The Chase Part 16

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 gla.s.ses 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 risque," 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."

21.

TWO 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 s.h.i.+rtsleeves, 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 s.h.i.+pments ever of newly printed currency from the San Francisco Mint will be s.h.i.+pped 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." 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 sc.r.a.pped 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 fict.i.tious 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."

22.

CROMWELL SAT AT THE TABLE, EATING HIS BREAKFAST and reading the morning paper. He folded the first section on a front-page article and pa.s.sed it across the table to Margaret without comment.

She read it, her eyes squinting as the story hit home, then she looked up quizzically. "Do you intend on going for it?"

"I find it very tempting," he replied. "It's as though a gauntlet was thrown at my feet."

"What do you know about Telluride?"

"Only what I've read. It lies in a box canyon. Has an extensive red-light district, and Butch Ca.s.sidy robbed the San Miguel Valley Bank there in 1889."

"Was he successful?"

Cromwell nodded. "He and his gang got away with over twenty thousand dollars."

"I suppose you're thinking if he could do it, you could do it."

"Ca.s.sidy conducted an amateur holdup and rode away on horses," Cromwell said pompously. "My methods are more scientific."

"If Telluride is in a box canyon, there is only one way in and one way out. A posse would have time to stop a train and search the cars."

"I can't use my boxcar anyway. It will have to be left behind."

"I don't understand."

"The railroad running in and from Telluride is the Rio Grande Southern. The tracks are narrow gauge, the rails too closely spiked for my Southern Pacific car. I'll just have to find another means of leaving town without the threat of capture."

Margaret scrutinized the story again. "I don't have a good feeling about this."

"I don't consider feelings. I work with hard facts, and I play it safe by taking into account every contingency, no matter how small."

She watched him across the table as he poured another cup of coffee. "You'll need help with this job."

He looked over his cup. "What have you got in mind?"

"I'll come with you."

"What about your little journey to Juneau, Alaska?"

"I'll simply postpone it."

Cromwell considered that for a few moments. "I can't put you at risk."

"You haven't failed yet," Margaret admonished him. "But, this time, you may need me."

He was quiet for a while. Then he smiled. "I do believe you'd come along if I ordered you not to."

She laughed. "Have I ever bowed to your demands yet?"

"Not even when we were children," he said, remembering. "Though you were two years younger, I could never get the upper hand."

She patted a napkin against her red lips. "It's settled, then. We're in this job together."

He sighed. "You win. But I hope I won't be sorry I didn't put you on the boat to Alaska."

"What do you want me to do?"

He stared down at the table, as if seeing an abstract image, while he circled his fork on the tablecloth. "Take a train to Colorado tomorrow and then make a connection to Telluride."

She stared at him. "You want me to leave before you?"

He nodded. "I'll deviate from my usual routine. Instead of my spending time mingling with the locals and studying the bank operation, you can do it. As a woman, you can conduct a close scrutiny without arousing suspicion."

"A woman woman in Telluride?" she mused. "I'll have to pa.s.s myself off as a prost.i.tute." in Telluride?" she mused. "I'll have to pa.s.s myself off as a prost.i.tute."