLAUGHTER FROM THE HEAVENS that Marco Celere dreamed of would demand flying machines not yet built. Such warships of the sky would have two or three, even four, motors on enormous wings and carry many bombs for long distances. Smaller, nimble escort machines would protect them from counterattack.
Celere was fully aware that his was not a new idea. Visionary artists and cold-blooded soldiers had long imagined speedy airships capable of carrying many passengers, or many bombs. But other men’s ideas were his lifeblood. He was a sponge, as Danielle Di Vecchio had screamed at him. A thief and a sponge.
So what if Dmitri Platov, the fictional Russian aeroplane mechanician, machinist, and thermo engine designer, was his only original invention? An Italian proverb said it alclass="underline" Necessity is the mother of invention. Marco Celere needed to destroy his competitors’ flying machines to guarantee that Josephine won the race with his machine. Who better to sabotage them than helpful, kindly “Platov”?
Celere was truly an expert toolmaker, with a peculiar talent for picturing the finished product at the outset. The gift had set him above common machinists and mechanicians when he apprenticed at age twelve in a Birmingham machine shop – a position that his father, an immigrant restaurant waiter, had procured by seducing the owner’s wife. When metal stock was put on a lathe to be turned into parts, the other boys saw a solid block of metal. But Marco could visualize the finished part even before the stock started spinning. It was as if he could see what waited inside. Releasing the part waiting inside was a simple matter of chiseling away the excess.
It worked in life, too. He had seen inside Di Vecchio’s first monoplane a vision of Marco Celere himself winning contracts to build warplanes to defeat Italy’s archenemy, Turkey, and seize the Turkish Ottoman Empire’s colonies in North Africa.
Soon after the machine he copied had smashed, he saw vindication “waiting inside” a luxurious special train that rolled into San Francisco’s First California Aerial Meet. Off stepped Harry Frost and his child bride. The fabulously wealthy couple – the heavy bomber and the nimble escort – richer by far than the King of Italy – had given him a second chance to sell futuritial war machines.
Josephine, desperate to fly aeroplanes and starved for affection, was seduced without difficulty. Remarkably observant, decisive, and brave in the air, she was easily led down on earth, where decisiveness turned impulsive, and where she seemed curiously unable to predict the consequences of her actions.
Along had come the Whiteway Cup Cross-Country Air Race to prove his aeroplanes were the best. They had to be. He had copied only the best. He had no doubt that Josephine would win with her flying skill and with him sabotaging the competition. Winning would vindicate him in the eyes of the Italian Army. Past smashes would be forgotten when his warplanes vanquished Turkey, and Italy took Turkey’s colonies in North Africa.
Two yellow specks appeared in the distance: Josephine, with Isaac Bell right behind and above, following like a shepherd. The crowd began cheering “Josephine! Josephine!” Whiteway was a genius, Celere thought. They truly loved their Sweetheart of the Air. When she won the cup, everyone in the world would know her name. And every general in the world would know whose flying machine had carried her to victory.
If Steve Stevens managed to finish, all the better – Celere would sell the Army heavy bombers as well as nimble escorts. But that was a very big if. Uncontrollable vibration, due to a failure to synchronize the twin engines, was shaking it to pieces. If Stevens smashed before he finished, Celere could blame it on the farmer’s weight and poor flying. He had to admit that, by now, young Igor Sikorsky would have solved the vibration problem, but it was beyond Celere’s talents. And it was too late in the game to steal those ideas even if Sikorsky were here instead of in Russia. If only the thermo engine he had bought in Paris had worked out, but that, too, had been beyond his talents.
THE VAN DORN PROTECTIVE SERVICES operators guarding the roof of the armory had kept a sharp eye on the door from the stairs, as instructed by Joseph Van Dorn, though every cheer that went up had drawn their attention to the parade ground and bleachers below and the next machine descending from the sky.
Now they lay unconscious at Harry Frost’s feet, surprised by hammer blows of his fists after he sprang not from the stairs’ penthouse but from the elevator’s, where he had hidden since dawn.
Frost steadied a Marlin rifle on a square stone between two notches in the parapet and waited patiently for Josephine’s head to completely fill the circle of his telescopic sight. She was coming straight at him, preparing to circle the armory as required by the rules, and he could see her through the blur of her propeller. This might not be as satisfying a kill as strangling her, but the Van Dorns had left him no opportunity to get close. And there were times a man did best to take what he could get. Besides, the telescope made it seem as if they were facing each other across the dinner table.
THE INSTANT ISAAC BELL saw the stone notches in the armory’s crenellated parapet, he rammed his control wheel forward as hard as he could and made the Eagle dive. That roof was precisely where he would lay an ambush. The rules of the race guaranteed that Frost’s victim would have to fly so close, he could hit her with a rock.