“Well done,” Talbot said admiringly.
Bell gave a self-deprecating shrug. “There’s no heroism in saving your own skin.” He turned his attention back to Keno Wilson. “May I inquire about your investigation?”
“Nothing to tell so far. Five Hispanic men ran down the main stairs and, upon encountering your fella, Hart, they knocked him senseless with the butt of the machine gun, which Major Talbot identified as a Hotchkiss, and proceeded—”
“It was a Lewis,” Bell corrected.
“You’re right,” Talbot said, shaking his head. “I got that wrong. Sorry, Chief Wilson. Bell’s right, it was a Lewis gun, not a Hotchkiss. I’ve been a civilian too long to keep up with modern firearms.”
“Either way, it’s a poor choice of weapons for an assassination,” Bell said and waved a hand toward all the mangled joinery. “The gunman couldn’t control it.”
“If I had to guess,” Wilson said, “I’d think their plan was to burst in here and take you entirely by surprise. The machine gun would keep you pinned down while the other four with revolvers approached and killed the Senator and most likely the rest of you too. Turns out two of the gunmen died in this room. Major Talbot said that was your handiwork.”
Bell nodded. “It was.”
“Justified, by the way,” Wilson told him. “I won’t be bringing up charges.”
“Thank you.”
“That don’t mean I want you leaving town anytime soon. There are a lot of questions that need answering.”
Bell said, “I believe I can answer one of those questions tonight.”
“And that is?”
“How did they sneak a four-foot-long machine gun into a busy hotel without anyone noticing?”
“How?”
“Two of them brought it in in pieces and assembled it in their room upstairs.”
“What two men?”
Bell didn’t answer Talbot’s question. “We need a manager to unlock their room.”
“Whose?”
“You’ll see.” Talbot stuck close to Bell and the police chief while Densmore was content to sit and let a waiter bring him another whiskey. Elizabeth and Beau had vanished on their walk. On the way out of the dining room, Bell paused to pull the shroud back from one of the dead men’s faces. Even in the chaos of the brutal assault he’d thought he’d recognized one of the shooters. Now he was certain.
On Wilson’s authority, the night duty manager led them up to the second floor just down the hallway from Bell’s room.
“Do you know the names of these guests?” Bell asked the manager when they were clustered outside the door.
“Brothers, Mr. Bell. From Mexico. They were here to work on some mosaics for the buildings of the Panama–California Exposition opening next year. I don’t recall their names.”
“Doesn’t matter. They’re aliases,” Bell said and rapped his knuckles on the door hard enough to rattle it in its frame. He shot a look to Wilson. “One of the supposed brothers is dead on the floor in the dining hall.”
“The body you looked at?”
Bell nodded. “I saw him come out of the lavatory earlier today and enter this room. The other brother is dead next to him or on the bottom of the bay.”
When no one answered the door, Bell gestured for the manager to open it. Bell pressed the button to turn on the lights. The room was a mess. The bedding had been removed from the two queen-size mattresses and left on the floor. It appeared that’s where the two men preferred to sleep. There were dozens of dirty dishes stacked on the credenza and on the nightstands. But the windows had been left open, so at least the air smelled fresh.
In one corner were wooden packing crates, ostensibly for their mosaic tile.
“It nagged at me earlier,” Bell said. “I used one of the lavatories when I arrived. The man in there before me left it a sodden mess. I remember thinking at the time that it looked like he’d never used a public washroom. Turns out I was right. He hadn’t, nor did he know enough to let room service take away the dirty dishes.”
“Rural boys not used to the city,” Wilson said.
“They weren’t Mexican artisans,” Bell concluded, “but Panamanian peasants turned anarchists sent here on a mission. This is likely the first time either man had ever stayed in a hotel.”
Bell crossed over to the wooden crates. Inside was nothing but packing hay. There were no tile cutters or mortaring tools of any kind. One of the crates, he noted, was long enough to accommodate the Lewis gun’s barrel. Bell got down on the floor to peer under the beds. He felt around their legs and came out with a wad of cotton. It was stained and smelled of cosmoline, the waxy corrosion inhibitor used to protect their weapons in tropical environments.
He gave it to Wilson. “Not a smoking gun, exactly, but close enough.”
“So, these two smuggled in the weapons,” Court Talbot stated.
“Right. The other four came to Coronado on their boat and linked up in here just before the assault.” Bell paused. He’d thought of something. “Chief, you’ll want to check with law enforcement from surrounding towns for a stolen boat. About thirty feet long, wooden rather than steel, with a big cockpit, and she was fast. They didn’t come from Panama in it, so they had to have stolen it. Could have swiped it in northern Mexico, I suppose. Anyway, once the men were together, and their getaway driver was in position at the marina, the guns were passed out and then all five raced downstairs for the ambush.”
“That’s good to know the details and all,” Court Talbot pointed out, “but does it really help? They’re dead now, and, like you said, whatever names they used to check in to the hotel are obviously aliases.”
“It raises a troubling point,” Bell told him, and made sure Chief Wilson was paying attention. “I had my agent make discreet inquiries about hotel guests earlier today. He spoke with all of them who made their reservations after the Senator’s meeting time and place became public knowledge.”
“Meaning?”
“This room was reserved before anyone could possibly know you were to brief Senator Densmore. Viboras Rojas knew about our conference in advance.”
“Wait. What?”
“How is that possible?” Wilson asked.
“I do not know,” Bell answered. “But I am damned sure going to find out.”
6
Chief Wilson allowed Bell to help him perform a thorough search of the room while the night manager went down to the front desk to retrieve the reservation and registration information. Court Talbot also returned downstairs to check on the Senator, only to find he’d retired for the night.
As Bell suspected, they found nothing of interest—no papers of any kind or any other way of identifying the assailants. The reservation had been made from a telegraph office in Acapulco, most likely when the gunmen were heading north on a tramp steamer. Another dead end.
“Maybe we’ll get lucky and there will be some clues on the bodies,” Wilson said with little enthusiasm.
Bell gave him an appraising look. “Are you normally lucky?”
The chief gave a mirthless chuckle. They were professional lawmen who understood that smart criminals rarely got caught, and even if these were poorly trained guerrillas—judging by their poor accuracy—whoever backed them knew what they were doing. “Nope. What about where the other four have been sleeping? Boardinghouse, you think?”
“Possible, but if I were them, I’d stay on the boat out at sea. Come morning, I bet we find a small dinghy hidden in the dunes that the three men not staying here rowed ashore while their driver took his position at the marina.”
“If they did that, why bother getting a room? Why not launch the attack from the beach?”
“Come on, Chief, you’ve been here enough times. The public spaces are packed with folks. They’d be spotted immediately. Sneaking down from the deserted guest hallways mainta
ins the element of surprise.”
“Not if they just used pistols and didn’t bother with a monstrous machine gun. Talk about your overkill, right?”
“That bothers me a bit, but not if you look at it from a propaganda perspective. The notoriety Viboras Rojas would gain by such an audacious assassination more than offsets the cost of a room.”
Wilson agreed. “I can see the newspapermen milking that story for all it’s worth.”
“Headlines for weeks, and not just here but in Panama too. Real shot in the arm for the cause,” Bell said. “If you don’t mind, I want to check the dining hall again.”
“Something bothering you?”
“Well, I don’t like being shot at, for one thing, but I want to look at the attack from the gunmen’s perspective. It’s a technique that helps me see how a crime is committed.”
“Suit yourself. I’ve got to check in on my guys downstairs to see if they learned anything from the guests and staff.” Wilson tipped his blue cap and strode from the room.
Bell gave him a moment to get down the stairs and then followed. He imagined one of the gunmen, armed with a pistol, would act as a scout, making sure no one would see the machine gunner walking the halls with the four-foot weapon cradled in his arms. Their room was just a short hallway and two corners from the main stairs. Call it fifteen seconds, at a fast walk.
Once they established their path was clear, the machine gunner would rush down the hall with the others, collecting the scout as they came, with the final man likely waiting at the bottom of the staircase. He’d have to ask Renny Hart about seeing a Panamanian loitering just before the assault.
Bell rushed down the steps, imagining himself cradling the thirty-pound Lewis gun. At the foot of the stairs, they would have seen Renny Hart loitering but would have thought nothing of it until the Van Dorn man reacted. Renny had to have rushed over and managed to shout a warning before he was struck with the butt of the machine gun. The force of the blow shoved him hard against the door, and an instant later they were inside the dining room.
The doors were already open for Bell’s reconstructive walk-through, so he entered the vaulted chamber. The bodies of the two Panamanians had been taken away, though the pools of blood remained as gruesome reminders. The floor was still littered with dozens upon dozens of empty shell casings. The men with pistols had been carrying .38 revolvers, so all the brass belonged to the Lewis. Bell studied the far end of the room where he’d been sitting with Densmore and the others. The range was tricky for a pistol shot unless the shooter was an expert marksman and stood perfectly still. This gave credence to Chief Wilson’s theory that the machine gun fire was meant to keep them pinned so the other shooters could get close.
The Lewis gun had left its mark on the far wall. The woodwork was in tatters, and all the windows had been shot out. The bullet holes were all about five feet up the wall, a detail Bell presumed had to do with the weapon’s uncontrollable barrel rise when firing on full auto.
The table that had protected the party was another matter. It still leaned drunkenly against the other table they’d smashed into. It had been struck in a cluster in the center of its top a dozen times or more and yet not a single round had penetrated the inch-and-a-half-thick aged oak. Without it, Bell suspected he and Densmore and the others would be on their way to the morgue and not the two shooters he’d taken down.
By the time he was finished scouring the room for additional clues, and possible inspiration, it was almost two in the morning. The lobby was quiet. A different manager was on duty. Bell asked the man if he could reserve a long-distance line for a nine o’clock call to National Studios in Hollywood.
Trying to escape Thomas Edison’s draconian rules for using his motion picture cameras and projectors, the major East Coast studios were slowly migrating to the sleepy town just outside L.A., taking advantage of cheap land, for sets and sound stages, and the almost three hundred sunny days per year, as well as the nearby interesting geographic locations. National Studios was in the process of courting Bell’s wife, Marion, to be one of their contract directors.
Movies were mostly being made using classically trained stage actors who were used to overemoting in order for their performance to reach the back of the theater. As a result, their portrayals on-screen tended to be rather exaggerated and campy. Marion instructed her actors to downplay their craft for the more intimate medium of film. As a result, she could draw raw emotion out of an actor better than anyone working in pictures. It made her movies feel more genuine. Despite her gender, she was one of the most bankable directors in the industry.
Bell couldn’t just cable her with his change of plan. This deserved a phone call.
He reserved a second long-distance line for nine-thirty. He needed to brief Joseph Van Dorn.
Bell let himself sleep for a couple hours, rousing just before dawn. He’d long ago trained himself to operate on very little sleep for up to three days—the average time needed for a typical stakeout. He dressed and used the washroom before heading downstairs.
The main dining room was locked, as he suspected it would be until everything returned to normal. He went down one more flight to the beach level. The waiters for the casual eatery were just getting ready for early rising guests. He convinced a waitress to combine three bone china cups of coffee in a beer stein and he headed out onto the beach.
The breeze off the Pacific was a cleansing breath that dispelled the fuzziness from only three hours’ sleep. With the sun just climbing up from the east, the vast ocean remained dark, like spilled ink, except where the waves curled in on the sugary sand. Seabirds clustered at the tideline, picking at something dead that had washed ashore. A collegian in a USC shirt was just coming back from a barefoot run down the beach.
“Excuse me,” Bell said as the student athlete slowed. His face was flushed, and he was breathing hard.
“Yes, sir. May I help you?”
“How far did you just run?”
“Probably three miles down and three back.”
“Didn’t notice any abandoned boats, did you?”
“Boats? No, sir. Nothing but beach and seaweed.”
“Thanks.”
Bell started walking in the opposite direction, grateful the young runner had saved him from having to search the beach in both directions. He was fairly sure the attackers wouldn’t have risked sneaking past Tent City to the south of the hotel, but having the student confirm it gave him some peace of mind.
Sipping his coffee, Bell set out to the north. It was going to be a beautiful day, and he found himself enjoying the walk. Living in New York for the past few years, he’d forgotten what it was like to be so close to nature. The only sounds were the sea, the wind, and the occasional cry of a gull. He couldn’t even hear any ships’ horns from inside San Diego Harbor. He wasn’t sure how he’d feel if Marion wanted to relocate. He loved the hustle and bustle of life on the East Coast, but it would be a nice change to come west again and take part in California’s transformation once the trans-isthmus canal made it more accessible.
He’d covered about a mile when he came upon a thicket of seagrass about thirty feet above the tideline. The beach sand was smooth, but not in a naturally windblown way. It looked like it had been disturbed and then kicked back into place and then raked over with a broom or leafy branch from a tree farther inland.
Bell turned to investigate the tufts of head-high grass, and, just as he’d predicted, there was a small rowboat hidden in the densest part of the little patch. The craft was wooden and poorly maintained. The duckboards were slimy with mold, and rot was eroding the gunwales. The brass oarlocks were pitted from years of exposure to salt air. He checked it thoroughly. There was no name on the transom or any manufacturer’s tag. It was just an anonymous boat, but it was doubtlessly the one the attackers had used to come ashore from their stolen cabin cruiser.
He lef
t it alone and began to walk back to the Hotel Del, his now depleted stein swinging from a finger.
7
A bellhop found Isaac Bell eating a breakfast of soft scrambled eggs and smoked salmon with toast at the poolside restaurant. Though it was still early, eager sunbathers were already staking out their spots for when the day warmed. They sat bundled in robes and towels for now, while a handful of children, who seemed to be immune to cold, were already at play in the saltwater pool.
“Begging your pardon, Mr. Bell. Chief Wilson just got word to the hotel that he would like you to meet him at the ferry dock at the base of Orange Avenue.”
“When?”
“Now, sir. I took the liberty of arranging a motor taxi.”
Without another word, Bell forked the remaining lox and eggs onto a piece of toast and folded it over like a tortilla and wolfed down the first half in a single bite. He settled his hat atop his head and allowed the teen to lead him upstairs and out the main lobby entrance. A black Model T was waiting. The driver was at the wheel, but the door to the rear bench seat was open.
As soon as Bell settled in, the car lurched from the curb and out onto Orange. He shouted to the bellhop, “Cancel my long-distance reservations.”
As they sped down the palm-lined street the driver said, “There’s no need to pay, sir. My service will be tacked onto your room charge, as a convenience to hotel guests.”
“Thanks,” Bell said, thinking this would all go onto the bill the Van Dorn accountants would be preparing for the Republican Party. He finished his folded breakfast sandwich.
The Saboteurs Page 6
