The Chase ib-1 Read online

  He walked briskly through the interior cavern of the terminus, lugging the big suitcase, and through the doors on the Townsend Street side. For the next few minutes, he stood on the sidewalk and waited. He smiled as a white Mercedes Simplex runabout rolled up the street and came to a tire-skidding halt at the curb in front of him. Under the hood was a massive four-cylinder, sixty-horsepower engine that could move the car as fast as eighty miles an hour. It was a marvelous contrivance of steel, brass, wood, leather, and rubber. Driving it was sheer adventure.

  If the car produced a striking picture, so did the woman behind the steering wheel. She was svelte and wasp-waisted. Her red hair was adorned with a large red bow that matched her fiery hair. Her bonnet was tied under her chin to keep it from blowing away, and she wore a tan linen dress that came halfway up her calves so she could dance her feet deftly over the five floor pedals. She took one hand from the big steering wheel and waved.

  “Hello, brother. You’re an hour and a half late.”

  “Greetings, sister.” He paused to grin. “I could only go as fast as the engineer drove the train.”

  She offered him her cheek and he dutifully kissed it. She inhaled the smell of him. He always used the French cologne she had given him. It smelled like a sea of flowers after a light evening rain. If he hadn’t been her sibling, she might have had a love affair with him.

  “I assume your trip was successful.”

  “Yes,” he said, strapping the suitcase on the running board. “And we haven’t a minute to lose.” He climbed into the brown leather passenger’s seat. “I must record the bank draft I obtained at the Salt Lake Bank and Trust before their agents show up to stop the transfer.”

  She pushed a laced-up brown leather shoe against the clutch and shifted expertly, as the car leaped down the street like a lion chasing a zebra. “It took two days for you to get here. Don’t you think you’re cutting it close? They would have contacted law enforcement officials and hired private agents, prodding them to check all the banks in the country for a stolen bank draft worth a fortune.”

  “And that takes time, not less than forty-eight hours,” he added, clutching the side of the seat with a hand since there were no doors on the runabout for support as she made a sharp left turn up Market Street. He barely grabbed his derby with his other hand before it almost flew off into the street.

  She drove fast, seemingly recklessly, but nimbly, smoothly whipping around slower traffic at a speed that turned heads and startled passersby. She hurtled past a big beer truck, pulled by a team of Percheron horses, that blocked most of the street, slipping between the stacked barrels on the street and the sidewalk filled with pedestrians with only inches to spare. He bravely whistled a marching tune called “Garry Owen” and tipped his hat at the pretty girls coming out of the clothing stores. The big Market Street electric trolley car loomed ahead, and she crossed into oncoming traffic to pass it, sending more than one horse rearing up on its hind legs, to the anger and fist waving of their drivers.

  Another two blocks through the canyon of brick-and-stone buildings, she came to a quick stop, skidding the rear tires when she hit the brakes, in front of the Cromwell Bank on the southeast corner of Market and Sutter Streets. “Here you are, brother. I trust you enjoyed the ride.”

  “You’re going to kill yourself someday.”

  “Blame yourself,” she said, laughing. “You gave me the car.”

  “Trade you my Harley-Davidson for it.”

  “Not a chance.” She gave a cheery wave and said, “Come home early and don’t be late. We’ve a date on the Barbary Coast with the Gruenheims to go slumming and take in one of the scandalous dance revues.”

  “I can’t wait,” he said sarcastically. He stepped down to the sidewalk before turning and unstrapping the suitcase. She saw that he strained as he lifted and knew it was crammed with stolen currency from the Salt Lake bank.

  At the press of the accelerator pedal, the chain-driven Mercedes Simplex charged across the intersection and roared up the street, the thunder of the exhaust coming within a few decibels of breaking the storefront windows.

  The bandit turned and looked with pride at the big, elaborately ornamented Cromwell Bank Building, with its tall, fluted Ionic column and large stained-glass windows. A doorman in a gray uniform opened one of the big glass doors for him. He was a tall man with gray hair, and a military bearing that came from thirty years in the United States Cavalry.

  “Good morning, Mr. Cromwell. Glad to see you back from your holiday.”

  “Glad to be back, George. How’s the weather been in my absence?”

  “Just like it is today, sir, sunny and mild.” George looked down at the large suitcase. “May I carry that for you, sir?”

  “No, thank you. I can manage. I need the exercise.”

  A small brass sign listed the bank’s assets at twenty-two million dollars. It would soon be twenty-three, thought Cromwell. Only the fifty-year-old Wells Fargo Bank had higher assets, capital, and liquidity. George swung open the door, and Cromwell the bandit strode across the marble floor of the bank’s lobby, past the beautifully carved desks of the managers and the tellers’ windows and the counters without bars, totally open to the customers. The open tellers’ area was a strange innovation by a man who trusted no one and robbed out-of-state banks to build his own financial empire.

  The fact was, Jacob Cromwell no longer needed the additional income he stole for his bank. But he was intoxicated by the challenge. He felt he was invincible. He could match wits with any police investigators, not to mention the agents from the Van Dorn Detective Agency, until he died of old age. He knew from his spies that no one was remotely close to identifying him.

  Cromwell entered an elevator and rode up to the third floor. He stepped out onto the Italian-tiled floor of the main office on the gallery above the bank’s lobby. He walked into the grandeur of his suite of offices, the deep, ivory brown carpet muffling his footsteps. The walls were paneled in teak, with carvings depicting scenes of the nineteenth-century West, while the columns that supported the roof were sculpted in the manner of totem poles. The vast ceiling above had been painted with murals of the early days of San Francisco.

  He employed three secretaries to handle his main business, along with much of his personal affairs. They were all beautiful women, tall, graceful, intelligent, and came from fine San Francisco families. He paid them more than they could make working for his competitors. The only requirement was that they all wear the same style and color dress, which the bank paid for. Every day was a different color. Today, they were wearing brown dresses that complemented the carpet.

  They saw him enter and immediately came to their feet and surrounded him, chatting gaily and welcoming him back from what they had been told was a holiday that took him fishing in Oregon. Although he had to use great restraint and willpower, Cromwell never carried on a love affair with any of the three women. He had strong principles about playing on his own turf.

  After the niceties were over and the ladies returned to their desks, Cromwell asked his senior secretary, who had been with him for nine years, to come into his office.

  He sat down at his massive teak desk and parked the suitcase underneath. He smiled at Marion Morgan. “How are you, Miss Morgan? Any new gentlemen friends lately?”

  She blushed. “No, Mr. Cromwell. I spend my nights staying home and reading.”

  Marion was twenty-one when she finished college and came to work for Cromwell as a teller, and she had risen to manager. She had just turned thirty and had never married, which made many consider her an old maid. But the truth was, she could have had any one of the well-heeled men in town. She was an unusually ravishing and nubile lady who could pick and choose her suitors but had yet to select one for a husband. She was particular about men, and the Prince Charming of her dreams had not appeared. Her straw-blond hair was wrapped on her head, as was the fashion of the day, and her lovely facial features enhanced a long swan neck. Her corseted
figure looked like the classic hourglass. She gazed across the desk at Cromwell through coral–sea green eyes, and a delicately shaped hand held a pencil poised above a notepad.

  “I expect agents representing a bank in Salt Lake City to arrive at any moment to check our records.”

  “Are they going to examine our books?” she asked as if mildly alarmed.

  He shook his head. “Nothing like that. I’ve heard rumors among my fellow bankers that a bank in Salt Lake City was robbed and that monies stolen might have been deposited in another bank.”

  “Do you wish me to take care of the matter?”

  “No. Please, simply entertain them until I’m prepared to deal with it.”

  If Marion had any inquiries as to the uncertainty about Cromwell’s request, she showed no curiosity. “Yes, of course, I’ll see that they are comfortable until you wish to see them.”

  “That will be all,” said Cromwell. “Thank you.”

  As soon as Marion left his office and shut the door, Cromwell reached into his breast pocket and brought out the bank draft from the Salt Lake Bank & Trust. Then he stood and went over to the large stand-up safe that held the bank’s ledgers and records. He quickly, and expertly, doctored the books so that it appeared that the draft had already been received and the full amount paid to Eliah Ruskin. Cromwell also made entries that indicated the money had been deducted from his bank’s liquid capital.

  Cromwell did not have long to wait after finishing doctoring the records. The expected agents walked into his outer office twenty minutes later. Marion had stalled them, saying Mr. Cromwell was extremely busy. When a small buzzer beneath her desk sounded, she showed them into his office.

  He was holding a telephone and nodded a greeting while motioning them to take chairs. “Yes, Mr. Abernathy, I will personally see that your account is closed and the funds transferred to the Bank of Baton Rouge in Louisiana. Not at all. Glad to be of service. Have a good trip. Good-bye.”

  Cromwell put down the phone with a dead line and no caller on the other end. He stood, came around the desk, and offered his hand. “Hello, I’m Jacob Cromwell, president of the bank.”

  “These gentlemen are from Salt Lake City,” said Marion. “They wish to see you about a draft drawn against their bank.” Then she swirled her skirt, a bare inch above the ankles, left the office, and closed the door.

  “How can I help you?” Cromwell asked courteously.

  One man was tall and gangly, the other short and stocky and sweating. The tall one spoke first. “I’m William Bigalow, and my associate here is Joseph Farnum. We are inquiring if any financial institution in San Francisco might have received a bank draft for four hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars drawn on the Salt Lake Bank and Trust.”

  Cromwell raised his eyebrows in mock apprehension. “What seems to be the problem?”

  “The draft was made under duress by the bank manager before a bandit shot him dead and made off with it, including the bank’s money in its vault. We’re trying to trace its whereabouts.”

  “Oh, my,” said Cromwell, throwing up his hands in a sign of distress. “That draft came into our hands yesterday afternoon.”

  The two agents tensed. “You have the draft?” Farnum queried expectantly.

  “Yes, it is in a safe in our bookkeeping department.” Cromwell’s tone became grave. “Unfortunately, we honored it.”

  “You honored it!” Bigalow gasped.

  Cromwell shrugged. “Why, yes.”

  “With a check, no doubt,” said Farnum, in hope there was still time to stop the bandit from cashing it at another bank.

  “No, the gentleman whose name was on the draft asked for cash and we complied.”

  Bigalow and Farnum looked at Cromwell in shock. “You paid almost half a million dollars in cash to someone who walked into your bank off the street?” Bigalow frowned severely.

  “I checked the draft myself when my manager brought it to me for approval. It appeared perfectly legitimate.”

  Bigalow did not look happy. It would be his burden to contact the directors of the Salt Lake Bank and tell them their four hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars had vanished.

  “What was the name on the draft?”

  “A Mr. Eliah Ruskin,” answered Cromwell. “He produced a file of papers that showed Mr. Ruskin was the founder of an insurance company that was going to pay off claims brought on by a fire that destroyed a city block in a town…” Cromwell paused. “I believe he said its name was Bellingham, in Washington State.”

  “Can you describe Ruskin?” asked Farnum.

  “Very well dressed,” offered Cromwell. “Tall, with blond hair and a large blond mustache. I didn’t catch the color of his eyes. But I seem to recall that he carried an unusual cane, with a silver eagle’s head.”

  “That’s Ruskin, all right,” muttered Farnum.

  “He didn’t waste any time,” Bigalow said to his partner. “He must have caught an express train to get here in a little over a day.”

  Farnum stared at Cromwell skeptically. “Didn’t you think that was an astronomical amount to pay a perfect stranger from out of state?”

  “True, but, as I said, I personally checked the draft to make sure it wasn’t a forgery. I asked him why he didn’t draw on it from a Seattle bank, but he said his company was opening an office in San Francisco. I assure you that it was a bona fide draft. I could find no reason to be suspicious. We paid, although it took almost every dollar of currency we carried in the vault.”

  “The bank we represent won’t be happy about this,” Barnum pointed out.

  “I’m not worried,” Cromwell replied significantly. “The Cromwell Bank has done nothing illegitimate or illegal. We have adhered to the rules and regulations of banking. As to the Salt Lake Bank and Trust failing to meet their obligations, I’m not concerned. Besides their insurance company paying for the theft of the currency, I happen to know their assets are more than ample to cover a half-million-dollar loss.”

  Barnum addressed Bigalow without turning in his direction. “We had better get to the nearest telegraph office and notify the Salt Lake Bank and Trust directors. They won’t be pleased.”

  “Yes.” Bigalow nodded heavily. “They may not take this lying down.”

  “They have no choice but to honor the draft. It is safe to say the banking commission will agree in Cromwell Bank’s favor, should the directors of the Salt Lake Bank wish to enter a protest.”

  The two agents came to their feet.

  “We’ll need a statement from you, Mr. Cromwell,” announced Farnum, “stating the circumstances of the payment.”

  “I shall have my attorneys draw it up first thing in the morning.”

  “Thank you for your consideration.”

  “Not at all,” said Cromwell, remaining seated. “I’ll do all in my power to cooperate.”

  As soon as the agents left, Cromwell called in Miss Morgan. “Please see that I am not disturbed for the next two hours.”

  “I’ll see to it,” she said efficiently.

  Seconds after the door closed, Cromwell walked over and quietly locked it. Then he lifted the heavy suitcase under the desk onto the teak surface and opened it. The currency was piled loosely inside, some in stacks wrapped with paper bands.

  Methodically, Cromwell began to count and stack the bills, wrapping the loose ones with bands as he inked in the amount. When he finished, he had his desktop filled with neatly piled bundles of cash, marked and counted. The tally came to two hundred forty-one thousand dollars. Then he carefully put the money back in the suitcase, slid the suitcase back under the desk, and opened several ledgers, entering deposits in bogus accounts, which he had set up previously to conceal money stolen over the years. Money that he used to build up the assets needed to open his own bank. Satisfied that he was covered by all the entries, he buzzed Miss Morgan and informed her that he was ready to deal with the day-to-day business of running a successful house of finance.

  The
banking hours were from ten o’clock in the morning until three in the afternoon. When closing time rolled around, Cromwell waited until the employees had all left for home and the bank was locked up. Now, alone in the bank’s vast interior, he carried the suitcase down the elevator to the main floor and into the bank vault, which was still open according to his instructions. He placed the currency, one stack at a time, in the proper bins that were used by the tellers for customer transactions. The receipts he had made up would be turned over to his chief accountant in the morning, who would record the juggled deposits without knowing the serial numbers.

  Jacob Cromwell felt pleased with himself. Swindling as well as robbing the bank in Salt Lake City had been his most bold undertaking to date. And he was not about to repeat it. The evil act would throw off his pursuers, who would think he was becoming more daring, and be led into thinking he might try robbing a major city’s bank again. But he knew when not to press his luck. Such a robbery was extremely complicated. When he went out on a crime spree again, it would be in a small town yet to be selected.

  After closing the vault and throwing the locks and timer, he went down to the basement and slipped out to the street through a hidden door that only he knew existed. Whistling “Yankee Doodle,” he hailed a cab and rode to California Street, where he took the cable car up the steep, twenty-four-percent grade of the three-hundred-seventy-five-foot-high slope to his house on Nob Hill, the “hill which is covered with palaces,” as Robert Louis Stevenson described it.