The Wrecker

39

BEFORE PHILIP DOW REACHED HIS VICTIM, THE STATEROOM flew open. The woman must have been standing there, gripping the knob, listening for Bell. Bell waved the champagne bottle. Her eager smile went out like a light and her eyes flashed angrily.

“Preston! What are you-”

“Look out!” a voice roared behind Dow.

The man whose skull Dow was about to crush with his sap whirled around, and Dow saw no yellow mustache above the mouth that dropped open in drunk confusion. The champagne bottle he raised instinctively deflected Dow’s blow. The heavy sap whizzed a quarter inch from Marion Morgan’s face and smashed into the stateroom door, denting the hard walnut.

No yellow mustache! thought Dow. It wasn’t Isaac Bell. That put Bell behind him; it was he who had shouted the warning. Dow shoved past the cringing drunk he had almost killed to use him for a shield.

Dow saw the detective running at him full steam. He jerked his revolver from his waistband. Bell was a third of the way down the eighty-foot corridor, drawing a Browning No. 2 semiautomatic pistol from his tuxedo with liquid ease. Dow whipped up his heavy .45, willing to bet that a Van Dorn operative who favored a light Browning could hit a gnat in the eye at twenty paces.

Isaac Bell saw a man whose features he remembered from a Mine Owners’ Association wanted poster. Philip Dow, assassin. Preston Whiteway lurched into Bell’s way. Bell held his fire. “Down!” he shouted.

Dow pulled his trigger as fast as he could. He couldn’t miss. Bell filled the narrow corridor like a locomotive speeding through a single-tracked tunnel.

“Marion, don‘t!” Bell cried.

Dow felt the beautiful woman in the red dress grab his arm with both hands.

His first shot hit the champagne bottle the detective was carrying, and it exploded in a foamy spray of green glass. His second shot hit the detective. His third shot plowed into the floor. He jerked his arm free and aimed his revolver in the woman’s face.

Isaac Bell felt a sledgehammer blow as the assassin’s bullet tore through his forearm. He switched the Browning to his left hand and looked for a clear shot. Marion had the good sense to step back into the stateroom. But Preston Whiteway was still flailing about the corridor, blocking his shot. As Bell saw the man who had shot him turn his weapon into Marion’s stateroom, he squeezed his trigger.

Philip Dow heard an explosion in his head. For a second, he thought he had taken a bullet and somehow survived. Then he realized that Bell had shot his ear off. He felt a tug on his arm as Bell’s second shot scored. His fingers opened involuntarily, and the revolver flew from his hand. Dow shoved the drunk at Bell before the detective could fire again, and ran the few feet to the vestibule door behind him, flung it open, and jumped off the train.

A cinder dick was running toward the sound of gunfire. Dow wasted no time thinking. His sap was still in his right hand. He smashed the cop between the eyes and bolted for the dark.

Bell got as far as the bottom step from the vestibule before the pain in his arm knocked him to his knees. Railroad police were running toward the Hennessy special. “There!” Bell pointed with his pistol. “One man. Medium height. Dark suit and derby. He dropped his gun. Probably has another.”

The cops stormed off, blowing whistles for assistance. Bell stumbled up the steps just as Marion came down. “Are you all right?” they chorused.

“I’m fine,” she said, and shouted to a conductor running up, “Get a doctor!”

She helped Bell into the car. Preston Whiteway was leaning on her door, blocking it.

“Say, what’s going on?” he asked.

“Preston!” said Marion Morgan. “Get out of our way before I pick up that gun and shoot you.”

The newspaper publisher shambled off, scratching his head. Marion helped Bell into her stateroom and onto the bed.

“Towels,” muttered Bell. “Before I make a mess of your sheets.”

“How badly hurt are you, Isaac?”

“I think I’m O.K. He only got my arm, thanks to you.”

By the time the doctor came from the Southern Pacific’s hospital car, the railroad police had reported to Bell that the man who had shot him had disappeared in the dark.

“Keep looking,” Bell said. “I’m pretty sure I winged him. In fact, I think I shot his ear off.”

“You sure did! We found a chunk of it. And a trail of blood right to the edge of the lights. But not enough to kill him, unfortunately.”

“Find him! His name is Philip Dow. There’s ten thousand dollars on his head. I want to know if he is working for the Wrecker.”

The Southern Pacific Company doctor was a rough-and-ready sort used to the puncture and crush wounds encountered in railroad building. Bell was relieved that he was singularly unimpressed by the bloody furrow that Dow’s .45 caliber slug had plowed through his flesh and muscle. The doctor washed it thoroughly with water. Then he held up a bottle of carbolic acid. “This is going to hurt.”

“Blood poisoning will hurt more,” Bell said, gritting his teeth. There was cloth in the wound. “Pour it on.”

After the doctor dosed it with the fiery disinfectant, he dressed it. “You may want to rest it in a sling for a couple of days. But the bone’s all right. Bet it hurts like the blazes.”

“Yes,” Bell said, grinning at Marion, who looked a bit pale. “Now that you mention it.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of that.”

The doctor took a hypodermic needle from his leather bag and started to draw a clear fluid into the barrel.

“What’s that?” asked Bell.

“Morphine hydrochloride. You won’t feel a thing.”

“No thanks, Doc. I need a clear head.”

“Suit yourself,” said the doctor. “I’ll change that dressing tomorrow. Good night. Good night, ma‘am.”

Marion shut the door behind him.

“Clear head? Isaac, you’ve been shot. You’re white as a ghost. The pain must be awful. Can’t you take the rest of the night off?”

“I intend to,” said Bell, reaching for her with his good arm. “That’s why I want a clear head.”