the Spy (2010) Cussler Clive (uplifting books for women txt) 📖

identified the murderers Bell had shot as members of the Hell's Kitchen Gopher Gang. Warren caught up with Bell at the police station. The two Van Dorns conferred in a corner of the detectives' bull pen.

Harry, who would send these Bowery Boy hellions all the way to Camden?

Tommy Thompson, the Commodore,' bosses the Gophers.

Does he traffic in hired killings?

You name it, Tommy does it. But there was nothing to stop these guys from hiring out on their own-so long as they paid Tommy his cut. Did the Camden cops find big money on the bodies? Or should I ask, did they admit to finding big money on the bodies?

They claim they didn't, Bell replied. I made it clear that we are after bigger fish than thieving cops, and from the answer I got back I am reasonably certain that the amounts were small. Perhaps they would be paid afterward. Perhaps their boss kept the bulk of it.

Both, said Harry Warren. He thought hard. But it's strange, Isaac. These gang boys usually stick close to home. Like I say, Tommy would do anything for dough, but Gophers and the like tend not to venture out of their own neighborhoods. Half of them couldn't find Brooklyn, much less cross state lines.

Find out why they did this time.

I'll try and brace Weeks soon as I learn where he's recuperating and--

Don't brace him. Send for me.

O.K., Isaac. But don't count on much. No one's keeping books on a deal like this. For all we know, it could have been personal. Maybe MacDonald poked one too many guys in the snoot.

Have you ever heard of a New York gangster using a Butterflymesser?

You mean the Philippine flip-open knife?

Bell showed him the Butterflymesser.

Yeah, there was a Duster who joined the Army to get away from the cops, ended up fighting in the Filipino insurrection. He brought one back and killed a gambler with it who owed him money. At least, that's what they said, but I bet it was the cocaine. You know how dust' makes 'em paranoiac.

In other words, the Butterflymesser is not common in New York.

That Duster's was the only one I ever heard of.

BELL RACED TO NEW YORK.

He hired a driver and mechanic to drive his Locomobile back while he took the train. A police launch, provided by Detective George, who was delighted to help him leave Camden, ran him across the Delaware River to Philadelphia, where he caught a Pennsylvania Railroad express. When he arrived at the Knickerbocker Hotel, light in the afternoon sky still glowed on the green copper roof, but nearer the street the red brick, French renaissance faASSade was growing dim.

He telephoned Joseph Van Dorn long-distance in Washington.

Excellent job on the Frye Boys, Van Dorn greeted him. I just had lunch with the Attorney General, and he is tickled pink.

Thank John Scully. I only held his coat.

How much longer to wrap up the Langner suicide?

This is bigger than Langner, Bell retorted, and he told Van Dorn what had transpired.

Four murders? Van Dorn asked incredulously.

One for sure-the one I witnessed. One likely-Langner.

Depending upon how much credence you put in that crackpot Cruson.

And the other two we have to investigate.

All connected by battleships? Van Dorn asked, still sounding incredulous.

Every victim worked in the dreadnought program.

If they're all victims, who's behind it?

I don't know.

I don't suppose you know why either.

Not yet.

Van Dorn sighed. What do you need, Isaac?

Van Dorn Protection Services to guard Farley and Wheeler.

To whom do I bill those services?

Put it on the cuff 'til we figure who the client is, Bell answered drily.

Very amusing. What else do you need?

BELL ISSUED INSTRUCTIONS to the crew of operatives Van Dorn put at his call-temporarily, as his call with the boss had made clear. Then he took the subway downtown and a trolley across the Brooklyn Bridge. John Scully met him in a Sand Street lunchroom a stone's throw from the fortresslike gates of the Brooklyn Navy Yard.

The cheap restaurant was starting to fill up as day shifts ended at the yard and surrounding factories, and boilermakers, drop forgers, tank testers, reamers, and patternmakers, machinists, coppersmiths, pipe fitters, and plumbers rushed in for supper.

Scully said, Near as I can discover, Kent's on the up-and-up. All he does is work and work some more. Devoted as a missionary. I'm told he hardly ever leaves his drawing table. He's got a bedroom attached to his drawing loft, where he stays most nights.

Where does he stay the rest of the nights?

Hotel St. George when a certain lady from Washington comes to town.

Who is she?

Well, that's the funny thing. She's the daughter of your exploding-piano guy.

Dorothy Langner?

What do you think of that?

I think Farley Kent is a lucky man.

THE BROOKLYN NAVY YARD surrounded a large bay of the East River between the Brooklyn Bridge and the Williamsburg Bridge. Designated a battleship yard, and officially named the New York Navy Yard, its factories, foundries, dry docks, and shipways employed six thousand ship workers. Tall brick walls and iron gates enclosed twice the acreage of the Washington Navy Yard. Isaac Bell showed his Navy pass at the Sand Street Gate, which was flanked by statues of eagles.

He found Farley Kent's drawing loft in a building dwarfed by enormous ship sheds and gantry cranes. Night had blackened the high windows, and the draftsmen worked by electric lamps. Kent was young, barely out of his twenties, and deeply shaken by Alasdair Mac-Donald's murder. He mourned that MacDonald's death would cripple America's development of large-ship turbines. It will be a long while before the United States Navy will be able to install advanced turbines in our dreadnoughts.

What is Hull 44? Bell asked.

Kent looked away. Hull 44?

Alasdair MacDonald implied that it was important.

I'm afraid I don't know what you are talking about.

He spoke freely about Arthur Langner and Ron Wheeler and Chad Gordon. And about you, Mr. Kent. Clearly, you five men worked closely. I am sure you know what Hull 44 means.

I told you. I do not know what you are talking