The Race by Clive Cussler (red white royal blue .txt) 📗

“Harry Frost wasn’t always rich,” said Bell. “He escaped from a Kansas City orphanage when he was eight years old and rode the rails to Philadelphia. He could hop a freight in his sleep.”

“Plenty of trains come through” was all the constable would concede.

Bell changed the subject. “What sort of man was Marco Celere?”

“Don’t know.”

“Did you never see Celere? I understand he arrived last summer.”

“Stuck to himself, up there at the Frost camp.”

Bell looked out the window at North River’s muddy Main Street. It was a warm spring day, but the blackflies were biting, so few people stirred out of doors. It was also what the stationmaster had called “Mud Week,” when the long winter freeze finally melted, leaving the ground knee-deep in mud. The only facts that the closemouthed constable had volunteered concerned being mauled by the bear. Now Hodge waited in silence, and Bell suspected that if he did not ask another question, the taciturn backwoodsman would not speak another word.

“Other than Josephine Frost’s report,” Bell asked, “what proof of the shooting do you have?”

“Celere disappeared. So did Mr. Frost.”

“But no direct evidence?”

Constable Hodge pulled open a drawer, reached inside, and spread five spent brass cartridge shells on the desk. “Found these at the edge of the meadow just where Mrs. Frost said she saw him shooting.”

“May I?”

“Go right ahead.”

Bell picked one up in his handkerchief and examined it. “.45-70.”

“That’s what his Marlin shoots.”

“Why didn’t you give these to the district attorney?”

“He didn’t ask.”

“Did it occur to you to mention them?” Bell asked patiently.

“Figured he had his case with Mrs. Frost being the witness.”

“Is there anyone who could show me where the shooting occurred?”

To Bell’s surprise, Hodge sprang from his chair. He circled his desk, wooden leg clumping the floor. “I’ll take you. We better stop at the general store for a bunch of stogies. Shoo away the blackflies.”

Puffing clouds of cigar smoke beneath their hat brims, the North River constable and the tall detective drove up the mountain in Hodge’s Model A Ford. When they ran out of road, Hodge attached a circle of wood to his peg so he didn’t sink into the mud, and they continued on foot. They climbed deer trails for an hour until the thick stands of fir trees and birch opened onto a wide meadow of matted winter-browned grass.

“By this here tree is where I found the shell casings. Clear shot across to the lip of the gorge where Mrs. Frost saw Celere fall off.”

Bell nodded. The cliff was a hundred and fifty yards across the meadow from the trees. An easy shot with a Marlin, even without a telescopic sight.

“What do you suppose Celere was doing out on the rim?”

“Scouting. The butler told me they went out for bear.”

“So to go ahead like that, Celere must have trusted Frost?”

“Folks said Mr. Frost was buying airplanes for his wife. I guess he’d trust a good customer.”

“Did you find Celere’s rifle?” Bell asked.

“Nope.”

“What do you suppose happened to it?”

“Bottom of the river.”

“And the same for his field glasses?”

“If he had ’em.”

They walked out to the edge of the gorge. Isaac Bell walked along it, aware that he was not likely to see any signs of an event that occurred before winter snows had fallen and melted. At a point near a single tree that stood lonely sentinel with its roots clinging to the rim, he noticed a narrow shelf immediately below. It thrust out like a second cliff, six feet down and barely four feet wide. A falling body would have to clear it to plummet to the river. Gripping the roots where erosion had exposed them, he lowered himself to it and looked around. No rusty rifle. No field glasses. He peered over the side. It was a long way down to the glint of water at the bottom.

He hauled himself back up to the meadow. As he stood, resting his hand on the tree for balance, he felt a hole in the bark. He looked more closely. “Constable Hodge? May I borrow your hunting knife?”

Hodge unsheathed a strong blade that had been fashioned by honing a steel file. “Whatcha got there?”

“A bullet lodged in the tree, I suspect.” Bell used Hodge’s knife to gouge the bark around the hole. He carved an opening large enough to dislodge a soft lead wad with his fingers in an effort not to scratch it with the blade.

“Where the heck did that come from?”

“Maybe Harry Frost’s rifle.”

“Maybe, maybe not. You’ll never know.”

“Maybe I will,” said Bell, recalling a court case argued a few years earlier by Oliver Wendell Holmes where a bullet was matched to the gun that fired it. “Do you happen to have that rifle the boys found on the tracks?”

“In my office. I’d have given it back to Mrs. Frost, but she left. Mr. Frost of course was long gone. Anyone left on the property out there is no one I would give a fine rifle to.”

They returned to North River. Hodge helped Bell find a bale of cotton wool packing material at the railroad depot. They set it up at the empty end of the freight yard. Bell stuck his calling card in the center of the bale and paced off one hundred and fifty yards. Then he loaded two .45-70 shells into Frost’s Marlin, found the calling card like a bull’s-eye in the telescopic sight, and squeezed off a round.

The bullet missed the card, missed the cotton wool bale, and twanged off an iron signal post above it.

Constable Hodge looked pityingly at Isaac Bell. “I naturally assumed that a Van Dorn private detective would be conversant with firearms. Would you like me to shoot it for you?”

“The scope is off-kilter.”

“That’ll happen,” Constable Hodge said, dubiously. “Sometimes.”

“It could have been damaged when it was dropped on the tracks.”

Bell sighted in on the mark the bullet had pocked in the iron post and calculated the distance down. He levered out the spent shell, which loaded