The Chase (28 page)

Soon the wind helped merge the big and small fires into one massive holocaust. Within minutes, the city was blanketed by smoke from fires erupting across San Francisco that would take three days and hundreds of lives before they were contained. Many of the injured and trapped who could not be rescued in time would go unidentified, their bodies incinerated and turned to ashes by the intense heat.

“It's going to get worse, much worse,” said Bell slowly. He turned to Marion. “I want you to go to Golden Gate Park; you'll be safe there. I'll come and find you later.”

“Where are you going?” she whispered, shuddering at the thought that she would be alone.

“To the Van Dorn office. The city is going to need every law enforcement agent available to help control the chaos.”

“Why can't I stay here, near my apartment?”

He took another look at the growing conflagration. “It's only a matter of a few hours before the fire reaches Russian Hill. You can't stay here. Do you think you can make it on foot to the park?”

“I'll make it,” she said, nodding gamely. Then she reached up and circled her arms around his neck. “I love you, Isaac Bell. I love you so much I hurt.”

He slipped his arms around her slim waist and kissed her. “I love you, too, Marion Morgan.” He hesitated before pushing her back. “Now, be a good girl and get a move on.”

“I'll wait for you at the bridge over the pond.”

He held her hand a moment before turning away and moving through the mass of people who were crowded in the center of the street as far away as they could get from the buildings as a series of light aftershocks rippled through the city.

Bell took one of the long stairways leading from Russian Hill. It was split apart in several places but did not block his way down to Union Street. Then he cut over to Stockton and then to Market Street. The scene of destruction went far beyond anything his mind could have created.

There were no streetcars running, and all automobiles, many of them new models commandeered from dealer showrooms, as well as horse-drawn vehicles, were being pressed into service as ambulances to carry the injured to makeshift hospitals that were springing up in the city squares. The bodies of the dead, those who could be retrieved, were carried to warehouses that had been turned into temporary morgues.

The falling walls had not only crushed unlucky humans walking the sidewalks but also horses pulling the city's huge fleet of freight wagons. They were felled by the dozens under tons of bricks. Bell saw a driver and horse that had been smashed to pulp by an electrical pole that had fallen on their milk wagon.

Reaching Market Street, Bell ducked into the remains of a still-standing doorway that was once the entrance into the Hearst Examiner Newspaper Building. He sought refuge as a herd of cattle appeared that had escaped their pen at the docks. Maddened by fright, they charged down the street and almost immediately vanished, swallowed up by one of the great chasms where the violent thrust of the earthquake had split the streets.

Bell could not believe how the great thoroughfare of the city, with its magnificent buildings, had changed from the evening before. Gone were the fleets of vehicles, the throngs of happy, contented people working or shopping in the heart of the city's business district. Now the boulevard was scarcely recognizable. The tall buildings had crumbled to pieces, huge pillars with their decorative cornices and ornamentations had been wrenched from the façades of the structures and hurled to the sidewalk and street in jumbled fragments. The enormous office and store windows were shattered. Signs that once advertised the businesses occupying them lay scattered amid the wreckage.

As Bell made his way down through the destruction, he could see that the blocks to the south were becoming an ocean of flame. He knew it was only a matter of time before the big hotels, government buildings, tall office skyscrapers, the great department stores, and the theaters would be burned-out skeletons. There were far too few firemen and almost all of the underground water mains had been ruptured by the earthquake. Hundreds of the city's fire hydrants and water taps trickled and then ran dry. The firemen, helpless in fighting the mushrooming fires, began a heroic struggle to repair the water lines.

After dodging the automobiles transporting the injured and making his way over the landslides of brick, Bell came within sight of the Call Building. At first, the twelve-story skyscraper looked in good shape, but as he walked closer he saw that the base of one side of the building had moved two feet over the sidewalk toward the street. Inside, he found that none of the elevators were working because the interior was twisted out of alignment. He made his way up the five flights of stairs to the Van Dorn office and stepped over the mounds of plaster that had fallen from the ceiling. Footprints in the plaster told him others had preceded him.

The furniture scattered about the office by the quake had been set upright where originally positioned.

Bell walked into the conference room and found four Van Dorn agents including Bronson, who rushed over and pumped his hand. “Am I ever glad to see you alive. I was afraid you might be lying under a ton of rubble.”

Bell managed a smile. “Marion's house lost the front wall, but her apartment is a mess.” He paused and looked around room. Not seeing Curtis, he asked, “Have you heard from Art?”

The look on everyone's face told Bell what he needed to know. “Art is missing, assumed to have been crushed under tons of brick as he made his way from the Palace Hotel to our office,” Bronson answered solemnly. “From what reports we've managed to gather, two of my agents are either injured or dead. We don't know yet. Those you see here are the only ones who survived without injury.”

Bell's chest felt as if a belt had been cinched around it and pulled tight. He had seen and known death, but to lose someone close was an enduring hurt. “Curtis dead,” Bell muttered. “He was a fine man, a good friend, and one of the best detectives I ever worked with.”

“I lost good men, too,” Bronson said slowly. “But now we must do what we can to ease the suffering.”

Bell looked at him. “What is your plan?”

“I met with the chief of police and offered Van Dorn's services. Despite our differences in the past, he was only too glad to have our help. We're going to do what we can to combat looting, apprehend looters stealing from the dead and their demolished homes and take them to the city jail. Thankfully, because it's built like a fortress, it still stands.”

“I wish I could join you and the others, Horace, but I have another job.”

“Yes, I understand,” Bronson said quietly. “Jacob Cromwell.”

Bell nodded. “The earthquake and the bedlam left in its wake have given him the ideal opportunity to escape the country. I intend to stop him.”

Bronson held out his hand. “Good luck to you, Isaac.” He gestured around the room with one hand. “This building isn't safe. And if it doesn't fall down on its own, it will probably be consumed by the approaching fire. We'll have to take our records and abandon it.”

“Where can I reach you?”

“We're setting up a command center in the Customs House; it was only slightly damaged. The army units that are arriving to maintain order and help battle the fires are also setting up their headquarters there.”

“One of us has to report what has happened to Mr. Van Dorn.”

Bronson shook his head. “Not possible. All telegraph lines are down.”

Bell shook Bronson's hand. “Good luck to you, too, Horace. I'll be in contact as soon as I learn Cromwell's whereabouts.”

Bronson smiled. “I bet nothing like this happens where you live in Chicago.”

Bell laughed. “Aren't you forgetting the great Chicago fire of 1871? At least your calamity came from an act of God. Chicago's came from a cow who kicked over a lantern.”

After saying his good-bye, Bell retraced his route down the twisted stairs to the devastation on Market Street. He quickly made his way over the rubble and past the crowds of people who had assembled to watch the fire that was now burning throughout Chinatown and relentlessly moving toward the city's primary business district.

He reached the Palace Hotel, which had fared better than the Call Building. Standing just outside the entrance was a man Bell instantly recognized: Enrico Caruso, who had sung the role of Don José in
Carmen
the night before at the Grand Opera House, was waiting as his valet pulled his trunks out onto the sidewalk. He was dressed in a long, bulky fur coat over his pajamas and smoking a cigar. As Bell passed, he heard the great tenor muttering, “'Ell of a place, 'ell of a place. I never come back.”

The elevators were not running due to the lack of electricity, but the stairways were relatively clear of debris. After entering his room, Bell did not bother to pack his clothes. He saw no reason to burden himself with luggage. He threw only a few personal items in a small valise. Not planning on life-threatening danger in San Francisco, he had left his Colt .45 and the derringer in the room. The Colt went in the valise and the derringer back into its small holster inside his hat.

As he walked up Powell Street toward Cromwell's mansion on Nob Hill, he saw a small group of men frantically struggling to lift a huge beam from a pile of rubble that had once been a hotel. One of them motioned to him and shouted, “Come give us a hand!”

The men were frantically working to free a woman pinned in the debris and the wreckage around it was burning fiercely. She was still dressed in her nightgown, and he saw that she had long auburn hair.

He gripped her hand for a moment and said softly, “Be brave. We'll get you free.”

“My husband and my little girl—are they safe?”

Bell looked up into the somber faces of the rescuers. One of them slowly shook his head. “You'll see them soon,” he said, feeling the intense heat of the fire closing in.

Bell lent his strength to the others and vainly tried to lift the beam that covered the woman's legs. It was an exercise in futility. The beam weighed tons and could not be moved by six men. The woman was very courageous and watched the efforts in silence until the flames began scorching her nightgown.

“Please!” she begged. “Don't let me burn!”

One of the men, a fireman, asked for her name and wrote it on a small piece of paper he had in his pocket. The rest of the men retreated from the intense heat and menacing flames, horrified at losing their battle to save the woman.

Her nightgown ignited and she began to scream. Without hesitation, Bell held up his derringer and shot her in the forehead between the eyes. Then, without a backward glance, he and the fireman ran for the street.

“You had to do it,” said the fireman, his hand on Bell's shoulder. “Dying by fire is the worst death. You couldn't let her suffer.”

“No, I couldn't do that,” Bell said, his eyes rimmed with tears. “But it's a terrible memory I'll take to my grave.”

C
ROMWELL AWOKE IN HIS BED TO SEE THE CHANDELIER
in the middle of the room swinging like a wild pendulum, its crystal pendants tinkling madly. The furniture danced about as if possessed by crazed demons. A large painting of a fox hunt dropped from the wall with a loud crash as it struck the polished teak floor. The entire house creaked as the stone blocks of the walls ground against each other.

Margaret came staggering into his room, struggling to remain upright as the quake continued. She was wearing nothing but her nightgown, too shocked to throw on a robe. Her face was as white as the breast of a seagull, her golden brown eyes wide with fright, and her lips trembling.

“What's happening?” she gasped.

He reached out and pulled her against him. “An earthquake, dear sister. Nothing to fret about. It will pass. The worst is over.”

His words were quiet and calm, but she could see the nervous tension in his eyes. “Will the house fall on us?” she asked fearfully.

“Not this house,” he said resolutely. “It's built like the Rock of Gibraltar.”

The words were no sooner said than the great chimneys above began to topple and crash down. Fortunately, they were constructed on the outside of the house walls and collapsed outward without smashing through the roof. Most of the damage came from sections of the outer wall surrounding the house that cracked and crashed to the ground like rumbling thunder. Finally, the tremors began to taper away.

The house had stood through the worst of the earthquake and retained its structural integrity, looking as it had before except for the collapsed outer wall and three fallen chimneys. And because the inner walls were board over stone, decorated with paint or wallpaper, and the ceilings were mahogany, there were no clouds of dust from fallen plaster.

“Oh, Lord,” murmured Margaret. “What are we going to do?”

“You see to the house. Assemble the servants and see if any are injured. Then put them to work cleaning up the mess. Outwardly, act as if restoring the house was your first priority. But begin packing only those valuables and clothes that you consider essential for our flight out of the country.”

“You're forgetting Van Dorn's agents,” she said, looking up quickly.

“The quake will prove to be a blessing. The city is in chaos. Bell and his fellow Van Dorn detectives have more-pressing problems on their hands than keeping an eye on us.”

“What about you?” asked Margaret, pulling her nightgown tightly around her body.

“I'm going to the bank to finish cleaning out the vault of all cash. I put most of the currency in trunks yesterday. When it is all packed, Abner and I will transport the trunks in the Rolls to the warehouse and load them on my railcar for our trip across the Canadian border.”

“You make it sound easy,” she said drily.

“The simpler, the better.” He climbed from bed and headed for the bathroom. “By this time tomorrow, our curtain will ring down on San Francisco and, within a few short months, we'll launch a new banking empire in Montreal.”

“How much do you figure we'll have?”

“I've already transferred fifteen million by telegraph wire to four different Canadian banks in four different provinces,” he pointed out. “We'll carry another four million with us in currency.”

Now she smiled broadly, the fear of the earthquake suddenly pushed aside. “That's more than we had when we came to San Francisco twelve years ago.”

“A lot more,” Cromwell said comfortably. “Nineteen million more, to be exact.”

 

B
ELL MISSED
Cromwell by twenty minutes when he reached the mansion on Cushman Street. He studied the house and was surprised at the superficial damage after witnessing the unbelievable destruction of the buildings in the main part of the city. He climbed over the mound of fallen bricks that had been an eight-foot wall and walked up the driveway to the front door.

He pulled the doorbell knob, stood back, and waited. After a long minute, the door cracked open and the housekeeper peered out at Bell. “What do you want?” she demanded, all formal courtesy lost from the lingering fright of the earthquake.

“I'm from the Van Dorn Detective Agency, here to see Mr. Cromwell.”

“Mr. Cromwell is not at home. He left soon after the awful earth shuddering.”

He could see a figure approach through the curtains covering the glass of the door. “Do you know if he went to his bank?”

The housekeeper moved back as Margaret stepped onto the threshold. She stared at the man standing on the step in a suit covered with dust, grime, and soot. The face was blackened with ash, the eyes tired of seeing too much misery. She barely recognized him.

“Isaac, is that you?”

“A little worse for wear, I'm afraid. But, yes, it's me.” He removed his hat. “Good to see you, Margaret. I'm happy you survived the quake without injury.”

Her dark eyes were wide and soft, as if she were seeing him for the first time. She stood back from the door. “Please come in.”

He entered and saw that she had been working at cleaning up the mess littering the floors of the mansion, mostly broken china, porcelain figurines, and Tiffany lampshades. She wore a comfortable red cotton skirt and a woolen sweater under a long apron. Her hair was wrapped in a tight curl atop her head, with loose strands falling beside her cheeks. Despite her plain appearance, she filled the air around her with a sweet fragrance. Whether she wore an expensive silk gown or an ordinary work dress, Margaret was still a stunning woman.

She led him into the parlor and offered him a chair by the fireplace, whose ashes had fanned out over the carpet when the chimney collapsed. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“I'd sell my soul for a cup of coffee.”

She turned to her housekeeper, who had overheard and simply nodded, then scurried off to the kitchen. Margaret found it difficult to gaze directly into Bell's hypnotic eyes. She found herself with a growing lust that she had experienced earlier in his presence.

“What do you want with Jacob?” she demanded without preamble.

“I think you know the answer to that question,” he replied in a flat tone.

“You cannot abduct him again. Not in San Francisco. You must know that by now.”

“You and he have bribed too many corrupt politicians in this town to ever be held for your crimes,” Bell said bitterly. He paused and looked around at the servants cleaning up the house and putting the furniture and décor back in its proper place. “Looks like you intend on remaining in the city.”

“Why not?” she said, faking indignation. “This is our city. We have a thriving business and close friends. Our hearts are open to the poor who live here. Why on earth should we leave?”

Bell was almost tempted to believe Margaret. She was good, he thought, remembering the night they danced in the Brown Palace Hotel. Very good.

“Is Jacob at the bank?”

“He left to survey the damage.”

“I saw what's left of Market Street. Most all the buildings are ruined, few still stand, and the Cromwell Bank is right in the path of the growing inferno.”

Margaret seemed unconcerned. “Jacob built the bank to stand for a thousand years, as he did this house, which, you can see, survived the earthquake while the more-pretentious Nob Hill mansions were heavily damaged if not destroyed. The House of Cromwell was built to endure.”

“Be that as it may, Margaret,” said Bell with deadly seriousness. “But I warn you and Jacob not to consider leaving town.”

Her anger flared and she came to her feet. “Do not threaten me, and do not think for a moment you can bully my brother. You're all bluff, Isaac. You have no authority, no influence, in this city. My brother and I will be here long after you're gone.”

He came to his feet. “I admit defeat on that score. I have no influence in this city or with its political machine. But once you cross the city limits, the two of you belong to me. You can count on it.”

“Get out!” she hissed fiercely. “Get out now!”

For a long moment, they glared at each other through wild eyes, infuriated with sudden hostility. Then Bell rose slowly and put on his hat as he walked to the front door.

Margaret jumped to her feet and shouted, “You'll never lay your hands on my brother again. Never in a thousand years! Over my dead body!”

He paused to give her one final look. “I wish you hadn't said that.” And then he was gone out the door.

 

A
BNER EXPERTLY
zigzagged the Rolls-Royce to the Cromwell National Bank on Sutter and Hyde Streets, evading the heaps of bricks and swarms of people littering the streets. At one corner, a policeman stopped the car and ordered Abner to go to the Mechanics' Pavilion, the immense building and arena that housed a huge archive and was the scene for many fairs, sports events, and concerts. In desperate need of an emergency facility, the city had converted the pavilion into a hospital and morgue. The policeman insisted Cromwell put the Rolls into service as an ambulance for the injured.

“I have other uses for my car,” Cromwell said loftily. He spoke through the speaking tube: “Continue on to the bank, Abner.”

The policeman pulled out his revolver and pointed the muzzle at Abner. “I'm personally commandeering this car and seeing that you go directly to the pavilion or I'll blow your driver's head off and turn the car over to someone with decency.”

Cromwell was not impressed. “A pretty speech, Officer, but the car stays with me.”

The policeman's face flushed with anger. He waved his revolver. “I'm not going to warn you again—”

The policeman reeled back in shock, his eyes wide, as a bullet from Cromwell's Colt .38 ripped into his chest. He stood for a moment, bewildered, until his heart stopped and he crumpled to the pavement.

There was no hesitation, no concern, no remorse. Abner quickly slid from behind the wheel, snatched up the body as if it were a dummy, and set it on the front seat. Then he resumed his position behind the wheel, shifted into first gear, and drove away.

There was so much pandemonium on the streets—people shouting, the occasional thunder of another building collapsing, and the shriek of the fire equipment—that no one noticed the murder of the policeman. The few people who saw him fall to the ground thought he was injured and being picked up by a driver using his automobile as an ambulance.

“You'll dispose of him?” Cromwell asked, as if suggesting that a servant throw a dead cockroach in the trash.

Abner spoke into his speaking tube: “I'll take care of the matter.”

“When you're finished, drive into the freight-and-service entrance at the rear of the bank. Let yourself in the back door—you have the key. I'll need you to help carry several trunks to the automobile.”

“Yes, sir.”

As the Rolls-Royce reached the corner of Sutter and Market Streets and Cromwell saw the approaching inferno and the magnitude of the destruction, he began to feel apprehensive about what he would find when they drove up to his bank. His growing fear quickly turned to elation when the building came into view.

The Cromwell National Bank had withstood the earthquake nearly unscathed. The unyielding stone structure had lived up to Cromwell's boast that it would last a thousand years. None of the walls or the great fluted columns had fallen. The only apparent damage was the shattered stained-glass windows, whose shards turned the sidewalk around the bank into a kaleidoscope of colors.

Abner pulled the Rolls to a stop and opened the rear door. Several bank employees were milling around the front entrance, having come to work out of habit, not knowing how else to deal with the tragic interruption of their lives. Cromwell got out and was only halfway up the steps when they surrounded him, all talking at once, bombarding him with questions. He held up his hands for silence and reassured them: “Please, please, go home and stay with your families. You can do nothing here. I promise your salaries will continue to be paid until this terrible calamity has ended and normal business can resume.”

It was an empty promise. Not only did Cromwell have no intention of continuing their salaries while the bank was shut down; he could see that the flames sweeping through the business district of the city were only a few hours away from consuming the bank building. Though the walls were stone and unyielding, the wooden roof beams were highly susceptible to fire, which would quickly gut the building to an empty shell.

As soon as his employees were walking away from the bank, Cromwell took a set of large brass keys from his coat pocket and unlocked the massive bronze front door. He didn't bother to lock it after him, knowing the fire soon would consume any records inside. He headed straight for the vault. The time lock was set to engage the combination at eight o'clock. It was now seven forty-five. Cromwell calmly walked over to a leather chair at the loan officer's desk, brushed off the dust, sat down, and produced a cigar from a case in his breast pocket.