Texas Walt stared. A slow grin creased his craggy face. “Isaac. You son of a gun.”

“I thought you were itching to get in a real gunfight.”

“Is he really your uncle?”

“I just call him that to razz him. He’s an old banking friend of my father’s.”

“Well, you got me. What are you going to do with me?”

“Put you to work.”

They were interrupted again, by ladies wanting Walt’s autograph. He signed their books and dazzled them with a smile. When they had gone, he said to Bell, “Ah hope you aren’t fixing to have me do any masquerading. This old face has gotten too famous to operate incognito.”

“I’m going to hide you in plain sight.”

“How?”

“Ever been to Detroit?”

“Detroit? What the deuce is in Detroit, except a bunch of automobiles?”

“Bootleggers,” said Bell. “The place is crawling with them.”

“Shore. Because it’s one mile from Canada. What’s that got to do with me?”

Bell looked Hatfield in the eye and said, “Walt, I just got word they’ve corrupted our Detroit field office from top to bottom. Our boys are taking payoffs to ride shotgun on liquor runs and shaking down the bellhops.”

“Our boys?” the Texan asked with a wintery scowl. “Are you sure, Isaac?”

“I don’t know who’s still on the square. I want you to pay them a visit.”

Walt strode directly to the hatcheck, threw down a quarter, and clapped his J. B. Stetson on his head. Bell intercepted him at the front door.

“Here’s your train ticket. I booked a stateroom on the Detroiter.”

“Ah can afford my own stateroom ticket.”

“Not on a detective’s salary, you can’t. Wire me tomorrow.”

A cable was waiting for Isaac Bell in the New York field office, which was three blocks down Fifth Avenue from the Plaza, on the second floor of the St. Regis Hotel.

Bell crumpled it in his fist. He had been counting on his best friend, Archibald Angell Abbott IV, to come back from Europe, where Van Dorn had sent him to reinvigorate the Paris, Rome, and London offices. This meant he had to find another right-hand man to help him straighten out the agency. McKinney was busy ramrodding the New York office. Harry Warren was busy with the Gang Squad, and, even if he weren’t, a detective who knew every gangster in New York hadn’t the national knowledge Bell needed. Nor did Scudder Smith. Tim Holian, out in Los Angeles, and Horace Bronson, back from Paris to his old post in San Francisco, were needed there to hold down the western states.

“Where’s Dashwood?”

“He’s at the rifle range, Mr. Bell.”

Bell walked quickly up Park Avenue to the Seventh Regiment Armory and down into the basement. The sharpshooters and marksmen of the regiment’s crack shooting team were practicing for a match in the double-decked rifle range. He waited behind the firing line, breathing in the lively scent of smokeless powder, until the clatter of .22s ceased. Targets were snaked in. The riflemen inspected them, then passed them to the range captain.

The range captain compared them for the tightest patterns around the bull’s-eyes and held up the winner’s target. In the center of the black eye was a hole so clean it might have been cut by folding the paper in two and cutting a tiny half-moon with scissors. “Number 14? Number 14? Where are you, sir?”

Detective James Dashwood descended from the upper deck. He looked paler than ever, Bell thought. His skin was dead white, and he was thin to the point of gaunt. His suit hung loosely on his frame.

“Of course,” said the range captain. “I should have guessed. Gentlemen, meet former lieutenant James Dashwood.”

The name drew respectful murmurs from the marksmen and sharpshooters. His service as an American Expeditionary Forces sniper in the trenches was legend.

“James,” the captain asked with a knowing smile. “Would you please show them your ‘rifle.’”

Dashwood gave a diffident shrug. He had a boyish voice. “That’s O.K., Captain.”

“Please, James. Your ‘rifle.’”

Dashwood looked around, clearly unhappy to be the center of attention. He saw Bell watching from the back. A pleased grin lit his face. Bell gave his former apprentice a proud thumbs-up.

Dashwood drew a pistol from his coat, held it up for all to see, and ducked his head shyly at the cheers.

When they were alone, walking down Park Avenue, Bell asked, “How are you feeling?”

“I’m O.K.”

“I asked for a reason,” said Bell. “How is your health?” Dashwood had been caught in a German gas attack and the chlorine had played havoc with his lungs.

“I have good days and bad. At the moment I’m doing O.K.”

“When’s the last time the coughing laid you low?”

“Last month. I got over it. What’s up, Mr. Bell?”

“I think you should start calling me Isaac.”

“O.K., Isaac,” Dashwood answered slowly, working his way around the unaccustomed way of conversing with the boss who had been his teacher, sage, and adviser all in one. “Why do you ask about my condition?”

“I promised Mr. Van Dorn to look after the agency until he recovers. I need a right hand. And a troubleshooter I can send around the continent.”

“Why not Archie Abbott?”

“Archie’s stuck in France.”

“Isn’t there anyone else?”

“None I’d prefer.” Bell stopped walking, looked Dashwood in the eye, and thrust out his hand. “Can we shake on it?”

“Telephone, Mr. Bell. Dr. Nuland at the morgue.”

“Hello, Shep. Thanks again for reporting on that powder.”

“Would you happen to be looking for a Russian?”

Bell felt a surge of excitement. “It’s likely that neck shot was by a Russian. Why?”

“I looked a little deeper when I got your note. About your hunch? Turns out in 1914, 1915, and 1916 the Aetna Explosives Company filled huge contracts to supply the Russian government with smokeless powder.”

After Bell put down the phone, he called someone he knew in the New York Police Department laboratory. He was a bullet expert who was paid well and regularly to do private work for the Van Dorn Detective Agency. “I’m calling about that shell casing they found at Roosevelt where a shooting victim was murdered. The one with the expansion ring from a Mann pistol. Any idea where it was manufactured?… What’s that?”

It sounded to Bell as if the expert was whispering into a mouthpiece muffled by his hand.

“Like I already told you, Mr. Bell, they got egg on their face, and it’ll cost me my job to speak a word. I’m really sorry, Mr. Bell. But they’ll sack me if I get caught.”

“No hard feelings,” said Bell and hung up. He was not surprised, but it had been worth a try. He had run into similar resistance with the Coast Guard. Every time he tried to interview the crew of CG-9, he was told she was out of reach, far at sea, or her radio was broken. The truth was, the Coast Guard brass were just as embarrassed about Van Dorn’s shooting as the cop brass were about the bungled police protection at the hospital.

He had managed to wrangle a glimpse of the report on the slug that Shepherd Nuland fished out of Johnny’s skull. But it had offered no clue to its source of manufacture. Which made the possible Russian source of the smokeless powder the only information as close to a fact that he could get his hands on.

He composed a Marconigram in Van Dorn cipher. The Radio Corporation of America would transmit it from the former Marconi Wireless Station in New Jersey to the liner Nieuw Amsterdam:

It wasn’t much to go on. But it would give Pauline Grandzau something to think about on the boat. And when Pauline put her mind to something, something interesting often came of it.