The Chase Part 2

The frightened teller moved toward an office with a closed door whose etched gla.s.s made it difficult to see in or out. He knocked.

"Yes, come on in," came a voice from the other side.

The teller Fred pushed open the door and was roughly shoved inside, losing his balance and falling across the manager's desk. The sign on the desk, HERBERT WILKINS, was knocked to the floor. Wilkins swiftly took in the situation and reached for a revolver under his desk. He was five seconds too late. The robber had learned about the weapon from the manager himself, while talking at a nearby saloon.

"Do not touch that gun," snapped the robber, as if he were psychic.

Wilkins was not a man who frightened easily. He stared at the robber, taking in every inch of his appearance. "You'll never get away with it," he said contemptuously.

The robber spoke in a cold, steady voice. "I have before and I will do so again." He motioned toward the imposing safe that stood nearly eight feet high. "Open it!"

Wilkins looked the robber square in the eye. "No, I don't think I will."

The robber wasted no time. He wrapped the muzzle of his automatic in a heavy towel and shot the teller between the eyes. Then he turned to Wilkins. "I may leave here without a dime, but you won't live to see it."

Wilkins stood, horrified, staring down at the spreading pool of blood around Fred's head. He looked at the smoldering towel where the bullet had pa.s.sed through, well knowing it was unlikely that anyone in the building had heard the gunshot. As if in a trance, he walked to the safe and began turning the combination lock to the required numbers. After half a minute, he pulled down on the latch and the ma.s.sive steel door swung open.

"Take it and be d.a.m.ned!" he hissed.

The robber merely smiled and shot Wilkins in the temple. The bank manager had barely struck the floor when the robber strode quickly to the front door, slammed it shut, hung a CLOSED sign in the window, and pulled down the shades. Then he methodically cleaned out the safe of all bills, transferring them into a laundry bag he carried tied around his waist under his s.h.i.+rt. When the sack was filled until it bulged in every seam, he stuffed the remaining bills in his pant pockets and boots. The safe cleaned of all money, the robber stared briefly at the gold and silver coins inside and took just one gold souvenir.

There was a heavy iron rear door to the bank that opened onto a narrow street. The robber unlocked the door's inside latch, cracked the door open, and scanned the street. It was lined on the opposite side with residential houses.

A group of young boys were playing baseball a block from the bank. Not good. This was entirely unexpected by the robber. In his many hours of observing the streets around the Cook Bank, this was the first time he had found children playing in the street behind the bank. He was on a time schedule and had to reach the railyard and his secret boxcar in twelve minutes. Shouldering the bag so his face was s.h.i.+elded on the right side, he walked around the ball game in progress and continued up the street, where he ducked into an alley.

For the most part, the boys ignored him. Only one stared at the poorly dressed man toting a big sack over his right shoulder. What struck the boy as odd was that the man wore a Mexican sombrero, a style that was seldom seen around Rhyolite. Most men in town wore fedoras, derbies, or miner's caps. There was also something else about the raggedy man...Then another boy yelled, and the boy turned back to the game, barely in time to catch a pop fly.

The robber tied the sack around his shoulders so that it hung on his back. The bicycle he'd parked earlier behind a dentist's office was sitting there behind a barrel that had been placed to catch runoff water from the building's drainpipe. He mounted the seat and began pedaling along Armagosa Street, past the red-light district, until he came to the railyard.

A brakeman was walking along the track toward the caboose at the end of the train. The robber couldn't believe his bad luck. Despite his meticulous planning, fate had dealt him a bad hand. Unlike with his other robberies and murders, this time he had been noticed by a stupid young boy. And now this brakeman. Never had he encountered so many eyes that might have observed him during his escape. There was nothing he could do but see it through.

Luckily, the brakeman did not look in the robber's direction. He was going from car to car checking the grease in the axle boxes of the trucks and wheels the boxcars rode on. If the bra.s.s sleeve that rotated inside the box did not receive enough lubricant, the friction would heat the end of the axle to a dangerous level. The weight of the car could break the axle off and cause a disastrous crash.

As the robber cycled past, the brakeman did not bother to look up. He instead went about his business, trying to complete his inspection before the train departed for Tonopah and then on to Sacramento.

Already, the engineer was looking at his gauges to make sure he had enough steam to move the heavy train. The robber hoped the brakeman would not turn back and witness him entering his private boxcar. Quickly, he unlocked and slid open the door. He threw the bicycle inside and then climbed a small ladder up to the door, dragging the heavy money sack over the threshold.

Once inside the boxcar, the robber peered down the length of the train. The brakeman was climbing aboard the caboose, which housed the train crew. There was no sign he'd witnessed the robber enter the boxcar.

Secure inside his palatial car, the robber relaxed and read a copy of the Rhyolite Herald. Herald. He could not help but wonder what the paper would print the following day about the bank robbery and the killing of its manager and teller. Again, as he had so many times earlier, he felt no remorse. The deaths never entered his mind again. He could not help but wonder what the paper would print the following day about the bank robbery and the killing of its manager and teller. Again, as he had so many times earlier, he felt no remorse. The deaths never entered his mind again.

Later, besides the mystery of how the robber/killer had escaped without a trace, the other puzzle was the wagon found outside of town on the road toward Bullfrog. The wagon was empty and appeared to have been driven by a dummy. The posse that chased it down was mystified.

Sheriff Josh Miller did put two and two together, but his speculation went nowhere. Nothing made sense. The desperado left no clues.

The robbery and murders in Rhyolite became another enigma that went unsolved.

4.

THE SUMMER SUNLIGHT HEIGHTENED THE CONTRAST of colors in the mile-high alt.i.tude of Colorado. The sky was free of clouds, a vivid blue that spread over the city of Denver like a quilt. The temperature was a comfortable eighty-one degrees.

Isaac Bell closed the door to his stateroom and left the train by stepping off the observation platform at the rear of the Pullman car. He paused to look up at the clock tower of the Gothic-style Union Station. Built of stone hauled down from the Rocky Mountains, the imposing three-story structure stretched a quarter of a mile.

The arrowhead-tipped hands of the huge clock read 11:40. Bell lifted his large gold watch from the vest pocket of his tailored linen suit and glanced at the hands that pointed to Roman numerals. His time was 11:43. He smiled at himself with satisfaction, knowing for certain that the big clock-tower clock was three minutes slow.

He walked down the redbrick platform to the baggage car, identified his trunks, and hailed a porter. "My name is Bell. Could you please see that my trunks are sent to the Brown Palace Hotel?"

The porter smiled broadly at the gold coin Bell laid in his hand and rubbed it almost reverently. "Yes, sir, I'll deliver them myself."

"I'm also expecting a large wooden crate on a later train. Can I count on you to make sure it is delivered to the Union Pacific freight warehouse?"

"Yes, sir, I'll take care of it." Still rubbing the gold piece, the porter grinned broadly.

"I'd be grateful."

"May I take that for you?" said the porter, nodding at the valise in Bell's hand.

"I'll keep it with me, thank you."

"Can I hail you a taxi?"

"That won't be necessary. I'll take the tram."

Bell strolled through the high-ceilinged grand lobby of the depot, with its majestic hanging chandeliers, past the rows of high-backed oak waiting benches and out the main entrance, flanked by twin Grecian columns. He crossed Wyncoop Street onto 17th Street and pa.s.sed under the newly erected Mizpah Arch, a gatelike structure with a pair of American flags flying on top that was built to welcome, and bid farewell to, train travelers. Mizpah, Mizpah, Bell knew, meant watchtower in ancient Hebrew. Bell knew, meant watchtower in ancient Hebrew.

Two ladies wearing light summer dresses, gloves, and ornate hats decorated with flowers drove by in an electric batterypowered car. Bell doffed his hat, and with nods and smiles they acknowledged the attention of the attractive man as they motored up 17th Street toward the state capitol building.

Horse-drawn wagons and carriages still outnumbered the few automobiles that chugged up and down the streets of the city. A Denver Tramway Company trolley car clanged around the corner off Wazee Street and approached the end of the block, where it stopped to let off and take on pa.s.sengers. The horse-drawn railways were a thing of the past and electric trolleys ruled the streets, reaching every neighborhood in Denver.

Bell climbed the steps and gave ten cents to the motorman. The bell was clanged and the big red trolley clattered up 17th Street. Three-and four-story brick buildings filled the next fourteen blocks. The sidewalks were crowded with people on a typical business day. The men wore black or gray suits and ties, while the women strolled in the long dresses whose skirts rose just above the ankles. Most of the women wore flamboyant hats and carried parasols.

He observed with interest a store that was selling Cadillac motorcars. The awnings were rolled out, shadowing the windows and revealing the vehicles inside. He glanced at the street signs so he could recall the location. An enthusiast of motorcars, he owned a Locomobile race car that had been driven by Joe Tracy in the 1905 Vanderbilt Cup road race on Long Island, in New York, placing third. Bell had converted it to street driving by adding fenders and headlamps.

He also owned a bright red motorcycle. The newest racing model, its V-Twin engine put out three and a half horsepower. It had an innovative twist grip throttle, weighed only one hundred twenty pounds, and could whip over the roads at nearly sixty miles an hour.

When the trolley rattled to a stop at California and 17th Streets, Bell stepped down the stair to the pavement and sauntered over to the sidewalk. It had been three years since he had set foot in Denver. Tall buildings stood on almost every corner, and the construction never stopped. He walked a block to the Colorado Building, a brown stone structure that rose eight stories on 16th and California Streets.

The windows were high and s.h.i.+elded by awnings that matched the brown exterior of the walls. The overhang above the top floor stretched nearly ten feet over the sidewalk far below. Hedgec.o.c.k & Jones and the Braman Clothing Company occupied the street level. Above them were several different businesses, including the Fireman's Fund Insurance Company and the Van Dorn Detective Agency.

Bell turned into the lobby and moved through a group of office workers who were streaming out of the building on their lunch break. The floor, walls, and ceiling were beautifully constructed of green Italian marble the color of jade. He entered an Otis elevator behind two pretty young ladies and moved to the rear of the car as the operator closed the steel scissor-gate door. As was the custom, Bell played the gentleman and removed his wide-brimmed hat.

The elevator operator pivoted the handle on the curved throttle housing, sending the elevator toward the upper floors at a leisurely pace. The women exited at the fifth floor, chatting gaily. They both turned and gave Bell a bashful glance before disappearing down the hallway.

The operator stopped the elevator and opened the door. "Eighth floor, and a good afternoon to you, sir," he said cheerily.

"Same to you," replied Bell.

He exited into a hallway painted a muted Mexican red above with walnut wainscot halfway up the wall below. He turned right and came to a door with etched lettering on the upper gla.s.s that advertised THE VAN DORN DETECTIVE AGENCY. Beneath was the agency's slogan: We never give up, never. We never give up, never.

The antechamber was painted white, with two padded wooden chairs and a desk, behind which a young woman sat primly in a swivel chair. Van Dorn was not a man to waste money on ostentatious decor. The only embellishment was a photo of the head man hanging on the wall behind the secretary.

She looked up and smiled sweetly, admiring the well-dressed man standing opposite her. She was a pretty woman, with soft brown eyes and wide shoulders. "May I help you, sir?"

"Yes. I'd like to see Arthur Curtis and Glenn Irvine."

"Are they expecting you?"

"Please tell them Isaac Bell is here."

She sucked in her breath. "Oh, Mr. Bell. I should have known. Mr. Curtis and Mr. Irvine did not expect you until tomorrow."

"I managed to catch an earlier train out of Independence, Missouri." Bell looked at the sign on her desk. "You're Miss Agnes Murphy?"

She held up her left hand, displaying a wedding band. "Mrs. Murphy."

Bell smiled his beguiling smile. "I hope you don't mind if I simply call you Agnes, since I'll be working here for a time."

"Not at all."

She rose from her desk, and he could see she wore a pleated blue cotton skirt with her white fluffy blouse. Her hair was piled atop her head in the fas.h.i.+on of the Gibson girl, which was so popular then. Her petticoats rustled as she went through the door to the inner offices.

Always curious, Bell moved around the desk and looked down at the letter Mrs. Murphy had been typing on a Remington typewriter. It was addressed to Van Dorn, and spelled out the superintendent of the western states' displeasure at having Bell come in and take over the unsolved case. Bell had never met Nicholas Alexander, who headed the Denver office, but he was determined to be courteous and polite to the man despite any antagonism.

Bell moved away from Mrs. Murphy's desk and stood looking out the window over the rooftops of the city when Alexander walked into the anteroom. He looked more like the bookkeeper of a funeral parlor than the chief investigator who had unraveled many crimes and brought the offenders to full justice. He was a short man, his head barely coming up even with Bell's shoulders. He wore a coat that was too large and his trousers were baggy. The high collar of his s.h.i.+rt showed wear and sweat stains. His head was devoid of hair except around the temples and at the rear; the eyebrows were trimmed as neatly as his hair. A pair of pince-nez gla.s.ses were clipped to the bridge of his nose in front of almost-sad-looking gray-green eyes.

Alexander held out his hand as his lips spread into a smile that was completely lacking in humor. "Mr. Bell, I'm honored to meet Van Dorn's finest agent."

Bell didn't buy the compliment since there was no hint of warmth about it. "The honor is mine in meeting you," Bell replied, nearly biting his tongue. It was obvious Alexander simply thought of Bell as an interloper into his private territory.

"Please come on back. Before I show you to your new office, we'll have a talk."

Alexander abruptly turned and strode stiffly through the door into the inner offices. Mrs. Murphy stood aside and smiled sweetly as they pa.s.sed.

Alexander's office was positioned in the only corner with a panoramic view of the mountains; the other offices were small and windowless. Bell observed that they were also doorless, offering almost no privacy. Alexander's domain was embellished with cowhide sofas and chairs. His aspen desk was expansive and completely barren of paperwork. Though Alexander's suit was a poor fit and bore wrinkles, he was fastidious about his working habits.

He seated himself in a high-backed chair behind his desk and motioned Bell to sit in an uncus.h.i.+oned wooden chair on the opposite side. The only thing missing for intimidation, Bell thought, was a platform under Alexander's work s.p.a.ce so he could look down on his employees and visitors like a minor G.o.d on Mount Olympus.

"No, thank you," Bell said quietly. "After sitting on a train for two days, I'd prefer a softer seat." He lowered his long frame onto one of the sofas.

"As you wish," said Alexander, not pleased with Bell's superior demeanor.

"You were not here when I worked on a case three years ago."

"No, I came six months later when I was promoted from our Seattle office."

"Mr. Van Dorn spoke very highly of you," Bell lied. Van Dorn had not mentioned him.

Alexander folded his hands and leaned across the empty wasteland of his desk. "I trust he briefed you on the murderer and his operations."

"Not in conversation." Bell paused to hold up the valise. "But he gave me several reports that I examined while riding on the train. I can see why the felon responsible for the robberies and murders is so difficult to pin down. He plans his criminal ventures with extreme care and his techniques appear to be flawless."

"All reasons why he eludes capture."

"After absorbing the material, I do believe his fetish for detail will be his undoing," said Bell thoughtfully.

Alexander looked at him suspiciously. "What, may I ask, brought you to that conclusion?"

"His jobs are too perfect, too well timed. One small miscalculation could prove his last."

"I hope we can have a close relations.h.i.+p," Alexander said with veiled animosity.

"I agree," said Bell. "Mr. Van Dorn said I could have Art Curtis and Glenn Irvine on my team, if it is all right with you."

"Not a problem. I wouldn't go against Mr. Van Dorn's wishes. Besides, they told me they worked with you a few years ago."

"Yes, I found them to be dedicated agents." Bell came to his feet. "May I see my office?"

"Of course."

Alexander came from behind his desk and stepped into the hallway.

Bell saw that all the offices were quite small and quite plain. The furniture was spa.r.s.e and there were no pictures on the walls. Only one other agent was present in the office, a stranger to Bell whom Alexander did not bother to introduce.

Before Alexander could point out a closet office, Bell asked innocently, "Do you have a conference room?"

Alexander nodded. "Yes, on the opposite side of the hallway from the offices." He stopped, opened a door, and stood aside as Bell walked in.

The conference room stretched nearly thirty feet and flowed fifteen feet to the side. A long pine table, stained dark and with a polished surface, sat beneath two ma.s.sive, circular chandeliers. Eighteen leather captain's chairs were s.p.a.ced evenly around it. The room was paneled in pine that matched the table, the floor carpeted with deep red pile. High windows rose on one wall, allowing the early-afternoon sunlight to illuminate every corner of the room.

"Very nice," said Bell, impressed. "Very nice."

"Yes," said Alexander with pride showing in his bloodhound eyes. "I use it frequently for meetings with politicians and influential people in the city. It gives the Van Dorn Detective Agency significant respect and an image of importance."

"It will do nicely," Bell said matter-of-factly. "I'll work in here."

Alexander looked directly at Bell, a fiery look in his eyes that suddenly glowed with anger. "That's not possible. I won't permit it."

"Where is the nearest telegraph office?"

Alexander seemed taken back. "Two blocks south on Sixteenth Street and Champa. Why?"

"I'll send a message to Mr. Van Dorn requesting the use of your conference room as an operations center. Considering the importance of the case, I'm sure he will give it his blessing."