The Spy by Clive;Justin Scott Cussler Page A

chains.”

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    ‘ G UTS’ DAVE KELLY—THE ONE YOU PUT A HOLE IN HIS head—and ‘Blood Bucket’ Dick Butler took their orders from a brain named Irv Weeks—the ‘Iceman,’ on account of he’s got cold blue eyes like ice, heart and soul to match. Being that Weeks is smarter than Kelly and Butler was by a long shot, and seeing how you described him hanging back waiting for his chance, I’ll lay money it was Weeks who got away.”
    “With my bullet in his shoulder.”
    “The Iceman is a tough customer. If it didn’t kill him, you can bet he’s hopped a freight train back to New York and paid a midwife to dig it out.”
    Harry Warren, Van Dorn’s New York gang specialist, had come down on the train in response to Bell’s telephone call and gone straight to the Camden city morgue, where he identified the murderers Bell had shot as members of the Hell’s Kitchen Gopher Gang. Warren caught up with Bell at the police station. The two Van Dorns conferred in a corner of the detectives’ bull pen.
    “Harry, who would send these Bowery Boy hellions all the way to Camden?”
    “Tommy Thompson, the ‘Commodore,’ bosses the Gophers.”
    “Does he traffic in hired killings?”
    “You name it, Tommy does it. But there was nothing to stop these guys from hiring out on their own—so long as they paid Tommy his cut. Did the Camden cops find big money on the bodies? Or should I ask, did they admit to finding big money on the bodies?”
    “They claim they didn’t,” Bell replied. “I made it clear that we are after bigger fish than thieving cops, and from the answer I got back I am reasonably certain that the amounts were small. Perhaps they would be paid afterward. Perhaps their boss kept the bulk of it.”
    “Both,” said Harry Warren. He thought hard. “But it’s strange, Isaac. These gang boys usually stick close to home. Like I say, Tommy would do anything for dough, but Gophers and the like tend not to venture out of their own neighborhoods. Half of them couldn’t find Brooklyn, much less cross state lines.”
    “Find out why they did this time.”
    “I’ll try and brace Weeks soon as I learn where he’s recuperating and—”
    “Don’t brace him. Send for me.”
    “O.K., Isaac. But don’t count on much. No one’s keeping books on a deal like this. For all we know, it could have been personal. Maybe MacDonald poked one too many guys in the snoot.”
    “Have you ever heard of a New York gangster using a Butterflymesser?”
    “You mean the Philippine flip-open knife?”
    Bell showed him the Butterflymesser.
    “Yeah, there was a Duster who joined the Army to get away from the cops, ended up fighting in the Filipino insurrection. He brought one back and killed a gambler with it who owed him money. At least, that’s what they said, but I bet it was the cocaine. You know how ‘dust’ makes ’em paranoiac.”
    “In other words, the Butterflymesser is not common in New York.”
    “That Duster’s was the only one I ever heard of.”

    BELL RACED TO NEW YORK.
    He hired a driver and mechanic to drive his Locomobile back while he took the train. A police launch, provided by Detective George, who was delighted to help him leave Camden, ran him across the Delaware River to Philadelphia, where he caught a Pennsylvania Railroad express. When he arrived at the Knickerbocker Hotel, light in the afternoon sky still glowed on the green copper roof, but nearer the street the red brick, French renaissance façade was growing dim.
    He telephoned Joseph Van Dorn long-distance in Washington.
    “Excellent job on the Frye Boys,” Van Dorn greeted him. “I just had lunch with the Attorney General, and he is tickled pink.”
    “Thank John Scully. I only held his coat.”
    “How much longer to wrap up the Langner suicide?”
    “This is bigger than Langner,” Bell retorted, and he told Van Dorn what had transpired.
    “Four murders?” Van Dorn asked incredulously.
    “One for sure—the one I witnessed. One