The Van Dorn Detective Agency, Joe Petrosino’s NYPD Italian Squad, Captain Mike Coligney’s Tenderloin Precinct plainclothesmen, and the Treasury Department’s Secret Service landed on Antonio Branco’s suddenly leaderless bombers, extortionists, gorillas, counterfeiters, and smugglers like an army rolling up enemy flanks.
Isaac Bell listed the names of the arrested on the bull pen blackboard, which had been so hastily erased in the weeklong rush that his illustration for the Raven’s Eyrie raid shone through as if it were under tracing paper. Gorillas were superimposed on Culp’s gymnasium. Smugglers covered his gatehouse. Counterfeiters grouped on the power plant.
A cheer went up when Harry Warren and Archie Abbott telephoned good news at the end of the week. Vito Rizzo, whom Bell had arrested in the confessional, had jumped bail granted by a Tammany judge. Warren and Abbott had just hauled him out of a sewer pipe, which pretty much wrapped up the remains of Branco’s organization.
“Harry should have looked there in the first place,” said Walter Kisley.
“O.K., Helen,” said Grady Forrer. “Now’s the time. Give it to him.”
The detectives gathered around Isaac Bell. Helen Mills handed him a narrow box. It was wrapped in tissue paper and tied with a dainty ribbon. Bell shook it. It rattled. “Sounds like diamonds. Right size for a necklace, but I don’t tend to wear them.”
“Open it up, Isaac!”
“The boys at Storm King found it.”
Bell untied the ribbon, tore the tissue paper, and raised the lid. He could see that it had indeed been a necklace box. But inside, nestled in velvet, was a four-inch pocket knife.
“Branco dropped it on account of being punched hard,” said Eddie Edwards.
“Turn it over, Isaac. Read the inscription.”
They had attached a small silver plaque engraved with the words PROPERTY OF CARTEL-BUSTER BELL
“This calls for a drink!” shouted many Van Dorns.
“Champagne!” said Helen Mills. “I’m buying in the cellar bar.”
The bull pen emptied in a flash.
Bell stayed there alone, opening and closing Antonio Branco’s knife.
“It’s time, Isaac.”
A very sad looking Marion Morgan stood in the doorway in traveling clothes.
Bell took her bag and they hurried across 42nd Street to Grand Central and found her state room on the 20th Century Limited to Chicago, the first leg on her trip back to San Francisco. “I’m going to miss you terribly,” she said.
“I don’t think you will.”
“How can you say that? Won’t you miss me?”
“Not right away.”
“Why are you grinning like a baboon?”
“I had an interesting talk with Mr. Van Dorn.”
“Oh, Isaac! Did he make you Chief Investigator?”
“Not yet. But the Boss fears that some Black Hand could still be hanging about. So he has assigned you Van Dorn protection all the way to San Francisco. This inside door connects to your personal bodyguard’s state room. If you’re ever frightened, all you have to do is knock.”
Bell stepped through the door and closed it behind him. The porter had already unpacked the bag and hung his suits he had sent ahead. A bottle of Billecart-Salmon Brut Rosé sat uncorked on a table in a sterling silver bucket.
Forty minutes later, as he was taking off his shirt, the 20th pulled into Croton-Harmon to exchange its electric city locomotive for a fast steamer. Bell heard a knock at the door. He opened it with growing anticipation. Marion had changed into the silk robe she had worn for him in her San Francisco cottage.
He wasted no time with words. He pulled Marion toward him and kissed her. Then he swept her into his arms and carried her into his bedroom.