“Abandoned. The scheme collapsed and Hennessy cut his losses—stopped work just short of Ecorse.”
“Is it still there?”
“It must be. He’d have sealed it up, having paid for it, hoping to finish it sometime in the future. But it strikes me that if some smart bootlegger found out, he might have finished the last hundred feet or so and had himself a hooch tunnel from Fighting Island to Detroit.”
“So this would be a much bigger tunnel than something hacked out with shovel and pick.”
“Bigger? I’ll say. Hennessy’s section has room for a locomotive, tender, caboose, and twenty-five railcars.”
“Grady, you are a genius.”
Bell heard a sharp clang on the telephone line. Grady said, “I am raising a glass to that thought. Hope it helps.”
“Wait! Find me a map. Somewhere must be engineers’ plans and surveys.”
“Oh, didn’t I tell you? I put it on the night train. You’ll have it this morning.”
• • •
BELL HIRED A SURVEYOR. The surveyor confirmed with his transit what already looked likely to the naked eye. The jumping-off point indicated on Osgood Hennessy’s original tunnel drawings was beneath a large wooden building under construction on Fighting Island directly across from Ecorse. Inquiries in Canada revealed it was to be a ferry terminal, which seemed odd for an island peopled by a handful of recluses. The mystery was cleared up when the Van Dorns discovered that the company building the terminal had also applied for building permits to erect a Ferris wheel and dance pavilion for a mid-river summer resort.
“Maybe,” said Bell.
Plotting where the tunnel would emerge in Ecorse would have been a simple matter of perching the surveyor on the half-built terminal and pointing his transit across the water at the compass angle projected on Hennessy’s map. But binoculars showed the building site was fenced off. Riflemen were guarding the high wooden wall, confirmation that the tunnel started under the terminal.
• • •
BELL PRESENTED his New York Yacht Club credentials to gain admission to the Detroit Yacht Club. He bought a river chart and rented two Gar Wood speedboats. He made one a guard boat, manned by Tobin, Clayton, and Ellis, heavily armed, and took the surveyor with him downstream in the other.
“You’ll have to be quick,” he told the surveyor. “We don’t want to be noticed by customs or hijackers.”
• • •
NEARING ECORSE, Bell throttled back and disengaged the propellers to let the boat drift on the current while the surveyor sighted the terminal. He was quick.
“X marks the spot, Mr. Bell. The original tunnel is directly under us now.”
Bell engaged the engines in reverse to hold the boat against the current. The surveyor whipped his transit one hundred eighty degrees to pinpoint where on the Ecorse waterfront the tunnel would emerge, provided the last section continued in a straight line.
“That red boathouse, Mr. Bell, if the extension is in-line with the original.”
Bell noted that the chart showed a water depth of thirty feet. He wondered how deeply the crown of the tunnel was buried under the river bottom. A way to attack Marat Zolner was taking shape in his mind. It was instigated by the bartender’s tale of his boss getting shot. Submachine guns almost certainly indicated the Comintern had a hand in it. And if they did, he was beginning to realize why they would cut the price of booze in half.
Bell headed downriver, waited for dusk, and went back to the spot between the ferry terminal and the red boathouse. Idling the engines to keep the boat in place, he checked their position relative to the two structures. Then he took compass bearings on a light atop the red boathouse and bearings on prominent lights up and down the river. Returning to this precise spot tomorrow night would be a simple matter of lining up the lights.
30
JAMES DASHWOOD returned to Detroit with more bad news. He had come within sixty seconds of catching up with Fern Hawley—one minute too late to stop her chartered flying boat from taking off from Miami.
“Florida is a good place to hide if you’re as rich as she is. She could be in Palm Beach or the Florida Keys, or Havana, Cuba, or Bimini or Nassau or any other islands of The Bahamas. Or she could have rendezvoused with a yacht at sea. I put the word out to our various people and decided I’d be more useful back in Detroit.”
Bell said, “Maybe Nassau—where the booze tanker is headed. In which case, Pauline will deal with her.”
“Maybe I should go down and look out for Pauline?”
“Pauline looks out for herself. Do you remember the spy who was sabotaging the Navy’s battleships?”
Dashwood grinned. “I remember trying to convince his enormous bodyguard that I was an itinerant temperance orator, not a detective.”