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

“Do it again, work it in a little more, make sure it is sealed watertight—absolutely watertight. Do you understand?”

“I understand.”

“O.K., turn it over. Let’s see if no water drips out.”

Eustace turned it over tentatively and held it out the way he used to present A+ projects in shop class.

The saloonkeeper took it from his hand and shook it hard. The plugs held. No water escaped. He dropped it in the leather sack, tugged the drawstrings tight, and returned it to Eustace Weed. “Don’t let it get so warm it melts the wax.”

“What am I supposed to do with it?”

“Keep it out of sight ’til somebody tells you where to put it. Then put it where he tells you.”

Utterly mystified, Eustace Weed weighed the sack in his hand and asked, “Is that all?”

“All? Your girl’s name is Daisy Ramsey.” The short, round saloonkeeper picked up the sap and slammed it on his desk so hard the pot jumped. “That is all.”

“I understand.” Eustace blurted quickly, though he understood very little, starting with why the saloonkeeper went through the whole rigmarole with the wax pot. Why didn’t he just hand him the wax-sealed tube in the sack?

The man looked hard at him, then he smiled. “You wonder why all this?” He indicated the pot.

“Yes, sir.”

“So if you lose that which I gave you, you got no excuse. You know how to make another. You’re a flying-machine mechanician, top of the trade. You can make anything. So when someone tells you where to put it, you’ll be ready to put it where he tells you when he tells you. Understand?”

“I understand.”

“O.K., get outta here!”

He signaled the toughs.

“They’ll see you safe out of the neighborhood. You’re a valuable man now, we don’t want folks wondering why you got bruises. But don’t forget, don’t let nobody see that there tube of water. Anybody starts asking questions, and the city of Chicago loses a pretty face.”

They started him out the door. The saloonkeeper called, “By the way, if you’re wondering what it is and how it’ll work, don’t. And if you happen to figure it out and you don’t like it, remember Daisy’s pretty little nose. And her eyes.”

ISAAC BELL DROPPED DASHWOOD around the corner from the Palmer House at a small hotel that gave out-of-town Van Dorns a discount. Then he drove to the Levee District and parked on a street that hadn’t changed much in a decade. Motortrucks lined up at the newspaper depot instead of wagons, but the gutter was still paved with greasy cobbles, and the ramshackle buildings still housed saloons, brothels, lodging houses, and pawnshops.

By the dim light of widely scattered streetlamps, he could make out the intersection of old and new brick where Harry Frost’s dynamite had demolished the depot walls. A man was sleeping in the doorway the frightened newsboys had huddled in. A streetwalker emerged from the narrow alley. She spotted the Packard and approached with a hopeful smile.

Bell smiled back, looked her in the eye, and pressed a ten-dollar gold piece into her hand. “Go home. Take the night off.”

He did not believe for one minute that the Van Dorn Detective Agency had run Harry Frost out of Chicago. The criminal mastermind had left town under his own steam for his own reasons. For it was chillingly clear to Bell that Harry Frost was as adaptable as he was unpredictable. Roving in that Thomas Flyer, the city gangster would take deadly, free-ranging command of the Midwest’s prairies and the vast plain beyond the Mississippi while the politicians and bankers and crooks in his Chicago organization covered his back, wired money, and executed his orders.

Bringing a telegrapher in the Thomas was a stroke of warped genius. Harry Frost could send Dave Mayhew climbing up railroad telegraph poles to tap into the wires, eavesdrop on the Morse alphabet, and tell him what the stationmasters were reporting about the progress of the race. Diabolical, thought Bell. Frost had drafted hundreds of dedicated assistants to track Josephine for him.

A drunk rounded the corner, smashed his bottle in the gutter, and burst into song.

“Come Josephine, in my flying machine . . .

“Up, up, a little bit higher

“Oh! My! The moon is on fire . . .”

28

JAMES DASHWOOD CAUGHT UP with Isaac Bell one hundred and seventy miles west of Chicago in a rail yard near the Peoria Fairgrounds on the bank of the Illinois River. It was a sweltering, humid evening—typical of the Midwestern states, Bell informed the young Californian—and the smell of coal smoke and steam, creosote ties, and the mechanicians’ suppers frying, hung heavy in the air.

The support trains were parked cheek by jowl on parallel sidings reserved for the race. Bell’s was nearest the main line but for one other, a four-car special, varnished green and trimmed with gold, owned by a timber magnate who had invested in the Vanderbilt syndicate and had announced that he saw no reason not to ride along with the rolling party just because his entry smashed into a signal tower. After all, Billy Thomas was recuperating nicely, and was a true sportsman who would insist the show go on without him.

Whiteway’s yellow six-car Josephine Special was on the other side of the Eagle Special, and Bell had had his engineer stop his train so that the two flying-machine support cars stood next to each other. Both had their auto ramps down for their roadsters, which were off foraging for parts in Peoria hardware stores or scouting the route ahead. Laughter and the ring of crystal could be heard from a dinner party that Preston Whiteway was hosting.

Dashwood found Bell poring over large-scale topographic maps of the terrain across Illinois and Missouri to Kansas City, which he had rolled down from his hangar-car ceiling.

“What have you got, Dash?”

“I found a marine zoology book called Report on the Cephalopods. Squid and octopuses are cephalopods.”

“So I recall,” said Bell. “What do