The Chase (16 page)

She went rigid, and did not turn and look up at him. She stared across the table into her brother's eyes with an unfathomable expression—surprise, maybe, or consternation, or something else—something bordering on shock or distress. For an instant, it was as though she did not know how to react. And then she recovered in the blink of an eye.

“I'm sorry, but I don't know a Mr. Isaac Bell.” Her voice was steady without the least indication of a tremor. She spoke without looking at him. She knew that if she did it would come like a physical blow to her stomach. She was grateful she wasn't standing or her legs would have turned to rubber and she'd have fallen to the carpet.

“Forgive me,” said Bell, certain now from her reaction that she was the woman he knew as Rose Manteca. “It must be a case of mistaken identity.”

Cromwell had come to his feet out of courtesy and was holding his napkin. He gazed at Bell like a prizefighter sizing up his opponent before the bell of the first round. He showed not the least bit of surprise or incomprehension. He held out his hand. “Jacob Cromwell, Mr. Bell. Are you a member of the club?”

“No, a guest of Horace Bronson, of the Van Dorn Detective Agency.”

Bell shook Cromwell's hand, thinking it strange the banker would keep his gloves on while he ate. Out of years of investigative habit, he glanced at the little finger of the glove on the left hand. The material over the finger was filled out and solid. Not that he thought there was the remotest chance Cromwell was the bandit. That was a crazy idea.

Cromwell nodded. “I know Horace. A fine man. A credit to your company.”

Bell noticed close up how Cromwell's red hair was closely trimmed and was beginning to thin at the rear of the head. The banker was short and thin and carried himself with more feminine grace than masculine roughness. Bell saw the same expression in the eyes as he'd once seen in a mountain lion he had shot in Colorado. There was a cold, almost dead, look from deep inside.

“Yes, that he is.”

“Bell? I do not think I've heard the name before,” Cromwell said as if trying to place it. He dismissed the thought as if it were of no great importance. “Do you live in San Francisco?”

“No, Chicago.”

Margaret still could not bring herself to look at Bell. She felt an uncontrollable fire down deep in her body. Her discomfort flared and she blushed red as a cherry. Then she turned angry, not so much at Bell but at herself for showing emotion. “My brother and I would like to enjoy our dinner in private, Mr. Bell. If you will excuse us.”

He saw her long neck turn red and felt pleased. “I'm very sorry for the intrusion.” He nodded at Cromwell. “Mr. Cromwell.” Then Bell turned and walked back to his table.

As soon as he was certain Bell had moved out of earshot, Cromwell snorted. “What in hell is
he
doing in San Francisco? I thought Red Kelly took care of him.”

“Apparently, Kelly failed,” Margaret said with a small feeling of satisfaction in her stomach.

“How did he know
you
were here?”

“Don't look at me,” said Margaret angrily. “I took the train from Denver to Los Angeles as Rose Manteca and bought a horse there under another name. Then I rode it to Santa Barbara, where I took a train to San Francisco under yet another name. There is no way he could have traced me.”

“Are we to consider it coincidence?”

She looked like a lost dog. “I don't know. I just don't know.”

“Regardless of why he's in San Francisco, his presence spells trouble,” said Cromwell, staring openly with a constrained smile at the four agents seated around their table. “I don't think he's put two and two together, but after seeing you, suspecting you might have a connection with the bandit, and learning you're my sister, he'll be nosing around.”

“Maybe it's time for me to take a vacation.”

“Not a bad idea.”

“I'll book passage to Juneau, Alaska, first thing in the morning.”

“Why Juneau?” asked Cromwell. “It's colder than a witch's nipple up there.”

“Because it's the last place he'd look.” She paused, and her eyes took on a shrewd look. “And there is the fact that Eugene's father, Sam Butler, oversees his mining operations outside of Juneau.” Margaret laughed, loosening the bond on her emotions. “It gives me a chance to look over my future financial interests.”

“Dear sister,” Cromwell said genially, “you are a never-ending, constant source of amazement.” Then he brazenly looked across the dining room at Bell. “I wonder,” he muttered, “what happened to Red Kelly.”

“Maybe Bell killed him.”

“Maybe,” said Cromwell. “If that's the case, Bell is far more dangerous than I gave him credit for. Next time, I'll handle the matter myself.”

 

W
HEN
B
ELL
returned to the table, his dish of sweetbreads had arrived. He picked up a fork, looking forward to tasting the delicacy, but he was stopped by questions from everyone at the table.

“Was she the woman you think you met in Denver?” demanded Bronson.

Bell dodged the question, not wanting to dwell on what he knew was a touchy subject with Bronson. “I am probably wrong. I admit it. But the resemblance is quite extraordinary.”

“You have an eye for beauty,” Bronson said with a mild chuckle.

“How did you find Cromwell?” asked Irvine. “Do you think he will be helpful when I make an appointment with him to discuss the stolen currency that passed through his bank?”

“You'll have to ask Horace. I didn't mention our investigation. He seemed nice enough, if a little lordly.”

“He has a reputation of being lofty,” said Bronson. “But, one on one, he's quite solicitous, and I'm sure he will be very cooperative in your investigation.”

“We shall see,” Bell said, finally savoring the sweetbreads. After swallowing, he nodded at Irvine. “I think I'll accompany you to the Cromwell National Bank.”

“You want to meet him again?” asked Bronson.

Bell shook his head. “Not a priority, but I would like to probe around his bank.”

“What do you expect to find?” wondered Curtis.

Bell shrugged, but there was a faint gleam in his eyes. “You know, I haven't the faintest idea.”

M
ARION SAT AT HER DESK, TYPING A LETTER, WHEN
two men entered the office. She turned from her Underwood Model 5 typewriter and looked up. One man, with a thicket of un-brushed brown hair, smiled a friendly smile. He was thin, and would have appeared sickly if not for his tanned face. The other was tall, with blond hair. She could not see his face because he had turned away and seemed to be studying the luxurious décor of the office. “Miss Morgan?”

“Yes, may I help you?”

“My name is Irvine.” He handed her his agency card. “My fellow agent, Isaac Bell, and I are from the Van Dorn Detective Agency. We have an appointment with Mr. Cromwell.”

She came to her feet but did not smile. “Of course. Your appointment was for nine-thirty. You're five minutes early.”

Irvine made an open gesture with his hands. “You know the saying…”

“About the early bird getting the worm?” she said as if amused.

The tall blond-haired man faced her. “But the second mouse gets the cheese.”

“Very astute, Mr. Bell…” said Marion, her voice trailing off.

Their eyes met, and Marion suddenly felt something she had never felt before as she gazed into the blue-violet eyes. She realized now that he was well over six feet tall, with a wiry body clothed by a nicely tailored white linen suit. A large mustache was the exact shade of his flaxen, well-groomed hair. He was not handsome in the pretty-boy sense, but his features were craggy and masculine. There was a look of ruggedness about him, a man who was at home in the wild country of the West as well as the comforts of city life. She openly gazed at him, her usually well-restrained emotions in upheaval. No man had ever moved her this way before, certainly not on the first meeting.

Bell was also moved by the beauty of Marion and her aura of loveliness. The floor trembled beneath his feet as he stared back at her. She looked dainty but strong as a willow. There was a serene confidence about her that suggested she could surmount any complicated problem. She was poised and graceful, and, from the narrow waist to the flared bottom of her lengthy skirt, he could tell that she had long legs. The thick, lustrous hair was piled atop her head, with one long, narrow strand falling nearly to her waist. He guessed that she was the same age as he, give or take a year.

“Is Mr. Cromwell busy?” he asked, tearing himself back to the purpose of the visit.

“Yes…” she said with a trace of a stammer. “But he is expecting you.”

She knocked on Cromwell's door, entered, and announced Bell and Irvine's arrival. Then she stood aside and motioned them in as Cromwell came from behind his desk to greet them. As they passed through the door, Bell purposely brushed his hand against Marion's. She felt as if an electric shock had passed through her, before closing the door.

“Sit down, gentlemen,” said Cromwell. “Horace Bronson tells me you've come about the stolen currency that passed through my bank.”

Irvine seemed not to notice it, but Bell again found it intriguing that Cromwell wore gloves.

“That is correct,” Irvine said as Bell let him handle the conversation. “One of the bills, serial number 214799, was reported as being deposited in your bank.”

“That is entirely possible,” said Cromwell, toying with an unlit cigar. “I assume it was a fifty-or hundred-dollar bill, because we never record any currency less than that amount.”

Irvine checked his notations in a notebook. “Actually, it came from a merchant on Geary Street, a florist's shop. The manager, whose name is Rinsler, contacted the Van Dorn Detective Agency because he thought the bill might be counterfeit. It proved to be genuine. He stated that he'd obtained it from the Cromwell National Bank when he was transferring cash to a private safe.”

“Rinsler's reasons sound a bit shady,” added Bell. “But if he's violated the law, that's a problem for the local police department.”

“Millions of dollars pass through this bank during the course of a year,” said Cromwell. “I don't see why one bill is so important.”

“Because a check of the serial number revealed that it came from a bank robbery in Elkhorn, Montana, where the bandit murdered four bank employees and customers,” Bell explained.

Cromwell waited for more, but Bell and Irvine went silent. Irvine was examining his notes, but Bell was watching Cromwell intently. The banker met the unrelenting gaze without shifting his eyes. It stimulated his ego knowing that he was in a game of wits with the best agent Van Dorn had.

“I'm sorry, gentlemen,” said Cromwell, moving his gaze from Bell to his unlit cigar. “I fail to see how I can help you. If other bills from the robbery passed through the Cromwell Bank, they have long gone into general circulation and there is no way to trace them, no way of knowing who deposited them.”

“That is true,” Bell replied. “But we have to check out every lead, no matter how remote.”

“The bills were new and had consecutive serial numbers,” explained Irvine. “Is it possible you recorded them before they were put into circulation?”

“Quite possible, since, as I've said, we record fifty-and hundred-dollar bills.”

“Could you have your bookkeeper check your records?” Bell asked.

“Happy to oblige.” Cromwell paused to press a buzzer under his desk. Within seconds, Marion Morgan was standing in the doorway. “Miss Morgan, would you please have Mr. Hopkins come up to my office?”

She nodded. “Of course.”

When Hopkins showed up, he was not what Bell expected. Instead of a colorless, lackluster little man with glasses and a pencil behind one ear who spent his working life poring through numbers in ledgers, Hopkins looked like a star athlete, big, robust, and quick of movement. He nodded as Bell and Irvine were introduced.

“Mr. Bell and Mr. Irvine are from the Van Dorn Detective Agency. They are here to check out serial numbers on currency that was stolen during a bank robbery in Elkhorn, Montana. A fifty-dollar bill was deposited in our bank before it was given to a customer cashing a check. These gentlemen think that other stolen bills might have passed through the bank. They would like you to check the list of serial numbers that we recorded.”

Hopkins looked positively congenial as he smiled. “I'll need the serial numbers.”

“Check for consecutive bills above and below 214799,” answered Cromwell, relying on his memory.

“Right away, sir,” acknowledged Hopkins. He made a slight bow to Bell and Irvine. “I should have the numbers, if they exist, within a few hours.”

“I'd be grateful,” said Bell.

“Anything else, gentlemen?” said Cromwell, ending the interview.

“No, you've been most helpful. Thank you.”

Bell let Irvine move out ahead of him to the elevator, lagging behind. He stopped at Marion's desk and gazed at her. “Miss Morgan?”

She swirled her chair from her typewriter in his direction but shied from looking into his eyes.

“I know this is terribly presumptuous of me, but you look like an adventurous lady, and I was wondering if you might throw caution to the winds and have dinner with me this evening?”

Her first impulse was to reject him, but some forbidden door had opened and she fought a battle of principle against desire. “I'm not allowed to date bank customers. Besides, how do I know I can trust a complete stranger?”

He laughed and leaned toward her. “Number one, I am not a bank customer. And, number two, if you can't trust a bonded detective, who can you trust?” He reached out and took her hand in his.

A terrifying wave of anxiety swept over her as she fought a losing battle. Her last barrier crumpled and, along with it, her final grip on control. All self-restraint had evaporated.

“All right,” she heard herself say, as if she was listening to a total stranger. “I get off work at five o'clock.”

“Good,” he said, a little too enthusiastically, he thought. “I'll meet you at the front entrance.”

She watched him walk toward the elevator. “Good Lord,” she murmured to herself. “I must be mad to have agreed to have dinner with a perfect stranger.”

Yet, as she berated herself, there was a twinkle in her eye.

 

I
RVINE WAITED
for Bell in the elevator. “What was all that about?”

“I have a dinner date with Cromwell's personal secretary.”

“You work fast,” Irvine said admiringly.

Bell grinned. “Things just sort of fell into place.”

“Knowing you like I do, I'll bet you have an ulterior motive.”

“You might say that I'm mixing business with pleasure.”

“You may be playing with fire,” said Irvine seriously. “If she catches wise that you're using her to probe into Cromwell's affairs, there could be trouble.”

“I'll worry about that when the time comes,” Bell said comfortably.

On the ride back to the hotel, Bell's thoughts were not on the business part of the coming evening but rather the pleasure.