The Bootlegger Clive Cussler (that summer book .txt) 📖

4

THE COP GUARDING the murdered rumrunner had not seen the man who knocked him for a loop. That was all that Bell could learn from the angry police detectives swarming the hospital. A uniformed officer gave him his hat, which he had found in the stairwell. His derringer was still in it. Bell thanked him with a double sawbuck and raced back to Bellevue Hospital.

Joe Van Dorn was finally out of surgery.

The exhausted surgeons made no promises. “If he makes it through the next hour, he’ll have a chance in the hour after that. At least he’s strong. I can’t recall a man his age so fit.”

“Heart like a cathedral bell!” boomed Captain Novicki with a reassuring glance at Dorothy Van Dorn.

Dorothy asked, “How many bullets?”

“Madam,” said the surgeon. “This is hardly the time nor place, nor a topic to discuss with a woman.”

“My father was a scientist and an engineer. We discussed his work daily. I am asking you how many bullets struck my husband, where the bullets hit, and their effect on his condition.”

The chief surgeon looked at Isaac Bell.

Bell said, “Answer her.”

“All right. He was struck three times. One creased his skull and almost certainly produced a concussion. Two more passed through him. One pierced his upper arm, fortunately missed the bone, but severed the artery. The other punctured his chest. They were small bore rounds with a hard covering to take the grooves in the rifled barrel, which increased their penetrating power, so neither lodged in his body . . . Shall I go on?”

“How did he survive a severed artery?”

“The petty officer on the Coast Guard cutter arrested the hemorrhage by tourniquet.”

“And the bullet through his chest?”

The surgeon shook his head. “We did what we could. To some extent, the bullet pushed blood vessels, tendons, and ligaments aside. Immersion in salt water reduces the probability of septic infection. And the petty officer poured iodine over and around the wounds. We are of the impression that the cold seawater had the effect of slowing his heartbeat and lowering his blood pressure at that critical moment, which might possibly explain the miracle that he is alive.”

“Thank you, Doctor. May I see him now?”

“You may sit with him. I doubt he’ll speak yet. If he does, don’t tax him.”

Dorothy went into the room. A disapproving nurse moved from the chair beside the bed to a chair in the corner.

Bell and Novicki waited outside.

“Doctor?” Bell called as the surgeon was leaving. “You mentioned he was in the water. Any idea how he got out?”

“They said a Coast Guardsman dived in after him.”

Captain Novicki watched the surgeon shamble away. “There’s a man who needs a stiff drink and a good night’s sleep. Did you have any luck?”

“Caught up with one of the crew from the rum boat they were chasing. He died.”

“Good.”

Not at all good, thought Bell. The dead man could shed no light on his gang. He said, “We found the boat shot up. That’s about it. I’ll try to interview the Coast Guard people in the morning.”

“Get some sleep, Isaac. I’ll stay here.”

“In a while.”

•   •   •

“ISAAC! HE’S AWAKE. He’s asking for you.”

Bell stepped silently into the room. Van Dorn lay flat on his back, his eyes closed, his cheeks oddly slack, and it took Bell a moment to realize they had shaved his beard and whiskers. His head was bandaged from crown to eyebrows. The biceps of his left arm wore another bandage, as did the crook of his right elbow where the tubing for blood transfusions had been inserted into his vein. Just visible below the hospital bedsheet was the top of an enormous dressing that encircled his chest. His eyes were closed. His lips were moving.

“Put your ear to him,” Dorothy whispered. “He’s trying to speak to you.”

Bell leaned close to do as she asked.

“Isaac.”

“I’m here, sir.”

“Listen.”

“Right here.”

“You must . . .”

Bell looked at Dorothy. “We shouldn’t tax him. He should rest.”

“Listen!” she shot back. “He won’t rest until he talks to you.”

Isaac Bell spoke in normal tones. “I’m here, Joe. What do you want me to do?”

“Protect the outfit,” Van Dorn whispered.

“Yes, sir.”

“It’s in worse shape than I am.”

“You’ll be fine.”

“Stop lying. I’m touch and go. So’s the outfit . . . I lost Justice.”

Bell knew he meant his longtime contract to help the Department of Justice pursue bank robbers, motorcar thieves, and white slavers across state lines. He was not surprised. The Bureau of Investigation had greatly increased its force of special agents during the war and consequently was no longer willing to pay for nationwide investigations by a transcontinental detective agency.

Bell said, “We knew that was coming.”

Van Dorn whispered, “Treasury threw me a bone.”

He meant, of course, the Coast Guard contract that had gotten him shot. A favor from one of Joe’s many Washington friends, it would be canceled tomorrow morning when officials demanded to know why a civilian detective was in a gunfight on a Coast Guard vessel. No matter that investigating who in the Guard took bribes from bootleggers was for the good of the Service, the contract was lost.

But that was the least of the agency’s troubles.

Bell leaned closer.

“How’d you make out with Ellis and Clayton?”

“They’re leaving town.”

“Iceberg,” Van Dorn whispered.

The nurse jumped up. “That’s enough. He’s hallucinating.”

“No he’s not,” said Bell. He nodded sharply at Novicki to get the nurse out of his way. Van Dorn was saying that his life’s work was threatened by the corrupting effect of Prohibition. Two house dicks taking bribes were only the tip of the iceberg. The new men replacing detectives lost to the war and the flu pandemic were susceptible to corruption. And when the word about him firing Ellis and Clayton got around, how many Protective Services boys would quit to sign on with less scrupulous agencies with lower standards?

“Isaac.”

“Right here.”

“I’m counting on you . . . Protect the agency.”

“Rest easy,” said Bell. But he had his work cut out for him. It was less a matter of protecting the agency than saving it.

5

HAIG