The Gangster

“I’ll beat a hundred, this winter. Come on, I’ll show you the house.”

The house at Raven’s Eyrie was a very large mansion with striking views through sheets of glass so big they could have been department store show windows in New York. Here, too, Culp struck him as more the proud homeowner than a killer. For the interior, Culp had gone shopping in Europe. Bell exclaimed politely at regular intervals, and stopped dead in his tracks to study an enormous silver, lapis lazuli, and ivory sculpture on the dining room table. Dominating the table, where it would tower over thirty guests, it depicted Saint George, on horseback, running his lance through a dragon. Bell had just figured out that the giant bowls at the dragon’s head and tail made it a salt and pepper cellar when Mrs. Culp suddenly appeared, leading her cook and majordomo.

She looked to be a decade Culp’s junior, closer to Bell’s age. She would hardly be the first rich man’s wife whose husband spent nights in the Cherry Grove bordello, but, thought Bell, Daphne Culp was such a looker it would not seem worth the trouble leaving home.

“Bell,” Culp introduced him brusquely. “Met him racing at Seawanhaka.”

Bell praised the ice yacht and her house, and she asked, “Do I hear the faintest trace of Boston in your voice, Mr. Bell?”

“Guilty, ma’am. I thought most of it rubbed off at New Haven.”

“Butler went to Yale, too, didn’t you, dear?”

“John Butler Culp was a legendary Old Blue when I arrived,” said Bell.

“Not that old, for gosh sakes,” said Culp.

Daphne soon established she and Bell had in common distant cousins by marriage, and she asked him to stay to dinner. “Did you come up from New York? You better stay the night.”

“Let me show you the gymnasium,” said Culp.

* * *

“Your own prize ring,” said Bell.

“And my own prizefighters.”

Culp introduced Lee and Barry. They were well-knit men, with firm, elastic steps. Lee was tall and lean, Barry slightly shorter and twice as wide, and Culp would reap the benefit of training with different types.

“Did I hear somewhere you boxed for Yale?” Culp asked.

“I believe I heard the same about you.”

“Shall we go a couple?”

Bell took off his coat and shoulder holster.

Culp asked, “Do you have much occasion for artillery in the insurance business?”

“Violent swindlers are notable exceptions,” Bell answered, hanging his coat and gun on a peg. He stripped off his tie and shirt, stepped up onto the ring, ducked through the tightly strung ropes, and crossed the canvas into the far corner. Culp removed his coat, tie, and shirt and climbed in after him. “Do you need gloves?”

“Not if you don’t.”

“Put ’em up.”

Barry, who had been punching the heavy bag, and Lee, twirling the Indian clubs, watched with barely concealed smirks. Barry banged the bell with the little hammer that hung beside it. Culp and Bell advanced to the center of the ring, touched knuckles, backed up a step, and commenced sparring.

Bell saw immediately that Culp was very, very good, sporting a rare combination of bulk, speed, and agility. Though ten years Bell’s senior, he was extremely fit. Bell was not surprised. At the yacht club, Culp had bounded about the decks of his New York “Thirty” like a born athlete. What was slightly surprising was how determined the Wall Street titan was to give him a black eye. In fact, he seemed bent on it, swinging repeatedly at his head, to the point where it made him reckless. Frustrated by Bell’s footwork and impenetrable guard, he began unleashing punches that opened chinks in his own defense.

Lee rang the bell, ending the first round. They took a moment’s rest and went another.

In the third round, Culp threw caution to the wind and charged, using his bulk in an attempt to startle Bell into dropping his ground and hurling at him a mighty right. Had it connected, it would have knocked Bell through the ropes.

Culp tried the tactic again, and Bell decided to end it before things got further out of hand. He opened Culp with two swift feints of his left hand, then planted a light jab with the same left in Culp’s eye.

Unpadded by gloves, Bell’s knuckles took their toll, and Culp staggered backwards. His face darkened with anger, and he stepped through the ropes, holding his eye.

“Take over!”

The tall, lean Lee put down the Indian clubs and climbed into the ring.

Culp lumbered toward the door. “You’ll excuse me, I have to dress for dinner. Enjoy the facility, Detective Bell.”

“I wondered when you’d figure that out,” said Bell.

“Long before I saw your gun.”

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Now I know for sure what you’re up to.”

Culp laughed. “You won’t know your own name when these two get through with you. Go to it, boys.”

He whipped Bell’s holster off the peg and took it with him.

Lee put up his fists. “Shall we say fifteen rounds?”

“Or until you get tired,” said Bell.

“When he gets tired,” called Barry, “it’s my turn.”

* * *

At the end of five rounds, Lee said, “Something tells me you didn’t learn that footwork at Yale.”

“South Side,” said Bell.