The Spy by Clive;Justin Scott Cussler

waiting for you at headquarters. Tell the desk sergeant you want to see Barney George.”
    A motor ambulance mounted on the new Model T chassis pulled up in front of the dance hall. As Bell laid MacDonald inside, the boxer clutched his hand again. Bell climbed in with him, beside the doctor, and rode to the hospital. While a surgeon worked on the Scot in the operating room, Bell telephoned New York with orders to warn John Scully, who was watching hull designer Farley Kent, and to dispatch operatives to the Naval Torpedo Station at Newport to guard the life of Ron Wheeler.
    Three men central to the American dreadnaught program had died, and a fourth was at death’s door. But if he had not witnessed the attack on Alasdair MacDonald, it would have been reported as a likely event in a saloon brawler’s life instead of attempted murder. There was already a possibility that Langner had been murdered. What if the Bethlehem foundry explosion MacDonald had told him about wasn’t an accident? Was the Westchester climbing accident murder, too?
    Bell sat by the man’s bed all night and into the morning. Suddenly, at noon, Alasdair MacDonald filled his mighty chest with a shuddering breath and let it slowly sigh away. Bell shouted for the doctor. But he knew it was hopeless. Saddened, and deeply angry, Bell went to the Camden Police headquarters and reported to Detective George his part in failing to stop the attack.
    “Did you retrieve any of their knives?” Bell asked when he had finished.
    “All three.” George showed them to Bell. Alasdair MacDonald’s blood had dried on the blade that killed him. “Strange-looking things, aren’t they?”
    Bell picked up one of the two others not stained and examined it. “It’s a Butterflymesser.”
    “A who?”
    “A German folding knife, modeled on a Balisong butterfly knife. Quite rare outside the Philippine Islands.”
    “I’ll say. I’ve never seen one. German, you say?”
    Bell showed him the maker’s mark incised on the tang of the blade. “Bontgen and Sabin of Solingen. Question is, where did they get them . . . ?” He looked the Camden detective full in the face. “How much money did you find in the dead men’s pockets?”
    Detective George looked aside. Then he made a show of flipping through the pages of his handwritten case notes. “Oh, yeah, here it is—less than ten bucks each.”
    Eyes cold, voice grim, Bell said, “I am not interested in recouping what might have gone astray before it was recorded as evidence. But the correct number—the actual amount of cash in their pockets—will indicate whether they were paid to do the killing. That amount, spoken privately between you and me, will be an important clue for my investigation.”
    The Camden cop pretended to read his notes again. “One had eight dollars and two bits. The others had seven bucks, a dime, and a nickel.”
    Isaac Bell’s bleak gaze dropped to the Butterflymesser he was holding. With a peculiar flick of his wrist, he caused the blade to fly open. It glinted like ice. He appeared to study it, as if wondering what use to put it to. Detective George, though deep in the confines of his own precinct, nervously wet his lips.
    Bell said, “A workingman earns about five hundred dollars a year. A year’s pay to kill a man might seem the right amount to an evil person who would commit such an act for money. Therefore, it would help me to know whether those two killers who did not escape were carrying such a large sum.”
    Detective George breathed a sigh of relief. “I guarantee you, neither packed such a roll.”
    Bell stared at him. Detective George looked happy he had not lied. Finally Bell asked, “Mind if I keep one of these knives?”
    “I’ll have to ask you to sign for it—but not the one they killed him with. We’ll need that for the trial if we ever catch the son of a bitch—which ain’t likely if he don’t come back to Camden.”
    “He’s coming back,” Isaac Bell vowed. “In