The Race Clive Cussler (new books to read txt) 📖

skillfully reloading and firing repeatedly. Only the short range of the shotgun saved Bell from being hit as Celere lined up again to drop the bomb.

Bell saw him reach for the arming wire that would close the first electric switch.

He wrenched the Eagle onto a collision course. He saw sudden panic on Celere’s face. About to ram into the side of the yellow monoplane, Bell turned at the last second to cross directly in front. Celere whirled the double-barreled lupa, tracking Bell until Bell was so close he could see deep inside its gaping muzzles.

When he could not miss, Marco Celere triggered both barrels.

Isaac Bell saw flame jet from them.

A torrent of buckshot roared at him, and the tall detective knew that his tactic had worked. He had won the battle. Celere’s whirling propeller blocked the buckshot. The speeding lead shattered the eight-foot wooden airscrew into splinters. The yellow monoplane staggered in the air. Celere tried to volplane by gaining speed with a diving turn. The weight of the dynamite was too much for the suddenly powerless flying machine. Instead of turning, it began to spin. One wing brushed the parapet of the Inquirer Building and snapped off.

Momentum lost, the wrecked monoplane tumbled toward Market Street.

Isaac Bell held his breath. He could only pray that he had distracted Celere sufficiently to keep him from arming the dynamite. If he hadn’t—if Celere did close the electrical circuit—the falling aeroplane would explode on impact. In two seconds, which stretched like eternity, it hit but did not explode, harming only its murderous inventor and Preston Whiteway’s yellow Rolls-Royce on which it landed.

ISAAC BELL CIRCLED the Inquirer Building and exchanged joyous waves with Marion Morgan.

Then he skirted Nob Hill and steered across the city toward the Golden Gate.

Far behind him, he saw a red speck in the sky. Joe Mudd’s Liberator was approaching Oakland. Bell grinned with genuine pleasure. Mudd and his sturdy little tractor biplane had only ten miles to go to win the Whiteway Cup. The expression on Whiteway’s face would be priceless.

Ahead, a splash of green on the tip of the peninsula that sheltered San Francisco Bay from the Pacific Ocean marked the Presidio. The grounds of the Army post appeared to be in motion, rippling like a wind-stirred field of grain. It was an illusion, Bell realized as he drew nearer, created by a horde of spectators who filled parade grounds, streets, and barracks roofs in the tens of thousands. Closer still, he even saw them clinging to the tops of trees.

The only place with room to alight was the sloping parade ground in front of Infantry Row, the red brick barracks on Montgomery Street, which was guarded by a company of soldiers holding back the crowd.

Bell steered into a salty Pacific wind, blipped his Gnome to slow it down, and landed his machine on the narrow stretch of ground that the Army had secured. The roar of the crowd drowned out his motor. He scanned their faces and felt his heart lift. There was Archie Abbott, standing on his own two feet, pale but smiling, with Lillian bracing one arm. It took Bell a moment to recognize the tall, stylishly dressed brunette with them as Danielle Di Vecchio, who was smiling proudly at her father’s machine. Next to her, considerably less stylish looking but grinning as proudly, was Andy Moser, and Bell surmised that the railroad had cleared the tracks for the Van Dorn Agency’s Eagle Special to speed to San Francisco.

As Bell jumped down from the Eagle, Weiner of Accounting bustled up, trailed by the many assistants he had acquired in the course of the race.

“Congratulations, Mr. Bell.”

“For what?”

“You won.”

“Won what?”

“The Atlantic-to-Pacific Cross-Country Air Race. The Whiteway Cup is yours.”

“What the devil are you talking about, Mr. Weiner?”

The accountant explained that in the course of protecting Josephine, Isaac Bell had flown his American Eagle monoplane all the way across America and landed first, with the best overall time.

“I wasn’t in the race. How could I win?”

“I am a certified accountant, sir. I and my staff kept track of every minute flown by every contestant. You won. Fair and square.”

“But I didn’t register. I never even got my flying license.”

Weiner, Bell soon discovered, had put his race time to good use by mastering the art of booming in addition to accounting.

“I am sure,” he answered with a knowing wink, “that Mr. Whiteway will overlook certain minor technicalities when he considers how many newspapers we will sell touting a winner who is not only a dashing detective but is engaged to a beautiful blond moving-picture director. Your public awaits.”

Weiner indicated the mob of photographers and correspondents poised to pounce on the winner. “Don’t worry about the details, Mr. Bell, we’ll make you the most famous man in America.”

Off to the side, out of the hoopla, Bell saw a bandaged “Texas” Walt Hatfield quietly celebrating with James Dashwood. They were passing a flask and puffing on cigars. Dash coughed on the smoke. The Texan slapped him on the back. Dash responded by flicking his new derringer from his wrist, and, when both men laughed, it struck Isaac Bell that if he accepted the Whiteway Cup, the most famous man in America would be far too well known to ever again operate as a Van Dorn detective.

Marion Morgan raced up in a taxi, urging her camera operators to plant their tripods. She threw a glorious smile to Bell and pointed him out to her operators, with the usual stern warning to keep him out of the picture.

Preston Whiteway arrived right behind her, careening onto the field in a newspaper-delivery van driven by his demolished Rolls-Royce’s chauffeur.

“Who won?” he bellowed.

Weiner of Accounting turned expectantly to Isaac Bell.

“You’re looking at him,” said the tall, golden-haired detective.

“Who?”

Isaac Bell took one long last look at the cheering crowds. Then he turned slowly on his heel and pointed at the sky. Joe Mudd’s Revolution Red Liberator wobbled over the hill, lined up into the ocean