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

Leaving a hand free for a pistol, which meant that Bell could counterpunch if someone attacked Josephine in her flying machine. He said, “It works just like yours.”

“It’s the up-to-date thing.”

“It ought to make it easier to learn to fly,” said Bell.

“You bought yourself a beauty, Mr. Bell. But I’ll warn you, she’s going to be a handful. The trouble with going fast is you land fast. And that Gnome motor makes it even worse, since you won’t have a real throttle like my Antoinette’s.”

While the similarities were striking, Bell had to admit that, when it came to their French-made power plants, the Celere and Di Vecchio monoplanes were radically different. Josephine’s Celere was powered by a conventional water-cooled V-8 Antoinette, a strong, lightweight motor, whereas Di Vecchio had installed the new and revolutionary air-cooled rotary Gnome Omega in his. With its cylinders spinning around a central crankshaft, the Gnome offered smooth running and superior cooling at the expense of fuel consumption, ticklish maintenance, and a primitive carburetor that made it almost impossible to run the motor at any speed but wide open.

“Can you give me some tips on slowing down to land like I’ve seen you do?”

Josephine leveled a stern finger at the control wheel. “Before you get fancy, practice blipping your magneto on and off with that coupe button.”

Bell shook his head. Switching the ignition on and off, interrupting electricity to the spark plug, was a means, of sorts, to slow the motor. “Andy Moser says to go easy on the coupe button or I’ll burn up the valves.”

“Better the valves than you, Mr. Bell,” Josephine grinned. “I need my protector alive. And don’t worry about stalling the motor, it’s got plenty of inertia to keep it spinning.” Her face fell. “I’m sorry, that was really stupid of me about needing you alive. How is Archie?”

“He’s hanging on. They let me see him this morning. His eyes were open, and I believe he recognized me . . . Josephine, I have to ask you something.”

“What?”

“Look at the wing stays.”

“What about them?”

“Do you notice how they converge at these triangular king posts, top and bottom?”

“Of course.”

“Do you notice how the triangles form in essence single lightweight steel struts? The point thrusting above the wing is actually the top of the broad base that extends below the wing.”

“Of course. It’s very strong, that way.”

“And do you see how ingeniously it’s braced by the chassis?” She crouched down beside him, and they studied the strong X-braced support that connected the body of the aeroplane to its skids and wheels.

“It’s the same system as on your Celere, isn’t it?” Bell asked.

“It looks similar,” she admitted.

“I haven’t seen anything like it on any other monoplane. I have to ask you, is it possible that Marco Celere, shall we say, ‘borrowed’ his wing-strengthening innovation from Di Vecchio?”

“Absolutely not!” Josephine said vehemently.

Bell observed that the ordinarily exuberant aviatrix seemed troubled by his blunt accusation. She jumped to her feet. Her grin had gone out like a light, and a flush was gathering on her cheeks. Did she suspect, even fear, that it was true?

“Or, perhaps, could Marco have unconsciously copied it?” he asked gently.

“No.”

“Did Marco ever tell you he worked for Di Vecchio?”

“No.”

Then, oddly, she was smiling again. Smugly, Bell thought. And he wondered why. The tension had left her slim frame, and she stood in her usual pert manner, as if about to spring into motion.

“Did Marco never mention that he worked for Di Vecchio?”

“Di Vecchio worked for Marco,” she retorted, which explained her peaceful smile. “Until Marco had to fire him.”

“I heard it was the other way around.”

“You heard wrong.”

“Perhaps I misunderstood. Did Marco tell you that Di Vecchio’s daughter stabbed him last year?”

“That crazy woman almost killed him. She left a terrible scar on his arm.”

“Did Marco tell you why?”

“Of course. She was jealous. She wanted to marry him. But Marco wasn’t interested. In fact, he told me that her father was pushing her into it, hoping that Marco would rehire him.”

“Did Marco tell you that she accused him of being a thief?”

Josephine said, “That poor lunatic. All that talk about ‘stealing her heart’? She’s insane. That’s why they locked her up. It was all in her head.”

“I see,” said Bell.

“Marco had no feelings for her. He never did. Never. I can guarantee you that, Mr. Bell.”

Isaac Bell thought quickly. He did not believe her, but in order to protect her life he needed Josephine to trust him.

“Josephine,” he smiled warmly, “you are a very polite young lady, but we’re going to be working very closely. Don’t you think it’s time you call me Isaac?”

“Sure thing, Isaac. If you like.” She studied the detective’s face as if seeing him for the first time. “Do you have a girl, Isaac?”

“Yes. I am engaged to be married.”

She gave him a flirtatious grin. “Who’s the lucky lady?”

“Miss Marion Morgan of San Francisco.”

“Oh! Mr. Whiteway mentioned her. Isn’t she the lady who will be taking moving pictures?”

“Yes, she’ll be here soon.”

“So will Mr. Whiteway.”

Josephine glanced at the ladies’ watch she wore sewn to her flying jacket sleeve.

“Which reminds me, I’ve got to get back to the train. He’s sent a dress designer and a seamstress with another flying costume I’m supposed to wear for the newspaper reporters.” She raised her pretty eyes longingly to the sky. It was the soft blue color of the warm and windless early afternoons before strong sea breezes swept across Belmont Park and made it dangerous to fly.

“You look like you’d rather go flying,” said Bell.

“I sure as heck would. I don’t need a special costume. Did you see that white getup he made me wear the other day? Didn’t stay white long when we pulled the head off the Antoinette. This is all I need,” she said, indicating her worn flared leather gloves, wool jacket belted at her tiny waist, jodhpurs tucked into high laced boots. “Now Mr. Whiteway wants me to pose in a purple silk flying