The Chase ib-1 Read online

  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.”

  AFTER 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 th
e 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.”

  MARION 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.

  After a minute, her attention, and that of many people passing along the street, was drawn to a big red car that moved effortlessly through traffic. There was a brute strength about its appearance that made it look as if it were hurtling over the pavement, even though it was moving no more than twenty miles an hour. Its bright red paint had been hand rubbed to a glistening finish. Everything about it portrayed a powerful elegance.

  With her attention focused on the car, she did not notice the man behind the wheel until it came to a stop in front of her and he said, “Please climb in, Marion.”

  She paled, one hand flying up and holding her throat, startled to find herself gazing into the violet eyes of Isaac Bell that seemed to draw her into his soul. “Isaac,” she murmured in shock. “Jacob told me you were dead.”

  He held out his hand, grasped hers, and pulled her up onto the leather passenger seat with an ease and strength that stunned her. “It just goes to show, you can’t believe all you hear.”

  Oblivious to the crowd that had gathered around the car, Bell circled his arm around Marion’s waist. Then he took her in his arms and kissed her.

  “Isaac!” she gasped when he released her. Her protest was one more of enjoyment than embarrassment. “Not in front of all these people.”

  By now, the crowd that had assembled to stare at the car found themselves being entertained by the man and woman in the front seats. They began to applaud and cheer them on.

  Bell pulled back and smiled wickedly. “I was never able to resist a beautiful lady.”

  Marion was almost swept away by the moment—almost but not quite. “Can we please move away?” she insisted.

  Bell laughed, tipped his hat to the people cheering him on, and shifted the Locomobile into first gear. He stepped lightly on the gas pedal and moved into the street amid the flow of traffic. He drove north on Montgomery before turning left into Chinatown. He swung into an alley and came to a stop behind a large Mandarin-style restaurant, painted red and gold and with a pagoda roof. An attendant waiting there bowed.

  “I will watch your car, sir.”

  Bell gave him a tip that made the attendant’s eyes pop. “I’m counting on you.” Then he helped Marion from her seat to the ground.

  “The Empress of Shanghai,” she said, staring at the ornate entrance. “I’ve always wanted to eat here.”

  “It came highly recommended.”

  “I wondered how you knew about the rear parking.”

  After they entered a long hallway, they were greeted by a beautiful woman with long shiny black hair wearing a Chinese sheath silk dress slit high on the sides. She led them upstairs to a small private dining room and seated them. While they were studying the menu, a pot of tea arrived and was poured.

  “You were limping,” she said.

  “A little memento of Telluride, Colorado.”

  For the first time, she noticed the bandage on his head as he removed his hat. She frowned and raised her eyebrows. “Another memento?”

  He nodded and smiled gamely.

  Marion looked into Bell’s eyes and her own eyes became misty. “You don’t know how happy I am that you weren’t killed.”

  “Your boss certainly tried.”

  “Mr. Cromwell!” she exclaimed as her mood altered from compassion to alarm. “I don’t understand.”

  “He’s the man who shot me and killed a Van Dorn agent who was my friend.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “Like it or not, Jacob Cromwell is the Butcher Bandit who has held up over twenty banks in the past twelve years and killed nearly forty innocent people.”

  “That’s crazy!” Marion bit her lower lip. She looked as if she was lost and had nowhere to turn. “He couldn’t have done what you say.”

  “What I said is true,” Bell said with a sudden gentleness. “We have evidence. Maybe not enough to convict, but it falls at Cromwell’s doorstep.”

  “But he’s helped so many people in need,” she protested.

  “A front,” said Bell icily. “He’s built a wall around his empire, guarded by an army of good citizens who believe he and Margaret are generous people who want to help the poor out of the goodness of their hearts. It’s an act. Cromwell could care less about those who are destitute. He uses them to promote his own purposes. In the eyes of the city’s crooked politicians, he can do no wrong so long as he supports them with secret donations.”

  Confused, Marion sipped at her tea, her hand noticeably trembling. “I simply re
fuse to believe it,” she murmured.

  Bell reached across the table and took both her hands in his. “Believe me, Marion, it’s true. I looked into his eyes and recognized him the instant he shot me at the bank in Telluride.”

  She pulled her hands back and clasped them together tightly. “Oh, Isaac, it’s all too fantastic. Why would Jacob rob banks when he already owns the second-largest bank in San Francisco? The thought is too absurd to be real.”

  “I can’t give you an answer, Marion. In the beginning, he took the money to build his own bank. But when he became rich, the robbery and killings became an obsession. I’ve seen many cases like Cromwell’s. The robberies and the murders are like a narcotic for him. He can’t help himself, and will go on killing until I stop him.”