The Chase (21 page)

C
ROMWELL'S WOUND FROM
B
ELL'S BULLET WAS NOT
serious. He held off having it tended by a physician until he returned with Margaret to San Francisco, where the entry-and-exit wound in his side was cleaned with antiseptic, stitched, and bandaged. The doctor, an old friend, asked no questions, but Cromwell told him a lie anyway about accidentally shooting himself when cleaning a gun. Because his wife received a generous donation from Cromwell for her pet project, the ballet company of San Francisco, the doctor filed no police report and vowed the incident would never be mentioned.

Cromwell returned to his office at the bank and quickly settled into the old routine of managing his financial empire. His first project for the day was to write a speech to give at the opening of a sanitarium for the elderly, funded and built through his generosity. Modesty was not one of his virtues and he named the hospital the Jacob Cromwell Sanitarium. He called in Marion Morgan to transcribe his notes on the speech.

She sat in a chair beside his desk and gazed at him. “If you forgive me for asking, Mr. Cromwell, but are you feeling all right? You look a bit pale.”

He forced a smile as he instinctively, lightly, touched his side. “I caught a cold from fishing at night. It's almost gone away.”

He handed her his notes, swung around in his leather chair, and stared out the window at the surrounding city. “Edit my sanitarium speech, and please feel free to make any suggestions you feel are pertinent.”

“Yes, sir.”

Marion rose to leave Cromwell's office but hesitated at the door. “Excuse me, but I was wondering if you ever heard from the detective from the Van Dorn Agency again?”

Cromwell swung back around from the window and stared at her curiously. “Isaac Bell?”

“I believe that was his name.”

He could not help a mild grin as he said, “He's dead. I heard he was killed during a bank robbery in Colorado.”

Marion's heart felt as if it was squeezed between two blocks of ice. She could not believe Cromwell's words. Her lips quivered, and she turned away from him so he couldn't see the shock written on her lovely face. Barely maintaining her composure, she said nothing and stepped from the office and closed the door.

Marion sat at her desk as if in a trance. She could not understand the sense of grief over a man she hardly knew, a man with whom she had shared only one dinner. Yet she could see his face in her mind as if he was standing in front of her. The short-lived bond between them had been cruelly cut. She could not explain her feeling of sorrow and she didn't try. She felt as if she had lost a dear friend.

With trembling hands, she inserted a sheet of paper in her typewriter and began transcribing Cromwell's notes for his speech.

 

A
T FIVE O'CLOCK
, late in the afternoon, Cromwell stood on the steps of a new three-story redbrick building on Geary and Fillmore Streets, listening to a long and flowery introduction by city mayor Eugene Schmitz, a close friend of Cromwell's who had benefited from large contributions secretly transferred to his personal account at the Cromwell Bank. A crowd of five hundred people attended the inauguration, along with members of the city's fire and police departments, political bosses, and over fifty elderly patients sitting listlessly in their wheelchairs.

Cromwell's own remarks were short and to the point. He modestly referred to himself as a “humble messenger of the Lord” who had chosen to help those who could not help themselves. When he finished, the applause was polite and subdued, befitting the formal occasion. A ribbon was cut at the front entrance and Cromwell was heartily congratulated. He shook every hand that was thrust at him. He made a show of embracing all of the patients waiting to enter the building. Mayor Schmitz gave him a bronze plaque for his philanthropic efforts and announced that, henceforth, April 12th would be known as Jacob Cromwell Day.

Making his way through a throng of well-wishers and admirers, Cromwell reached the parking space that held the Mercedes Simplex. Margaret was already seated behind the wheel, looking lovely in a green wool dress with cape.

“Well done, brother. Another good deed under the Cromwell banner.”

“It never hurts to have friends in high places, as well as the adoration of the foul-smelling rabble.”

“Aren't
we
the humanitarian?” she said sarcastically.

“What about
your
benevolent pet projects that somehow get publicized in the society pages of the newspapers?” he retorted.

“Touché.”

Cromwell moved to the front of the car and cranked the engine. Margaret retarded the spark and set the hand throttle. The engine caught and coughed into a throaty roar. Cromwell climbed into the seat as Margaret advanced the spark, shifted gears, and advanced the throttle. The Mercedes Simplex bounded out into the street between a cable car and beer truck.

By now, Cromwell was used to his sister's mad driving antics and relaxed in the seat, but was prepared to jump should a disaster rear up its head. “Drive up to Pacific Heights and stop at Lafayette Park.”

“Any particular reason?”

“We can walk the paths while we talk.”

She didn't question him further. The Mercedes Simplex easily cruised up the hill to Pacific Heights. She turned off Fillmore Street and took Sacramento Street until she reached the park, then stopped at the foot of a path leading into the trees. A five-minute walk took them to the summit of the park, which presented them with a beautiful panoramic view of the city.

“What do you wish to talk about?” Margaret asked.

“I've decided to undertake another robbery.”

She stopped in midstride and stared at him in distress. “You must be joking.”

“I'm dead serious.”

“But why?” she demanded. “What have you to gain? You almost got caught in Telluride. Why tempt fate again for no purpose?”

“Because I like a challenge. Besides, I rather enjoy being a legend in my own time.”

She turned and looked away stunned. “That's stupid.”

“You don't understand,” he said, putting his arm around her waist.

“I understand that it's crazy, and that someday your luck will run out and they'll hang you.”

“Not for a while, at any rate,” he said. “Not while their best agent lies in his grave.”

Margaret remembered the incredible blue-purple eyes and Bell's arm around her as they danced at the Brown Palace. She seemed to hear her voice from far away. “Bell dead, it's hard to believe.”

He looked at her curiously. “You sound like you had a crush on him.”

She shrugged and tried to look uninterested. “Oh, he was nice-looking, in a strange sort of way. I imagine other women found him attractive.”

“No matter. Isaac Bell is history.” Cromwell stopped and began leading his sister back to the automobile. “I'm going to fool Van Dorn and all the other stupid peace officers who want me hung. They'll never suspect I'd commit another crime so quickly, at a bank in a town they'd never suspect. Once again, they'll be caught with their pants down.”

A tear came to her eye and Margaret dabbed a handkerchief at it, not sure if her emotions were twisted by Bell's demise or her brother's madness. “Where this time?”

“Not a mining town payroll,” he said, grinning. “I'll throw them a curve and hit a town that doesn't expect me, and leave them frustrated once again.”

“What town?”

“San Diego, here in California.”

“That's almost in our backyard.”

“All the better,” said Cromwell. “My escape will be that much easier.”

“What makes San Diego so special?”

“Because the city's Wells Fargo is fat with deposits, from merchants and from ships importing goods into the port. And because I'd love to poke a hole in my biggest competitor.”

“You're crazy.”

“Do not call me crazy!” he said harshly.

“What do you call yourself? Everything we've worked for could come crashing down around us if you're ever caught.”

“Not so long as they're dealing with a mastermind,” Cromwell said brashly.

“When will you ever stop?” Margaret demanded.

“When the Cromwell Bank is as big as the Wells Fargo Bank and I am crowned king of San Francisco,” he said with a nasty glint in his eyes.

She knew it was hopeless to argue with her brother. Without his knowledge, she had quietly moved assets, little by little over the years, into the Wells Fargo Bank, where he would never think to trace them. The expensive jewelry she had purchased was put away in a safe-deposit box. If the worst came to pass and her brother was caught and hung, she would leave San Francisco, go to Europe, and live a life of luxury before finding a rich and titled husband.

They reached the automobile and Jacob helped his sister into the driver's seat. As he cranked the engine to life, Cromwell's self-confidence was overwhelming. Like a ship sailing into a heavy sea with all sails set, danger became a challenge that bordered on addiction. At the thought of outwitting every law enforcement officer in the West once again, his face beamed like that of a religious fanatic who had just witnessed a miracle.

Neither of them paid any attention to a man sitting on a bench near the car dressed like a worker, with a toolbox perched in his lap, casually smoking a pipe.

B
ELL'S TRAIN GOT HIM INTO
S
AN
F
RANCISCO AT EIGHT
o'clock in the morning. By nine, he was meeting with Carter, Bronson, and five of his agents. Everyone was seated around a large conference table that was twice as large as the one in the office in Denver. Bell was dead tired, and his wounds still gave him trouble, but he ignored the pain, as he had with earlier injuries, and soldiered on. “Gentlemen,” he began, “now that our number one suspect for the Butcher Bandit is Jacob Cromwell, we are going to put him and his sister, Margaret, under twenty-four-hour surveillance.”

“That means their every movement outside their palace on Nob Hill,” added Bronson.

One agent held up a hand. “Sir, we'll need photos for identification, since most of us have no idea of what they look like.”

Bronson picked up a bulky file on the table. “Photographs of them were taken while they were out and about town.”

“Who took them?” asked Bell.

Bronson smiled and nodded at one of his agents across the table. “Dick Crawford here is an ace photographer.”

“Didn't the Cromwells get suspicious about a photographer following them around, shooting their picture?” asked Carter.

Bronson nodded at Crawford. “Dick, tell everyone how you pulled it off without them getting wise.”

Crawford had a narrow saturnine face with a small jaw and bushy eyebrows beneath a bald head. A serious man, he did not show any humorous disposition. “I wore coveralls and carried a toolbox with a small hole cut out in one end for the camera lens. All I had to do was reach into the box to adjust the focus and shoot their picture. They didn't have a clue and never so much as gave me a glance.” He then set a small camera on the table and explained its application. “What you see is a Kodak Quick Focus box camera that takes postcard-sized images.”

As Crawford talked, Bronson passed out photos of Jacob and Margaret Cromwell.

“You will note that the photos are remarkably sharp and distinct,” Crawford continued. “The unique feature of the camera is that, unlike other cameras with a set focus, I could set the distance using the small wheel you see on the side. Then all I had to do was press a button and the front of the lens would pop out to the correct distance for exposure.”

Everyone studied the photos. They showed the Cromwells, individually or together, walking down the street, coming out of stores and restaurants. Several photos were of Jacob Cromwell entering and exiting his bank. Two showed him speaking at the opening of his sanitarium for the elderly. Crawford even followed them to Lafayette Park and shot them walking along a path. Bell was particularly interested in the pictures showing Margaret behind the wheel of an exotic-looking car.

“A Mercedes Simplex,” he said admiringly. “The Cromwells have good taste in automobiles.”

Bronson examined the photos showing the car. “It looks expensive. How fast will it go?”

“At least seventy, maybe eighty, miles an hour,” replied Bell.

“I doubt if there is a car in San Francisco that could catch it in a chase,” said a bushy-haired agent at the end of the table.

“There is
now
,” Bell said, his lips spread in a grin. “It was unloaded from a freight car this morning.” He looked at Curtis. “Am I correct, Arthur?”

Curtis nodded. “Your automobile is sitting in the Southern Pacific freight warehouse. I hired a boy who works in the railyard to clean it up.”

“You sent a car here from…”

“Chicago,” Bell finished.

“I'm curious,” said Bronson. “What automobile is so special that you'd have it shipped all the way from Chicago?”

“A fast motorcar can come in handy. Besides, as it turns out, it's more than a match for Cromwell's Mercedes Simplex, should it come to a pursuit.”

“What make is it?” asked Crawford.

“A Locomobile,” answered Bell. “It was driven by Joe Tracy, who drove it to third place in the 1905 Vanderbilt Cup road race on Long Island.”

“How fast is it?” inquired Bronson.

“She'll get up to a hundred and five miles an hour on a straight stretch.”

There came a hushed silence. Everyone around the table was astounded and disbelieving.

They had never seen or heard of anything that could go so fast. Professional auto races with competing factory cars had not come to the West Coast yet.

“Incredible,” said Bronson in awe. “I can't imagine anything traveling a hundred miles an hour.”

“Can you drive it on the street?” asked Curtis.

Bell nodded. “I had fenders and headlamps installed and the transmission modified for street traffic.”

“You've got to give me a ride in it,” said Bronson.

Bell laughed. “I think it can be arranged.”

Bronson turned his interest back to the photos of the Cromwells. “Any thoughts on what the bandit will do next?”

“After Telluride,” said Curtis, “I would bet his days of robbery and murder have ended.”

“Sounds logical if he knows we're onto him,” agreed Bronson.

“We can't be sure of that if he thinks all witnesses to the fiasco in Telluride are dead, including me,” said Bell. “He is a crazy man, driven to rob and kill. I don't believe he can ever stop cold. Cromwell believes his criminal acts can never be traced. He simply does not fit the mold of Black Bart, the James Gang, the Daltons, or Butch Cassidy. Compared to Cromwell, they were crude, backwoods amateurs.”

One of the agents stared with growing admiration at Bell. “So you think he will strike again.”

“I do.”

“You may have suckered him with your story about Telluride,” said Bronson. “But if he is as smart as you say he is, Cromwell won't make the same mistake twice and step into another trap.”

Bell shook his head. “There is little hope of that, I'm afraid. For the moment, all we can do is try to outguess him, and, failing that, we keep gathering evidence until we can convict him.”

“At least we know he isn't infallible.”

Bronson grunted. “He's about as close as you can come.”

Bell poured himself a cup of coffee from a pot sitting on the conference table. “Our edge is that he doesn't know his every move is being watched. You will have to be very careful and not make him or his sister wary. If we can stay on his tail the next time he leaves town for a robbery, we have a chance of bringing his crime wave to a halt.”

Bronson looked around the table at his agents. “It looks like we have our job cut out for us, gentlemen. I'll let you work out your surveillance shifts among yourselves. I received a telegram from Mr. Van Dorn. He said to pull out all the stops. He wants the Butcher Bandit caught, whatever the cost, whatever the effort.”

Bell said to Bronson, “I wonder if you could do me a favor.”

“You have but to name it.”

“Call Cromwell's office and ask for Marion Morgan. Tell her you're calling in the strictest confidence and she is to say nothing to no one, including her boss. Tell her to meet you at the northeast corner of Montgomery and Sutter Streets, a block from the Cromwell Bank, during her lunch hour.”

“And if she asks me the purpose?”

Bell made a crooked smile. “Just be vague and tell her it's urgent.”

Bronson laughed. “I'll do my best to sound official.”

 

A
FTER THE CONFERENCE
, Bell and Carter took a cab to the Southern Pacific freight warehouse. They checked in with the superintendent, looked over the car for damage, and, finding none, signed off the necessary transport paperwork.

“She's a beauty,” Curtis said admiringly, gazing at the bright red–painted automobile with its gleaming brass radiator topped by a custom-sculpted bronze eagle with wings outspread and a temperature gauge in its chest. Behind the radiator was a barn-roof-cut hood. A big cylindrical gas tank sat mounted behind the two seats. The narrow tires were moored to huge wooden spoked wheels that had sped over the twisting roads of Long Island during the Vanderbilt Cup race.

Bell climbed into the seat behind the big steering wheel, mounted on its long shaft, turned the ignition switch on the wooden dashboard, set the throttle lever on the steering wheel, and moved the spark lever to retard. Next, he took a hand pump and pressurized the fuel tank, forcing gas to the carburetor. Only then did he walk to the front of the car, grip the big crank with his right hand, and heave vigorously. The engine coughed and kicked over on the second try, with a thunderous roar from the exhaust pipe.

Then Bell, joined by Carter, sat in the red leather driver's seat and advanced the spark as he eased the throttle to an idle position. After releasing the brass hand brake, he pushed in the clutch and pulled the shift lever into first gear. Next, he moved the throttle lever and released the clutch, having attracted a crowd of warehouse workers who cheered as the rakish car rolled forward.

As soon as the Locomobile was speeding down a road alongside the railroad tracks, Carter asked loudly, “Are we headed back to the office?”

Bell shook his head. “Show me the way to the warehouse where the O'Brian Furniture boxcar was parked.”

“Then turn left at the next crossing over the tracks,” directed Carter.

A few minutes later, Bell parked the Locomobile behind the empty warehouse and turned off the big engine. With Carter leading the way, they walked up a ramp to the loading dock. A single freight car sat on the siding.

“Is this where you found Cromwell's phony furniture freight car?” asked Bell.

“According to the Southern Pacific's freight-movement schedule,” said Curtis. “I ran a check of company freight car movements. Car 16173 is no longer listed on Southern Pacific freight records. No one knows what happened to it. It's as if it vanished overnight.”

Bell studied the sides of the car parked alongside the loading dock. “It could have been repainted and given a new serial number.”

“It's entirely possible.” Curtis stared at the number and then nodded. “Car 16455. I'll check it out.”

“This car has had a new paint job recently,” said Bell slowly. “There isn't a scratch on it.”

“You're right,” Curtis murmured thoughtfully. “It's as clean as the day it came out of the factory.”

Bell walked up to the boxcar's loading door and placed his fingers around a bronze lock that sealed the interior from entry. “Why would an empty car on a siding be locked up?”

“Maybe it's been loaded with cargo and is waiting to be coupled to a train.”

“I wish I knew what was inside,” Bell mused.

“Shall we break it open?” Curtis inquired with a growing sense of anticipation.

Bell made a slight shake of his head. “Better we leave well enough alone for the time being. Until we check out the serial number, we won't know the history of this car. And should it belong to Cromwell, he'll know if we tampered with the lock.”

“If we proved this is the freight car he used to escape his criminal acts, we can arrest him.”

“Nothing is that simple. It might simply be an empty car that was shunted to this siding temporarily. Cromwell's no fool. He wouldn't leave evidence lying around just waiting to be found. Chances are, there is nothing incriminating inside, certainly not enough to stand him under the hangman's noose.”

Curtis shrugged in understanding. “We'll keep a sharp eye on it, but I doubt if he'll be using it anytime soon, if ever again, considering how he came within a hair of being caught in Telluride.”

“And, sooner or later, he'll learn I'm still alive and know I identified him,” Bell said with a wide grin. “Then he'll really make things interesting.”

 

M
ARION PUT
down the phone and looked toward the doorway leading to Cromwell's office. As usual, it was closed. He almost always worked in private, handling his day-to-day business over the telephone or a speaker system he had installed around the bank.

She glanced up at a big Seth Thomas Regulator wall clock, with its enclosed pendulum swinging back and forth. The hands were pointing at Arabic numerals that read three minutes to twelve. When she put down the phone after listening to Bronson's instructions, she was torn between her loyalty to Cromwell—and whether she should tell him about the call—and the building sense of excitement that coursed through her body at the thought of performing an act of secrecy. Because a distinct rift had built between her and Cromwell over the past year, especially since that night in the Barbary Coast when he and Margaret had acted so strangely, she felt less loyalty and respect toward him. He was not the same man she had come to trust for so many years. He had become distant and aloof, cold and rude toward her much of the time.

The minute hand clicked over the hour hand, both pointing to twelve, when she took her purse, put on her hat, and stepped out of the office, all the while keeping an eye on the closed doorway to Cromwell's office. She bypassed the elevator and flew down the stairway to the lobby. Passing through the big entrance doors, she turned and hurried down Sutter Street to Montgomery. The streets and side-walks were busy during the lunch hour and it took her a good ten minutes to skirt the crowds. Reaching the corner, she stood there, looking around, but found no one looking in her direction or coming toward her. She had never met Bronson and had no idea what he looked like.