The Gangster (Isaac Bell #9)(52)

Gradually he caught his breath, gradually he began to hope that the killer had given up. Could he somehow just stay inside this little steel crook in the corner of the skyscraper until dawn filled it with workmen? Would he freeze to death? The wind had begun to gust and it was fierce up here. No wonder the engineers riddled the structure with wind braces.

“Mista Claypool.”

The voice was inches from his ear, and he was so shocked and frightened that he shouted, “Who are you? What do you want from me?”

“Who told you to tell Finn to hire an assassin?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Then why did you barricade yourself with bodyguards when Finn died?”

In the shrewd, conniving worlds that Brewster Claypool had dominated his entire career, there was no one smarter than a “railroad lawyer”—except a Wall Street lawyer. But when he heard that question in the dark, Brewster Claypool felt every brainstorm he had ever had drain from his head; every parry, every counterstroke, every rejoinder.

“Why?”

Then, all the gods be praised, his brain began to churn.

“Why bodyguards?” he replied smoothly, speaking into the dark wind as if they had settled into club chairs at the Union League. “Because I watched as men were killed, one after another, each at a higher station. Were these the crimes of a madman? Or a man with a brilliant scheme? But when Brandon Finn died, I knew that the ‘why’ of it didn’t matter. What mattered was that the killing would continue, and I had better take precautions—Ahhh!”

A blade bit into his cheek and cut a line to his lip.



Isaac Bell felt warm, sticky liquid dripping on the ladder as he climbed to the seventh tier of the Singer Building cage and smelled the piercing metallic scent of blood. He looked up. Ten feet above his head, he saw the shadows of two men grappling, one tall and broad, the other a wisp of a spider. Claypool didn’t have a chance.

“Branco!” Bell shouted as he jumped for the next ladder.

Branco went rigid with surprise at hearing his name and Claypool squirmed free, slipped through the scaffolds laid across the beams, and fell.

Bell caught his hand as Claypool plunged and tried to swing him onto solid footing.

The lawyer’s hand was slick with blood. It slipped from Bell’s grasp. But Bell had arrested his fall and Claypool landed at his feet, only to slide between boards again and fall to the next floor.

Bell heard Branco scrambling overhead, racing across his tier to find a way down. It was too dark for Bell to see him. Claypool was directly under him at the edge of a pool of light cast by a dim bulb. He went down the ladder to help.

Claypool was sprawled on his back. The man was dying. His face had been slashed repeatedly, and the fall had been brutal, but what would surely kill him was the knife in his chest. His hands moved feebly, pawing at the handle.

Bell restrained them. “Don’t touch it. I’ll get you to the hospital.”

Claypool made a noise in his throat that sounded like laughter. “Only if their doctors have pull with God.” He focused vaguely on Bell’s face. “Thank you for trying to save me.”

“Was it Antonio Branco, the grocer?”

“Big aqueduct contractor. Must be Black Hand.”

“Did you tell Branco that Culp sent you to Brandon Finn?”

“Culp is my friend,” gasped Claypool, and Isaac Bell watched him die with that typically enigmatic answer on his lips. Culp is my friend told no one whether Branco’s savage interrogation had forced him to reveal that J. B. Culp was the boss he had been tracking.

Bell checked his pulse and pressed his ear to his chest, but the fixer was dead. He reached for the knife protruding from the body, pulled it free, took it under the nearest light bulb. It was a folding pocket knife with a legal-length blade. The handle was the narrow sort that Detective Warren had described, barely wider than the blade itself, and tapered even thinner at the hinge that transformed it, when open, into a stiletto.

Bell saw no maker’s mark. It had been fabricated by a specialty cutler.

He slung Claypool’s featherlight frame over his shoulder and carried him down six stories to the sidewalk and up Broadway to Cortlandt Street and into his building. There were no cops yet or police detectives. Back on the street, Bell met up with Warren, Kisley, and Fulton, who had caught up in a REO town car the agency had on promotional loan from the manufacturer.

“We’re going to Prince Street,” Bell told them. “Move over, I’ll drive!”

“Branco?”

“He’ll need escape money. I saw him. Claypool fingered him. And I have his knife.”



Isaac Bell drove as fast as he could, straight up Broadway, toward Prince Street. Traffic was heavy even at this late hour, but not at the standstill of business hours. The REO’s motor was fairly powerful and its horn was very loud. His Black Hand Squad, crowded in beside Bell and in the backseat, checked over their guns, and traded info about the case.

Bell’s Black Hand and President Assassin cases had converged like a pair of ocean liners on a collision course. The saloon keeper Ghiottone had recruited a Black Hand man to kill President Roosevelt, and Antonio Branco had seized the opportunity to send the ultimate Black Hand letter.

“The scheme backfired when Ghiottone told Branco.”