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

saw as he drew near, barred like a penitentiary’s. A high wall of the same bleak-colored brick surrounded the grounds. He had to stop the auto at an iron gate, where he pressed a bell button that eventually drew the attention of a surly guard with a billy club dangling from his belt.

“I am Isaac Bell. I have an appointment with Dr. Ryder.”

“You can’t bring that in here,” he said, pointing at the car.

Bell parked the Ford on the side of the driveway. The guard let him through the gate. “I ain’t responsible for what happens to that auto out there,” he smirked. “All the loonies ain’t inside.”

Bell stepped closer and gave him a cold smile. “Consider that auto your primary responsibility until I return.”

“What did you say?”

“If anything happens to that auto, I will take it out of your hide. Do you believe me? Good. Now, take me to Dr. Ryder.”

The owner of the asylum was a trim, precise, exquisitely dressed man in his forties. He looked, Bell thought, like a fussy sort, overly pleased with a situation that gave him total control over the lives of hundreds of patients. He was glad he had heeded Joe Van Dorn’s warning about little Napoleons.

“I don’t know that it will be convenient for you to visit Miss Di Vecchio this afternoon,” said Dr. Ryder.

“You and I spoke by long-distance telephone this morning,” Bell reminded him. “You agreed to a meeting with Miss Di Vecchio.”

“The lunatic patient’s state of mind does not always concur with an outsider’s convenience. An untimely encounter could be distressing for both of you.”

“I’m willing to risk it,” said Bell.

“Ah, but what of the patient?”

Isaac Bell looked Dr. Ryder in the eye. “Does the name Andrew Rubenoff ring a bell?”

“Sounds like a Jew.”

“In fact, he is a Jew,” Bell answered with a dangerous flash in his eye. He would never abide bigotry, which was going to make taking Ryder down a peg even more satisfying. “And a fine Jew he is. Heck of a piano player, too.”

“I am afraid I have not met the, ah, gentleman.”

“Mr. Rubenoff is a banker. He’s an old friend of my father’s. Practically an uncle to me.”

“I have no banker named Rubenoff. And now if you’ll excuse—”

“I am not surprised that you don’t know Mr. Rubenoff. His clients tend toward up-and-coming lines like automobile manufacture and moving pictures. But, out of sentiment, he allows his holding companies to retain their grip on some smaller, more conventional banks, and even buy another now and then. In fact, ‘Uncle Andrew’ asked me would I pay a visit on his behalf to one nearby while I was in your neighborhood. I believe it’s called the First Farmers Bank of Pittsfield.”

Dr. Ryder turned white.

Bell said, “The Van Dorn Detective Agency’s Research boys root up the darnedest information. First Farmers of Pittsfield holds your mortgage, Dr. Ryder, the terms of which allow the bank to call in your loan if the value of the collateral plummets—as it has for most private asylums, including the Ryder Private Asylum for the Insane, as the new state-run institutions siphon off patients. I will meet with Miss Di Vecchio in a clean, pleasant, well-lighted room. Your personal quarters, which I understand are on the top floor of the turret, will be ideal.”

DANIELLE DI VECCHIO took Bell’s breath away. She entered Ryder’s cozy apartment tentatively, a little fearful—understandably, Bell thought—but also curious, a tall, well-built, very beautiful woman in a shabby white dress. She had long black hair and enormous dark eyes.

Bell removed his hat and gestured for the matron to leave them and close the door. He offered his hand. “Miss Di Vecchio. Thank you for coming to see me. I am Isaac Bell.”

He spoke softly and gently, mindful that she had been incarcerated under court order for slashing a man with a knife. Her eyes, which were darting around the room, drinking in furniture, carpets, paintings, and books, settled on him.

“Who are you?” Her accent was Italian, her English pronunciation clear.

“I am a private detective. I am investigating the shooting of Marco Celere.”

“Ladro!”

“Yes. Why do you call him a thief?”

“He stole,” she answered simply. Her eyes roamed to the window, and the way her face lit up told Isaac Bell that she had not been out of doors for a long time and probably not seen green trees and grass and blue sky even from a distance.

“Why don’t we sit in this window seat?” Bell asked, moving slowly toward it. She followed him carefully, warily as a cat yet aching to be caressed by the breeze that stirred the curtains. Bell positioned himself so he could stop her if she tried to jump out the window.

“Can you tell me what Marco Celere stole?”

“Is he dead from this shooting?”

“Probably,” answered Bell.

“Good,” she said, then crossed herself.

“Why did you make the sign of the cross?”

“I’m glad he’s dead. But I’m glad it wasn’t me who took life. That is God’s work.”

Doubting that God had deputized Harry Frost, Isaac Bell took a chance on Di Vecchio’s mental state. “But you tried to kill him, didn’t you?”

“And failed,” she answered. She looked Bell in the face. “I have had months to think about it. I believe that a part of my soul held back. I don’t remember everything that happened that day, but I do recall that when the knife missed his neck it carved a long cut in his arm. Here . . .” She ran her fingers in an electric glide down the inside of Bell’s forearm.

“I was glad. But I can’t remember whether I was glad because I drew blood or glad because I didn’t kill.”

“What did Marco steal?”

“My father’s work.”

“What work was that?”

“My father was aeroplano cervellone—how do you say?—brain. Genius!”

“Your father invented flying machines?”

“Yes! Bella monoplano. He named it Aquila. Aquila means ‘eagle’ in American. When he brought his Aquila to America, he was so proud to immigrate to your country that he named her American