Текст книги "The Chase"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

Bell wondered if he would ever know the answer.

THE NEXT MORNING, Bell stepped out of the big porcelain bathtub, toweled off the water that dripped down his body, and gazed in the mirror. His throat didn’t look pretty. It was swollen, with purple bruises so obvious that he could see the shape of Red Kelly’s fingers where they had dug into his flesh. He put on a clean white shirt and was pleased to see that the high, starched collar, though it chafed his tender skin, covered the bruises.

They weren’t the only purplish green marks on his aching body. He had several from falling over the chair, and from being thrown across the room and into the wall by Kelly’s brute strength. They were tender to the touch and would not fade anytime soon.

After dressing in his trademark linen suit, Bell left the hotel and stopped off at the Western Union office and sent a telegram to Joseph Van Dorn that told of the attempt on his life. When he came slowly through the door of the office, Agnes Murphy openly stared at him. She stood up with a look of motherly concern in her eyes. “Oh, Mr. Bell. I heard about your unfortunate incident. I do hope you’re all right.”

“A few bruises, Agnes, nothing more.”

Curtis and Irvine heard his voice and came from the conference room, followed by Alexander from his office. Both agents vigorously shook his hand—a bit too vigorously, Bell thought, wincing at the discomfort that traveled over his aching body. Alexander merely stood back, as if he was a spectator in an audience.

“Glad to see you alive and kicking,” said Curtis. “We heard it was quite a fight.”

“It was as close as I ever came to buying the farm,” said Bell.

“After talking to you over the phone,” said Curtis, “I wired your identification of Red Kelly to our San Francisco office. They’re going to check out Kelly and any of his clients who might have wanted you eliminated.”

“A terrible thing,” Alexander said without emotion. “Unthinkable, that someone would attempt to assassinate a Van Dorn agent.”

Bell gave Alexander a long hard look. “I can only wonder how Kelly knew where I was staying.”

“Kelly was a well-known crime boss on the Barbary Coast in San Francisco,” said Irvine. “Could any of your former friends who you put in jail or friends and families of those who were executed because you arrested them be from San Francisco?”

“None that I can name,” answered Bell. “If I had to make a guess, I’d have to say the Butcher Bandit was behind it.”

“Knowing you were on the case,” said Irvine, “he’d certainly have a motive.”

Alexander said, “We won’t rest until we get to the bottom of this.” To Bell, his words rang hollow. “I can’t tell you how glad I am that you are alive and well.” Then he turned and walked back to his office.

As soon as he was out of earshot, Bell said, “Another nail in the coffin, gentlemen. The key to the bandit’s whereabouts is San Francisco.”

18

WHEN BELL, IRVINE, AND CURTIS STEPPED OFF THE ferry from Oakland and entered the huge Ferry Building, they found themselves in a three-story-tall hall with repeating arches and skylights overhead. They exited onto the Embarcadero, at the foot of Market Street. While Irvine and Curtis went to hail a motor cab, Bell turned and looked up at the two-hundred-forty-foot clock tower, modeled after the twelfth-century Giralda bell tower in Seville, Spain. The long hands on the expansive dial read eleven minutes past four.

Bell checked the time on his watch and duly noted that the ferry building clock was one minute fast.

Because of the huge crowds in the terminal after pouring off four ferryboats at the same time, the agents were unable to find a free motor cab. Bell stopped a horse-drawn carriage, haggled a price with the driver, and commandeered it to carry them to the Palace Hotel on Montgomery Street. As they settled in the carriage, Curtis spoke to Bell.

“How do you plan to handle the Van Dorn San Francisco office?”

“We’re having dinner with the district director. His name is Horace Bronson. I once worked with him in New Orleans. He’s a fine fellow and very efficient. When I sent him a telegram, he wired back and offered every cooperation in his power. He promised to send his agents out to obtain the names of people from gun dealers who might have purchased a thirty-eight-caliber Colt automatic.”

Irvine rolled an unlit cigar around in his fingers. “On my end, I’ll start with the Cromwell and Crocker banks and see if they can help trace any of the stolen currency serial numbers.”

Bell said to Irvine, “You might check out the other major banks, too, such as Wells Fargo and the Bank of Italy, in case any stolen bills might be in their possession. If the bandit is from San Francisco, it stands to reason he’d have passed them around town.”

“We have our work cut out for us,” said Curtis. “I’ll see if I can’t track down the O’Brian Furniture car.”

Bell stretched out his feet in the carriage and said, “After we meet with Bronson, I’ll write out news releases about the fake currency shipment to the San Miguel Valley Bank in Telluride and prevail upon the editors of the city’s major newspapers to run the story.”

The carriage reached the magnificent Palace Hotel and turned into the Garden Court, the hotel’s elegant carriage entrance that was commanded by seven stories of gleaming white marble balconies with over a hundred ornamented columns. Light from above filtered through a huge stained-glass-domed skylight.

Bell paid off the coachman as porters took the luggage inside. The three Van Dorn detectives walked into a vast, majestic lobby. After registering, they went up to their rooms in a redwood-paneled hydraulic elevator. Bell arranged for the rooms to be joined together to create a large suite.

“Tell you what,” said Bell to Irvine and Curtis. “It’s almost five o’clock, so nothing can be accomplished today. Let’s get cleaned up. Then we’ll go out, have a good meal, get a good night’s sleep, and start beating the bushes first thing in the morning.”

“Sounds good to me,” Irvine said, his stomach growling, since they had eaten nothing in the last eight hours.

“What have you got in mind for a restaurant?” asked Curtis.

“Bronson is a member of the Bohemian Club. He’s arranged for us to eat with him in their dining room.”

“Sounds exclusive.”

Bell smiled. “You don’t know how exclusive.”

AT EIGHT O’CLOCK, the men exited a motor cab at the Taylor Street entrance of the powerful and elite Bohemian Club. Founded in 1872 as a gathering place for newspaper journalists and men of the arts and literature, its members included Mark Twain, Bret Harte, Ambrose Bierce, and Jack London. Over the years, powerful and influential men who made up the business elite of the city joined and soon became the dominant group. No women were allowed, and wives and unmarried guests of the members had to enter through a back door.

This evening, women were permitted into the dining room because Enrico Caruso was being honored and he insisted upon his wife being present. The club directors considered it a special occasion and so had made it one of the few exceptions.

Irvine and Curtis followed Bell into the main reception room and stood for a moment until a tall man with a youthful face in a well-conditioned, muscular body that gave the impression of towering height came forward and shook Bell’s hand vigorously. “Isaac, how good to see you.”

“The pleasure is mine,” returned Bell, pleased to see an old friend and prepared for a bone-crushing handshake. “You’re looking fit.”

“I still work at it.” He nodded at Irvine and Curtis and smiled. “Hello, I’m Horace Bronson.”

His voice was husky and went with the broad shoulders that looked as though they were about to burst the seams of his neatly tailored gray suit. His facial features made him look like a schoolboy under a thick forest of sun-bleached hair.

Bell made the introductions and was amused to see the tight expressions on his agents’ faces and their eyes blink as Bronson compressed their hands in his big paw. Though he headed up an office with ten agents in a major city, Bronson deferred to Bell, who out-ranked him in the agency. He also greatly admired Bell for his wide experience and enviable reputation in apprehending lawbreakers. And he was also indebted to the master detective who had recommended him to Van Dorn for the post in San Francisco.

“Come this way into the dining room,” he said warmly. “The club is noted for its gourmet fare and fine wine.”

Bronson led the way from the imposing grand lobby into the large and impressive dining room finished majestically with mahogany on the floors, walls, and ceiling. He had a few words with the maître d’.

Bronson put his hand on Bell’s shoulder. “I asked him for a table I usually reserve for talking business. It’s in a corner of the dining room where we can’t be overheard.”

The maître d’ showed them to a table off by itself but with an unimpaired view of the other diners throughout the room. A waiter was standing by, who laid napkins in their laps and waited until Bronson perused the wine list and made his selection. As soon as the waiter was out of earshot, Bronson relaxed and looked at Bell.

“I checked out the number of businesses that have sold thirty-eight-caliber Colt automatics since they were introduced on the market. The total comes to sixty-seven. I’ve put four agents on the investigation. They should have an answer in two or three days—earlier, if they get lucky.”

“Thank you, Horace,” said Bell. “That will save us much-needed time to look into our other leads.”

“It’s the least I can do,” Bronson said with a broad smile. “Besides, Mr. Van Dorn ordered me to give you my fullest cooperation.”

“We’ll need all the help we can get.”

“Do you have any other leads on the Butcher Bandit?”

“I’ll have to swear you to secrecy. I’ve found that the bandit has spies inside our agency.”

“You’re safe confiding with me,” Bronson said with growing concern. “It’s hard to believe such an intrusion can happen. Does Van Dorn know about it?”

Bell nodded. “He knows.”

Then Bell gave Bronson a rundown on the evidence, slim as it was, that led them to San Francisco. He explained Irvine’s tracking of the serial numbers on the money, Curtis’s discovery of the getaway freight car, and his own revelation about the bandit’s hair and missing finger. He told it carefully, with the details but without embellishment. Irvine and Curtis also added comments on what they had uncovered during their investigations. When Bell finished his report, Bronson sat silent for several moments.

At last, he said, “Your investigation has shown great progress, Isaac. You have something tangible when there was nothing a few weeks ago. But, unfortunately, it’s hardly enough to identify the bandit.”

“No, it’s not,” Bell agreed, “but it’s a thread that can lead to a string that can lead to a rope.”

The wine that Bronson selected, a California chardonnay reserve from Charles Krug, the oldest winery in the Napa Valley, arrived and, after the proper tasting ceremony, was poured. As they studied the menu, all talk of the bandit was put on hold while they enjoyed the wine and made their selections.

“What intrigues you?” Bronson asked Bell.

“The kitchen has sweetbreads in béchamel sauce. I’ll give them the taste test since I am a lover of sweetbreads.”

“Aren’t they bull’s testicles?” said Curtis.

“You’re thinking of Rocky Mountain oysters,” said Bronson, laughing.

“Prized by gourmets throughout the world,” explained Bell, “they are the thymus glands of veal. There are two glands, one in the throat and the other near the heart. The heart sweetbread is considered the most delicious by chefs—”

Suddenly, Bell stopped in midsentence and stared intently across the dining room. His violet eyes narrowed, as if focusing in the distance. His relaxed position stiffened and he sat up, as if lost in preoccupation.

“What is it, Isaac?” asked Irvine. “You look like you’ve seen the Resurrection.”

“I have,” Bell murmured, his eyes staring at a couple who had walked in the door and were talking to the maître d’. They were a striking pair that turned every head in the dining room. Both had the same flame red hair. The woman was as tall as the man, who was slight in stature.

She wore a yellow two-piece dress suit of the Empire style, with a gored skirt that created an elongated trumpet-bell shape with a short trail on the floor. The blouse was embroidered with lace trim and worn under a short jacket that had an extremely low neckline which allowed her to show off a magnificent diamond necklace. In an era dominated by formality, her fashionable Merry Widow–wide hat with lavish feather trim was perfect for a dressy function. A fox boa was draped around her shoulders.

The man wore an expensive black suit with vest. A large gold chain hung from one pocket and threaded through a buttonhole to another pocket that held a watch. A large diamond-encrusted fob hung from it. There was a confident look in his eyes that missed nothing. He surveyed the room as if he owned it. Seeing several people he knew, he smiled slightly and graciously bowed his head. The couple was shown to a table in the center of the dining room in a position highly visible to the other diners. It was a rehearsed entrance that was carried off with sophisticated elegance.

“Who is that couple who made the grand entrance?” Bell asked Bronson.

“That’s Jacob Cromwell, who owns the Cromwell National Bank. He’s a member of the Bohemian Club. The handsome woman at his side is his sister.”

“Sister?”

“Yes, her name is Margaret, a member of the social elite. Keeps busy with charity work. She and her brother are very wealthy and influential. They live on Nob Hill.”

“So her name is Margaret Cromwell,” Bell said quietly. “I knew her in Denver as Rose Manteca.”

Irvine looked at Bell. “Is she the woman you told us about who was a spy for the Butcher Bandit?”

“Unless she has a twin sister,” Bell answered, “that’s her.”

“Impossible,” said Bronson in a tone heavy with derision. “The assumption is utterly ridiculous. She and her brother do more for San Francisco than half the wealthy of the city put together. They support orphan homes, the humane society for the lost and wandering animals of the city, and city beautification. They give large donations to worthy causes. They are highly respected and admired.”

“He makes a strong case,” said Curtis. “If the Cromwells own a large San Francisco bank and are already wealthy, what’s their percentage in robbing and killing?”

“Is Miss Cromwell married?” Bell asked Bronson.

“No, she’s single, and has the reputation of being on the wild side.”

“Could you have been wrong about her being a spy for the bandit?” Irvine suggested.

Bell gazed intently at Margaret Cromwell, taking in every detail of her face. She seemed deep in conversation with her brother and did not turn in his direction. “I could be mistaken,” he murmured without conviction. “The resemblance between her and the woman I met in Denver is uncanny.”

“I know Cromwell personally,” said Bronson. “He cooperated with Van Dorn on a bank swindle that a gang of con men were using to bilk local businesses. I’ll introduce you.”

Bell shook his head and came to his feet. “Not to bother. I’ll introduce myself.”

He stood, dodged the chairs of the diners, and made his way to the Cromwells’ table. He purposely came up behind and slightly off to the side of Margaret so she wouldn’t notice his approach. He ignored Cromwell and looked down at her with a condescending smile and wondered how she would react. “I beg your pardon, Miss Cromwell, but I believe we met in Denver. My name is Isaac Bell.”

She went rigid, and did not turn and look up at him. She stared across the table into her brother’s eyes with an unfathomable expression—surprise, maybe, or consternation, or something else—something bordering on shock or distress. For an instant, it was as though she did not know how to react. And then she recovered in the blink of an eye.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t know a Mr. Isaac Bell.” Her voice was steady without the least indication of a tremor. She spoke without looking at him. She knew that if she did it would come like a physical blow to her stomach. She was grateful she wasn’t standing or her legs would have turned to rubber and she’d have fallen to the carpet.

“Forgive me,” said Bell, certain now from her reaction that she was the woman he knew as Rose Manteca. “It must be a case of mistaken identity.”

Cromwell had come to his feet out of courtesy and was holding his napkin. He gazed at Bell like a prizefighter sizing up his opponent before the bell of the first round. He showed not the least bit of surprise or incomprehension. He held out his hand. “Jacob Cromwell, Mr. Bell. Are you a member of the club?”

“No, a guest of Horace Bronson, of the Van Dorn Detective Agency.”

Bell shook Cromwell’s hand, thinking it strange the banker would keep his gloves on while he ate. Out of years of investigative habit, he glanced at the little finger of the glove on the left hand. The material over the finger was filled out and solid. Not that he thought there was the remotest chance Cromwell was the bandit. That was a crazy idea.

Cromwell nodded. “I know Horace. A fine man. A credit to your company.”

Bell noticed close up how Cromwell’s red hair was closely trimmed and was beginning to thin at the rear of the head. The banker was short and thin and carried himself with more feminine grace than masculine roughness. Bell saw the same expression in the eyes as he’d once seen in a mountain lion he had shot in Colorado. There was a cold, almost dead, look from deep inside.

“Yes, that he is.”

“Bell? I do not think I’ve heard the name before,” Cromwell said as if trying to place it. He dismissed the thought as if it were of no great importance. “Do you live in San Francisco?”

“No, Chicago.”

Margaret still could not bring herself to look at Bell. She felt an uncontrollable fire down deep in her body. Her discomfort flared and she blushed red as a cherry. Then she turned angry, not so much at Bell but at herself for showing emotion. “My brother and I would like to enjoy our dinner in private, Mr. Bell. If you will excuse us.”

He saw her long neck turn red and felt pleased. “I’m very sorry for the intrusion.” He nodded at Cromwell. “Mr. Cromwell.” Then Bell turned and walked back to his table.

As soon as he was certain Bell had moved out of earshot, Cromwell snorted. “What in hell is he doing in San Francisco? I thought Red Kelly took care of him.”

“Apparently, Kelly failed,” Margaret said with a small feeling of satisfaction in her stomach.

“How did he know you were here?”

“Don’t look at me,” said Margaret angrily. “I took the train from Denver to Los Angeles as Rose Manteca and bought a horse there under another name. Then I rode it to Santa Barbara, where I took a train to San Francisco under yet another name. There is no way he could have traced me.”

“Are we to consider it coincidence?”

She looked like a lost dog. “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

“Regardless of why he’s in San Francisco, his presence spells trouble,” said Cromwell, staring openly with a constrained smile at the four agents seated around their table. “I don’t think he’s put two and two together, but after seeing you, suspecting you might have a connection with the bandit, and learning you’re my sister, he’ll be nosing around.”

“Maybe it’s time for me to take a vacation.”

“Not a bad idea.”

“I’ll book passage to Juneau, Alaska, first thing in the morning.”

“Why Juneau?” asked Cromwell. “It’s colder than a witch’s nipple up there.”

“Because it’s the last place he’d look.” She paused, and her eyes took on a shrewd look. “And there is the fact that Eugene’s father, Sam Butler, oversees his mining operations outside of Juneau.” Margaret laughed, loosening the bond on her emotions. “It gives me a chance to look over my future financial interests.”

“Dear sister,” Cromwell said genially, “you are a never-ending, constant source of amazement.” Then he brazenly looked across the dining room at Bell. “I wonder,” he muttered, “what happened to Red Kelly.”

“Maybe Bell killed him.”

“Maybe,” said Cromwell. “If that’s the case, Bell is far more dangerous than I gave him credit for. Next time, I’ll handle the matter myself.”

WHEN BELL returned to the table, his dish of sweetbreads had arrived. He picked up a fork, looking forward to tasting the delicacy, but he was stopped by questions from everyone at the table.

“Was she the woman you think you met in Denver?” demanded Bronson.

Bell dodged the question, not wanting to dwell on what he knew was a touchy subject with Bronson. “I am probably wrong. I admit it. But the resemblance is quite extraordinary.”

“You have an eye for beauty,” Bronson said with a mild chuckle.

“How did you find Cromwell?” asked Irvine. “Do you think he will be helpful when I make an appointment with him to discuss the stolen currency that passed through his bank?”

“You’ll have to ask Horace. I didn’t mention our investigation. He seemed nice enough, if a little lordly.”

“He has a reputation of being lofty,” said Bronson. “But, one on one, he’s quite solicitous, and I’m sure he will be very cooperative in your investigation.”

“We shall see,” Bell said, finally savoring the sweetbreads. After swallowing, he nodded at Irvine. “I think I’ll accompany you to the Cromwell National Bank.”

“You want to meet him again?” asked Bronson.

Bell shook his head. “Not a priority, but I would like to probe around his bank.”

“What do you expect to find?” wondered Curtis.

Bell shrugged, but there was a faint gleam in his eyes. “You know, I haven’t the faintest idea.”