The Gangster by Clive Cussler (e reading malayalam books .txt) 📗

the memo book open beside him, and listening.

“Tribune says the Harbor Squad found “Kid Kelly” Ghiottone floating in the river.”

“Looks like the Wallopers got some back.”

“Why would the Wallopers do Ghiottone? He didn’t run with Salata.”

“He was Italian, thereby permitting the Wallopers to demonstrate they, one, are enraged about their dope being lifted, and, two, have the guts to snatch him out of Little Italy. His body was a mess, according to the paper; looked like he was beat with hatchets.”

“That is not what happened,” said Isaac Bell.

“Thought you were napping, Isaac. What do you mean?”

“Ghiottone wasn’t beat up. At least not when he was alive.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Barrel staves were floating around the body.”

Every detective in the bull pen lowered his newspaper and stared at Isaac Bell.

“Meaning, they dumped the body in a barrel,” said Mack Fulton.

“And a ship hit the barrel,” said Wally Kisley.

“The steel-hulled, five-mast nitrate bark James P. Richards,” said Bell. “Outbound for Chile. According to the Harbor Squad.”

Bell continued practicing with the pocket knife. Mack Fulton voiced a question. “Can I ask you something, Isaac?”

“Shoot.”

“Your criminal cartel theory is driving you around the bend, and the Boss is all over you about the President.”

“I’m aware I’m busy,” said Bell. “Which is why I depend on you boys’ invaluable assistance. What do you want to know?”

“Being so engaged, what made you query Roundsman O’Riordan about an Eye-talian saloon keeper floating in the river?”

“What do you think?”

“Because,” Kisley answered for Fulton, “Isaac thinks Ghiottone is Black Hand.”

Bell shook his head. “That’s not what I got from Research, and they got their info straight from Captain Coligney, who used to ramrod the Mulberry Street Precinct. Ghiottone was a Tammany man—so what strikes me is, somebody’s got it in for Tammany Hall. Adam Quiller was tortured and murdered last Saturday; Harry Warren says he was Alderman King’s heeler. And this guy Lehane, Alderman Henry’s heeler, was also tortured.”

“Those reformers are getting meaner every day,” said Walter Kisley.

Bell joined the laughter. Then he said, “Both heelers were finally killed with a stiletto.”

“I didn’t see that in the paper.”

“You’ll see it tomorrow. Eddie Edwards just spoke with the coroner. The papers will go wild when they see all three victims connected by a stiletto.”

“How about connected by a Tammany boss under investigation who’s killing off witnesses?” asked Kisley.

“Not likely. Bribing witnesses and jurors is more a boss’s strategy. But here’s the thing that strikes me. Look at the order of when they were killed—each stiletto victim stood a rung higher on the ladder of political power—Ghiottone, at the bottom; then Quiller, a heeler and block captain, one step up; then Lehane, the district election leader’s heeler. Makes me wonder who’s next.”

“District leader?”

“More likely his heeler.”

Helen Mills rushed into the bull pen. Detectives straightened neckties, smoothed hair, and brushed crumbs from their vests. She spotted Bell and handed him a small envelope.

“What’s this?”

“Claypool.”

Bell slit it open with his knife. Out fell a photograph, so recently developed it smelled of fixer. The picture was slightly blurred, as Claypool was turning his face, but it was him for sure, and anyone who knew the camera-shy lawyer would recognize him.

“Where’d you get this?”

“I snapped it. Some girls from school came into town. We pretended we were tourists, and I snapped him while snapping them, when he left his office for lunch.”

Bell slipped it into his memo book. “Nicely done, Helen. Take the girls to Rector’s Lobster Palace. Tell Charlie it’s on me and I said to give you the best table in the house.”

Detectives watched her leave.

Fulton said, “Quiller four days ago. Then Sullivan, Lehane’s heeler, yesterday.”

“Working their way up to a full-fledged alderman,” said Kisley.

Isaac Bell put down the knife and picked up his fountain pen. “Which of them are under investigation?”

“Which ain’t?” asked Kisley, holding up the Times with a front page column headline that read

TWO ALDERMEN HELD IN BRIBERY SCANDAL

“Of the forty crooks on the Board of Aldermen, James Martin’s in deepest at the moment. Alderman Martin was always looking for patronage. Ten years if convicted, and sure to be convicted. Word is, he won’t make bail.”

“Why can’t an alderman make bail? The whole point of serving on the Boodle Board is to get rich.”

“Broke,” called Scudder Smith, who was nursing a flask in the corner. “Lost it all to a gal and poker.”

Bell said, “Are you sure about that, Scudder?”

Scudder Smith, a crackersjack New York reporter before Joseph Van Dorn persuaded him to become a detective, said, “You can take it to the bank.”

“Hey, where you going, Isaac?” asked Kisley.

The tall detective was already on his feet, pocketing the knife and his memo book, clapping on his hat, and striding out the door. “Criminal Courts Building. See if the gal and the gamblers left Alderman Martin anything to trade for bail.”

Midway through the door, he paused.

“Harry?”

“What’s up?” asked Harry Warren.

“Would you go downtown and find a way to shake hands with Antonio Branco?”

Harry Warren exchanged mystified glances with Mack Fulton and Wally Kisley. “Sure thing, Isaac. Care to tell me why I’m going to shake hands with Antonio Branco?”

“Do it and I’ll tell you why,” said Isaac Bell. “Just make sure he’s not wearing gloves.”

Alderman James Martin shielded his face from the newspaper artists with a hand clutching a half-smoked cigar while an assistant district attorney told the magistrate that he should be jailed in the West 54th Street Police Court Prison unless he put up a bond of $15,000. The DA’s sleuth who had arrested him on the Queensboro Bridge after he left the Long Island City stone mason’s yard, where he had received the money, stood smirking in the doorway. Thankfully, thought Martin, the DA had set the bribe trap in a stone yard, where he had legitimate reason to be. He was a building contractor, after all, wasn’t he, like many a New York City alderman. He prayed the magistrate would buy that defense at least enough to reduce his bail to an amount low