Celere thumbed deeper into the paper, looking for his description. The state militia was being called out. His heart skipped a beat until he read that it was to quell a labor strike at Hannibal’s cement plant. The strike was blamed on “foreigners,” egged on by “Italians,” who were seeking protection from the Italian consulate in St. Louis. Thank God he was disguised as a Russian, Celere thought, only to look up at the grim-faced businessmen lowering their newspapers to stare at him from across the aisle. He did not look Italian in his Platov getup, but there was no denying it made him look like the most foreign passenger in the chair car. Or had they already seen a story about the murder and a description of his curly hair and mutton chops, his ever-present slide rule, and his snappy straw boater with its stylish red hatband?
The nearest leaned across the aisle. “Hey, there!” he addressed him bluntly. “You. . mister?”
“Are you speaking to me, sir?”
“You a labor striker?”
Celere weighed the risk of being a foreign agitator versus a murderer on the run and chose to deal with the more immediate threat. “I am being aviation mechanician in Whiteway Cup Cross-Country Air Race.”
Their suspicious expressions brightened like sunshine.
“You in the race? Put ’er there, feller!”
Soft pink palms thrust across the aisle, and they shook his hand vigorously.
“When are all you getting to Hannibal?”
“After thunderstorming over.”
“Let’s hope we don’t get tornadoes.”
“Say, if you was a bettin’ man, who would you put your money on to win?”
Celere held up the newspaper. “Is saying here that Englishman pusher is best.”
“Yeah, I read that in Chicago, too. But you’re right there in the thick of it. What about Josephine? That little gal still behind?”
Celere froze. His eye had fallen on a telegraphed story down the page.
MURDER AND THEFT IN SHADOW OF STORM
“Josephine still behind?”
“Is catching up,” Celere mumbled, reading as fast as he could:
An air race mechanician was found diabolically murdered at the Columbia fairground with his throat slashed, the victim of a robbery. According to Sheriff Lydem, the murderer could well be a labor agitator on the run from the cement strike in Missouri, and willing to stop at nothing to facilitate his escape. The victim’s body was not discovered for many hours due to the violence of last night’s storm.
Marco Celere looked up with a broad smile for the businessmen.
“Josephine is catching up,” he repeated.
The train trundled loudly onto an iron-girder bridge, and the sky suddenly spread wide over a broad river.
“Here’s the Mississippi. I read birdmen wear cork vests when they fly over bodies of water. Is that so?”
“Is good for floating,” said Celere, gazing through the girders at the famed waterway. Brown and rain-swollen, flecked with dirty whitecaps, it rolled sullenly past the town of Hannibal, whose frame houses perched on the far side.
“I thought was wider,” he said.
“Wide enough, you try crossing it without this here bridge. But you want to see real wide, you get down below Saint Louis where it meets up with the Missouri.”
“And if you want to see really, really wide, wide as the ocean, you take a look where the Ohio comes in. Say, mister, what are you doing on the train when the race is back in Illinois?”
Suddenly they were staring again, suspecting they’d been hoodwinked.
“Scouting route,” Celere answered smoothly. “Am getting off train in Hannibal and going back to race.”
“Well, I sure do envy you, sir. Judging by the smile on your face, you are one lucky man to be part of that air race.”
“Happy being,” Celere replied. “Very happy being.”
A good plan always made him happy. And he had just come up with a beauty. Kindly, bighearted, crazy Russian Platov would volunteer to help the baronet’s mechanicians by filling in for poor murdered Chief Mechanician Ruggs.
Steve Stevens would complain, but the hell with the fat fool. Dmitri Platov would help and help and help until he had finished the job on Eddison-Sydney-Martin’s infernal headless pusher once and for all.
30
ISAAC BELL SAID, “Eustace, I’ve been watching you and you don’t look happy. Are you homesick?”
They were getting the machine ready to take off from Topeka, Kansas. The Chicago kid he had hired to help Andy Moser was pouring gasoline through layers of cheesecloth to strain out any water that may have contaminated the supply. It was a daily ritual performed before mixing in the castor oil that lubricated the Gnome engine.
“No, sir, Mr. Bell,” Weed answered hastily. But judging by the expression knitting his brow and pursing his lips, Bell thought something was very much wrong.
“Miss your girl?”
“Yes, sir,” he blurted. “I sure do. But. . You know.”
“I do know,” Bell said sincerely. “I’m often away from my fiancée. I’m lucky on this case, as she’s around filming the race for Mr. Whiteway, so I get to see her now and then. What’s your girl’s name?”
“Daisy.”
“Pretty name. What’s her last name?”
“Ramsey.”
“Daisy Ramsey. There’s a mouthful. . But wait. If you marry, she’ll be Daisy Weed.” Bell said it with a grin that coaxed a wan smile out of the boy.
“Oh, yes. We kid about that.” The smile faded.
Bell said, “If something is troubling you, son, is there anything I can do to help?”
“No, thank you, sir, I’m O.K.”
Eddie Edwards, the white-haired head of the Kansas City office, approached Bell, muttering, “We got trouble.”
Bell hurried to the hangar car with him.
Andy Moser, who had been working nearby, tightening the Eagle’s wing-stay turnbuckles, said, “You sure you’re O.K., Eustace? Mr. Bell seems concerned about you.”
“His eyes go through you like iced lightning.”
“He’s just looking out for you.”
Eustace Weed prayed that Andy was right. Because what Isaac Bell had spotted on his face was his sudden horrified realization of what they would force him to do with the copper tube of water sealed with paraffin wax.
He had been hoping that the criminals threatening Daisy had changed their minds. No one approached him in Peoria or Columbia, or Hannibal, Missouri, to tell him what to do with it. After Hannibal, where the race crossed the Mississippi River, he assumed it would happen in Kansas City. It was the only real city on the map since Chicago, and he had developed a picture in his mind of big-city saloonkeepers knowing one another but disdaining their counterparts in small towns. So he had dreaded Kansas City.
But no one had approached him there, either, nor when the race pulled up on the far side of the Missouri River. There had even been a letter from Daisy waiting for him, and she sounded fine. This very morning, camped by the Kansas River outside Topeka, preparing Mr. Bell’s machine to head south and west over the empty plains toward Wichita, the terrified mechanician had begun to wonder, would the whole nightmare simply go away? Trouble was, he couldn’t stop thinking about it. And just now, while Mr. Bell watched him strain the gas before mixing the fuel, Eustace Weed suddenly knew that Harry Frost’s man would order him to drop the tube in Isaac Bell’s flying-machine fuel tank.
He had figured out how that little copper tube would make Bell’s flying machine smash. It was as ingenious as it was horrific. The Eagle’s Gnome rotary engine was fuel lubricated. It had no oil reservoir, no crankcase, no pump to maintain oil pressure – in fact, no oil at all. The castor oil suspended in the gasoline did the job of oil, greasing the passage of the piston through each of the cylinders. It mixed in readily because castor oil dissolved in gasoline.