The Chase (17 page)

M
ARION COULD NOT EXPLAIN IT
. T
HE SENSATION
was one she had not experienced since a boy she dreamed about in school had smiled at her. That was all. He never approached or talked to her. Now, as she sat across an intimate table for two, she felt as giddy as a schoolgirl.

Bell had picked her up outside the Cromwell Bank at exactly five o'clock in a motor cab. The driver drove directly from the street into the seven-story building that contained the city's most famous French restaurant, Delmonico's. They entered an elevator that took them to the top floor, where the maître d' showed them into an enclosed private dining room with a large picture window that overlooked the city and the bay.

People who could afford it thought nothing of consuming ten-course meals, each accompanied by a different wine. Bell ordered oysters Rockefeller with a tangy curry sauce, followed by a flavorful broth, poached Great Lakes sturgeon, frog's legs à la poulette, pork chops, chicken Kiev, assorted roasted game birds, boiled potatoes, and creamed peas.

Marion had never dined this sumptuously in her life. True, she had been wined and dined by the city's eligible and moneyed bachelors, but none had treated her this lavishly. She was more than thankful the portions were small but regretted not loosening her corset in advance.

For dessert, Bell ordered crêpes suzette, the flaming orange-flavored delicacy. When the waiter stood at their table expertly spooning the flaming mixture over the crêpes, Marion forced herself to look directly into Bell's eyes.

“May I ask you a question, Mr. Bell?”

His smile was engaging. “I believe we know each other well enough for you to call me Isaac.”

“I'd prefer Mr. Bell, if you don't mind,” she said in what she thought was a proper manner.

The smile remained. “Suit yourself.”

“How can you afford all this on the pay of a detective?”

He laughed. “Would you believe I saved up all month just to impress you?”

“Not for an instant,” she said haughtily.

“Is Cromwell the biggest bank in San Francisco?”

She was taken back by his question to her answer. “No, there are two others that are larger, including Wells Fargo. Why do you ask?”

“My family owns the largest bank in New England.”

She tried to digest it but could not. “Would you be upset if I said I didn't believe you?”

“Ask your boss. He'll verify my claim.”

She frowned, confused. “Why are you a hired detective when you could be president of a bank?”

“I happen to like criminal investigation more than banking. I felt trapped at a desk. There is also the challenge of matching wits with the criminal mind.”

“Are you successful?” she asked, teasing.

“I win more times than I lose,” he answered honestly.

“Why me?” she asked him. “Why wine and dine a mere secretary instead of a socialite more your equal?”

Bell did not mince words. “Because you're attractive, intelligent, and I'm captivated.”

“But you don't know me.”

“I hope to change that,” he said, devastating her with his eyes again. “Now, enough talk. Let's enjoy the crêpes.”

When they finished the savory dessert, Bell asked the waiter for two glasses of fifty-year-old port. Then he leaned back, fully sated. “Tell me about Jacob Cromwell.”

The food and wine had done its work. Marion was too mellow to see the trap she was stepping into. “What would you like to know?”

“Where he came from, how he launched his bank, is he married. After meeting him, I found him most interesting. I heard he and his sister Margaret are the city's leading philanthropists.”

“I've worked for Mr. Cromwell for nine years and I can safely say he is a very smart and perceptive man who is a confirmed bachelor. He started the bank in 1892 with very little in assets and weathered the depression of the nineties. He made money through the worst of it. Most all the banks in the city came close to closing their doors during hard economic times. Not Cromwell National Bank. Through shrewd management and sound banking principles, he built a financial empire with assets running in the many millions of dollars.”

“A resourceful man,” said Bell admiringly. “Obviously, a self-made man.”

She nodded. “The growth of Cromwell National Bank is nothing short of a financial miracle.”

“Where did he find the money to open a bank?”

“That's a bit of a mystery. He's very close-lipped about his business affairs prior to launching a small bank on Market Street. Rumor has it, he started with no more than fifty thousand dollars. When I came to work, the bank's assets were well over a million.”

“What sort of investments does he make with his fortune?”

She held up her hands in a helpless gesture. “I honestly don't know. He's never mentioned his personal finances to me, and I've seen no paperwork or correspondence. I assume he plunges his profits back into the bank.”

“What of his family? Where did he and his sister come from?”

Again, Marion looked lost. “He's never spoken of his past. One time, he mentioned that he and Margaret's father had a farm in North Dakota, in a little town called Buffalo. Other than that, his family ties are buried in the past.”

“I'm sure he has his reasons,” said Bell. He did not want to push Marion too far, so he turned the conversation to his own childhood growing up in the elitist society of Boston. Going to Yale University, and his father's extreme displeasure when he went to work at the Van Dorn Detective Agency and not the family bank. He took a circuitous route back to Cromwell. “Cromwell stuck me as an educated man. I wonder where he went to school.”

“Margaret once said they attended college in Minnesota,” said Marion, dabbing a napkin to her lips after finishing her crêpes.

“Margaret is a beautiful woman,” he said, watching for a reaction.

Marion barely veiled her dislike of Cromwell's sister. “I know she's involved with a number of charities, but she is not someone I'd have as a close friend.”

“She can't be trusted?” Bell guessed.

“She doesn't always tell the truth. And there are always rumors of scandal, which Mr. Cromwell manages to cover up. Strangely, he doesn't seem disturbed by her antics. It's almost as if he enjoys them.”

“Does he travel much?”

“Oh, yes, he's often away fishing in Oregon, enjoying the Bohemian Club's retreat in the redwoods, or hunting in Alaska. He also attends at least three banking conferences a year in various parts of the country. Once a year, he and Margaret tour Europe together.”

“So he doesn't manage the day-to-day business of the bank.”

She shook her head. “No, no, Mr. Cromwell is always in weekly contact with the bank when he's away. He also has a board of directors that has the best brains in the business.”

The waiter brought their glasses of port on a silver tray. They sipped in silence for a few moments before Marion spoke.

“Why are you asking me all these questions about Mr. Cromwell?”

“I'm an investigator. I'm just naturally curious.”

She pushed a curl from her forehead and patted her hair. “I feel rejected.”

He gazed at her carefully. “Rejected?” he echoed.

“Yes, you ask all these questions about my boss, but you haven't asked about me. Most men I've known always asked about my past on the first date.”

“Dare I go there?” he asked, teasing her.

“Nothing risqué,” she said, laughing. “My life's been pretty dull, actually. I am a California native, born across the bay in Sausalito. My mother died when I was quite young, and my father, who was an engineer for the Western Pacific Railroad, hired tutors for me until I was old enough to go to the city's first secretarial school. When I graduated, Jacob Cromwell hired me, and I've worked in his bank ever since, working up from an office typist to his personal secretary.”

“Ever been married?”

She smiled coyly. “I've had a proposal or two but never walked down the aisle to the altar.”

He reached across the table and took her hand. “Hopefully, Prince Charming will come along one day and sweep you off your feet.”

She pulled her hand back, more from exerting her authority than rejecting him. “Prince Charmings are few and far between. I've yet to see one in San Francisco.”

Bell decided not to go there. He was determined to ask her out again and see where their wave of mutual attraction might take them. “I've enjoyed the evening. It's not often I can value the company of such a lovely woman who can hold her own in conversation.”

“You're very good at flattery.”

He dropped his eyes from hers. Bell did not want to push his luck, but there was one more enigma he had to have answered. “There's another thing about Cromwell that intrigues me.”

He could see from her expression that she was disappointed and had expected him to say something about them getting together again, and he sensed that she was beginning to doubt her feelings toward him.

“What is it?” Her tone suddenly went icy.

“When I first saw him in the dining room of the Bohemian Club, and today in his office, he was wearing gloves. Does he always wear them when dining or working at his desk?”

She folded her napkin and laid it on the table as a sign that for her the evening was over. “When he was a boy, he was in a fire. Both his hands were badly burned, so he wears gloves to cover the scars.”

Bell felt guilty for using Marion. She was a vital, beautiful, and intelligent woman. He stood, came around the table, and pulled her chair out for her. “I'm truly sorry for letting my detective's undue inquisitive nature get the best of me. I hope you'll forgive me. Will you give me a chance to make it up to you?”

She could tell that he was sincere and felt a tickle of excitement, her hope rising again that he was truly interested in her. He was far more enticing than she could have imagined. “All right, Isaac, I'll go out with you again. But no questions.”

“No questions,” he said with a tingle of pleasure at hearing her use his first name. “That's a promise.”

T
WO DAYS LATER, THE FOUR DETECTIVES MET IN THE
Van Dorn Detective Agency offices on the fifth floor of the Call Building on Market Street. They sat in a semicircle at a round table and compared notes. They were all in shirtsleeves, their coats hanging on the back of their chairs. Most wore straight, conservative neckties under their stiff collars. Only one wore a bow tie. Three sipped coffee from cups with the Van Dorn logo baked on the porcelain surface, the fourth drank tea. Loose papers and bound reports covered the top of the table. “I've written up a story telling how one of the largest shipments ever of newly printed currency from the San Francisco Mint will be shipped under heavy guard to the mining town of Telluride, Colorado, to make the payroll and a bonus to ten thousand miners,” Bell told them. “I merely alluded to the exact amount but suggested that it was in the neighborhood of five hundred thousand dollars.”

“I used my contacts with the newspaper editor to run the article,” said Bronson. “It will be printed in tomorrow's papers.”

Irvine spun his cup slowly around on its saucer. “If the bandit lives in San Francisco, it should tantalize him into making a try for it.”

“
If
he lives in San Francisco,” repeated Curtis. “We're going out on a limb on this one. We may have run up a dead-end alley.”

“We know the boxcar and several of the stolen bills ended up here,” said Bell. “I think the odds are good he lives somewhere in the Bay Area.”

“It would help if we knew for certain,” Bronson said wearily. He looked at Irvine. “You say your search to backtrack the stolen currency went nowhere.”

“A bust,” Irvine acknowledged. “The trail was too cold and there was no way to trace the bills before they were recirculated.”

“The banks had no record of who turned them in?” asked Bronson.

Irvine shook his head. “The tellers have no way of knowing because they don't list the serial numbers. That's done later by the bank's bookkeepers. By the time we made a connection, it was too late. Whoever traded in the bills was long gone and forgotten.”

Bronson turned to Curtis. “And your search for the boxcar?”

Curtis looked as if he had just lost the family dog. “It disappeared,” he replied helplessly. “A search of the railyard turned up no sign of it.”

“Maybe it was sent out on a freight train that left the city,” Bell offered.

“Southern Pacific freight trains that left on scheduled runs in the last week show no manifest that includes a freight car owned by the O'Brian Furniture Company.”

“You're saying it never left the railyard?”

“Exactly.”

“Then why can't it be found?” inquired Bronson. “It couldn't have vanished into thin air.”

Curtis threw up his hands. “What can I say? Two of your agents and I searched the railyard from top to bottom. The car is not there.”

“Did the Southern Pacific's dispatchers know where the car was switched after it arrived?” asked Bell.

“It was switched to a siding next to the loading dock of a deserted warehouse. We checked it out. It wasn't there.”

Irvine lit a cigar and puffed out a cloud of smoke. “Could it have been coupled to a train without the dispatcher knowing about it?”

“Can't happen,” Curtis came back. “They would know if a car was covertly added to their train. The brakemen use a form to list the serial numbers on a train in the sequence the cars are coupled together. When the boxcars arrive at their designated destination, they can easily be switched from the rear of the train before it continues on its run.”

“Perhaps the bandit figured the car had outlived its usefulness and he had it scrapped and destroyed,” said Bronson.

“I don't think so,” Bell said thoughtfully. “My guess is that he simply had it repainted with a new serial number and changed the name to another fictitious company.”

“Won't make any difference,” said Curtis. “He couldn't use it anyway.”

“What do you mean?” Bell asked.

“Only the Rio Grande Southern Railroad runs into Telluride.”

“So what's stopping him from repainting that railroad's insignia over one advertising the Southern Pacific?”

“Nothing. Except it would be a waste of time. The Rio Grande Southern runs on a narrow-gauge track. The Southern Pacific trains run on standard gauge, nearly a foot wider. There's no way the track can accommodate the bandit's boxcar.”

“How stupid of me,” muttered Bell. “I forgot that only narrow-gauge railroads run through the Rocky Mountains.”

“Don't feel bad,” said Bronson. “I never thought of it either.”

Irvine struck the table with his fist in frustration. “He'll never bite the hook, knowing that he can't escape in his private freight car.”

Bell smiled tightly. “He has his strengths, but he also has his weaknesses. I'm counting on his greed and his ego, his sense of invincibility. I'm certain he will take the bait and attempt to rob the bank in Telluride. The challenge is too mighty for him to ignore.”

“I wish you the best of luck,” said Bronson. “If anybody can catch the Butcher, you can.”

“What about you, Horace? Any luck on tracing the bandit's gun?”

“Nothing encouraging,” Bronson said soberly. “New firearm purchases don't have to be registered. All any buyer has to do is lay down the money and walk out with the gun. We've drawn a blank with dealers. Even if they remember who they sold a Colt thirty-eight automatic to, they won't give out any names.”

Irvine stared at a wall without seeing it. “It would seem, gentlemen, that all our hard-earned leads have turned into blind alleys.”

“Setbacks, yes,” Bell muttered softly. “But the game isn't over—not yet. We still have a chance to make the final score.”