Текст книги "The Chase"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

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Murphy laughed. “The guy on a motorcycle? I don’t believe what Jack said he saw. The description didn’t fit anyone I knew in town.”

“The bandit could have changed his disguise,” Bell suggested.

“There was no time for him to completely alter his appearance, retrieve his motorcycle, and ride off into the blue.”

“The rider and his machine were never seen again?”

Murphy shrugged. “Strikes me odd that nobody else saw him except Jack. A man on the only motorcycle in town is bound to be noticed. And how could he ride out of town without leaving a trail?”

“I admit it sounds a bit far-fetched,” said Bell, not wanting to discard the sighting.

“Jack Carson was an upstanding citizen not noted for being a hard drinker or a teller of tall tales. But I believe he was hallucinating.”

“Was there any other evidence discovered that wasn’t in your report?”

“There was something found after I sent the report to Chicago. Murphy rose from the kitchen table and pulled open a drawer of a rolltop desk. He passed Bell a brass shell casing. “This was found two weeks later, by a young boy playing on the floor of the bank while his father made a deposit. It was under a carpet. The bandit must have missed it.”

Bell studied the cartridge. “Thirty-eight caliber. If it was ejected, it must have come from an automatic weapon, probably a Colt.”

“That was my guess, too.”

“May I keep it?” asked Bell.

“Sure. But I doubt you’ll learn anything from it, except knowing it came from the bandit’s gun. And even that is not cold, hard evidence.”

“If not the bandit, then where did it come from?”

Murphy held up his hands in a helpless gesture. “I can’t begin to guess.”

Bell carefully held the cartridge in the palm of his hand. “Hopefully, we can obtain the bandit’s fingerprints.”

Murphy grinned. “You’ll find mine as well as the young boy’s and two of my deputies’.”

“Still,” said Bell optimistically, “our experts may be able to pull a print. We won’t need a sample of the boy who found it. His print would be small. But I would like sample prints of you and your deputies. You can send them to my Chicago office.”

“I’ve never taken a fingerprint,” said Murphy. “I’m not at all sure how it’s done.”

“The science has been around for centuries, but only in the past few years is it catching on with law enforcement. The impressions on an object—in this case, the cartridge—are created by the ridges on the skin. When the object is handled, the perspiration and oils are transferred to it, leaving an impression of the fingertip-ridge pattern. To record the prints, a fine powder like ground-up graphite from a pencil is dusted on the surface. Then a piece of tape is used to lift the print for study.”

Murphy sipped at his coffee. “I’ll give it a try.”

Bell thanked the sheriff and walked down the stairway. Three hours later, he was on a train back to Denver.

15

CROMWELL’S CHAUFFEUR DROVE THE 1906 ROLLS Royce Brougham, made by the London coach maker Barker, with its six-cylinder, thirty-horsepower engine, from the garage to the front of the palatial Nob Hill mansion Cromwell had designed himself and constructed from white marble blocks cut and hauled by railroad from a quarry in Colorado. The front end had the appearance of a Greek temple, with high fluted columns, while the rest of the house was more simply designed, with arched windows, and a cornice that crowned the walls.

While the chauffeur, Abner Weed, a stony-faced Irishman whom Cromwell hired more for his experience as a wrestler than his expertise behind the wheel of an automobile, stood patiently by the Rolls out front, Cromwell waited for his sister in his study, sprawled comfortably on a leather sofa, listening to Strauss waltzes on an Edison cylinder phonograph. He was conservatively dressed in a dark wool suit. After listening to “Voices of Spring,” he changed cylinders and played Tales from the Vienna Wood. The cylinders played two minutes of music each.

Cromwell glanced up from the machine as his sister came into the room wearing a doeskin dress that fell around her nicely curved calves.

“A bit risqué, aren’t we?” he said, eyeing her exposed flesh.

She spun around, swirling the skirt and showing off her legs up to midthigh. “Since we’re going slumming on the Barbary Coast, I thought I’d dress like a soiled dove.”

“Just be sure you don’t act like one.”

He rose from the sofa, turned off the phonograph, and held up her coat so she could slip into it. Even with his shoe lifts, he stood the same height as his sister. Then he followed her through the large, intricately carved front doors to the drive and the waiting Rolls-Royce. Abner, attired in his liveried uniform with shiny black boots, stood at attention, holding open the rear door. The Rolls was a town car, with an enclosed passenger compartment, the chauffeur in the open air with nothing but the windshield to protect him. As soon as Cromwell’s sister was settled, he instructed the driver where to go. Abner shifted gears and the big car rolled silently over the granite stones laid in the street.

“This is the first opportunity we’ve had to talk since I came home,” said Cromwell, secure in the knowledge that the driver could not hear their conversation through the divider window separating the front and rear seats.

“I know that your trip to Salt Lake City was successful. And our bank is another seven hundred thousand dollars richer.”

“You haven’t told me how you made out in Denver.”

“Your spies in the Van Dorn Agency were quite accurate in their assessment of the investigation. The Denver office has taken on the job of lead investigator in the hunt for the Butcher Bandit.”

“I hate being called that. I would have preferred something with more swank.”

“Like what, pray tell?” she asked, laughing.

“The Stylish Spirit.”

She rolled her eyes. “I doubt that newspaper editors would be enthused with that one.”

“What else did you find out?”

“The head of the Denver office, Nicholas Alexander, is an idiot. After I flashed a few of my charms, he couldn’t stop speaking about the hunt. He was angry he wasn’t put in charge of the investigation and had no reservations about revealing pertinent information concerning the methods they were going to use to catch the notorious bandit. Van Dorn himself named his top agent, Isaac Bell, to the case. A handsome and dashing devil, and very wealthy, I might add.”

“You saw him?”

“I met him, and, what’s more, I danced with him.” She pulled a small photograph from her purse. “I was waiting to give you this. Not the greatest likeness, but the photographer I hired was not very proficient at shooting photographs without setting them up in advance.”

Cromwell switched on the dome light of the car and examined the photo. The photo showed a tall man, with blond hair and mustache. “Should I be concerned about him?”

Her eyes took on an evasive expression. “I can’t say. He seemed more intelligent and sophisticated than our spies led me to believe. I had them check his background. He rarely if ever fails to find and apprehend his man. His record is quite admirable. Van Dorn thinks very highly of him.”

“If, as you say, he is affluent, why is he wasting his time as a simple detective?”

Margaret shrugged. “I have no idea. Maybe, like you, he craves a challenge, too?” She hesitated as she adjusted an imaginary loose curl with her fingers.

“Where did he get his money?”

“Did I forget to mention that he comes from a family of bankers in Boston?”

Cromwell stiffened. “I know of the Bells. They own the American States Bank of Boston, one of the largest financial institutions in the country.”

“He’s a paradox,” she said slowly, recalling her few minutes with him in the Brown Palace Hotel. “But he can also be very dangerous. He’ll come after us like a fox chasing a rabbit.”

“A detective who knows the inner workings of banking procedures is not good,” Cromwell said, his tone low and icy. “We must be especially wary.”

“I agree.”

“You’re certain he had no clue to your true identity?”

“I covered my tracks well. As far as he and Alexander know, my name is Rose Manteca, from Los Angeles, where my father owns a large ranch.”

“If Bell is as smart as you suggest, he’ll check that out and prove Rose doesn’t exist.”

“So what?” she said impishly. “He’ll never know my name is Margaret Cromwell, sister of a respected banker who lives in a mansion on Nob Hill in San Francisco.”

“What other information did you pry out of Alexander?”

“Only that Bell’s investigation is not going well. They have no clues that lead in your direction. Alexander was angry that Bell hadn’t taken him into his confidence. He said that Bell was close-mouthed concerning his actions with a pair of agents known as Curtis and Irvine. All I could find out is, they’re all out beating the bushes in search of a lead.”

“That’s good to hear.” Cromwell smiled thinly. “They’ll never consider that a banker is behind the robberies.”

She gazed at him. “You could quit, you know. We no longer need the money. And no matter how careful, no matter how sharp-witted you are, it’s only a question of time before you’re caught and hung.”

“You want me to give up the excitement and the challenge of achieving what no one else would dare and play the role of a stodgy banker for the rest of my days?”

“No, I do not,” she said with a wicked sparkle in her eye. “I love the excitement, too.” Then her voice softened and became distant. “It’s just that I know it cannot go on forever.”

“The time will come when we know when to stop,” he said without emphasis.

Neither brother nor sister possessed even a tinge of repentance or remorse for all the men, women, and children Cromwell had murdered. Nor could they have cared less for all the savings of small businesses, miners, and farmers they had wiped out when the robbed banks, unable to refund their depositors, had to close their doors.

“Who are you taking tonight?” she asked, changing the subject.

“Marion Morgan.”

“That prude,” she scoffed. “It’s a mystery to me why you keep her on the payroll.”

“She happens to be very efficient,” he retorted, not seeking an argument.

“Why haven’t you ever taken her to bed?” she said with a soft laugh.

“You know I never play with my employees. It’s a principle that has saved me much grief. I’m only taking her out tonight as a bonus for her work. Nothing more.” His sister’s dress was pulled to her knees and he reached over and squeezed one of them. “Who is the lucky man this evening?”

“Eugene Butler.”

“That fop?” he taunted. “He’s as worthless as they come.”

“He’s filthy rich—”

“His father is filthy rich,” Cromwell corrected her. “If Sam Butler hadn’t made a lucky strike when he stumbled onto the Midas gold vein, he’d have died broke.”

“Eugene will be richer than you when his father dies.”

“He’s a wastrel and a sot. He’ll spend his fortune so fast your head will swim.”

“I can handle him,” said his sister. “He’s madly in love with me and will do anything I tell him.”

“You can do better, much better,” grunted Cromwell. He picked up a speaking tube and spoke to the driver. “Abner, turn left at the next street and stop at the Butler residence.”

Abner held up a hand to indicate he understood. He stopped the Rolls in front of a huge mansion constructed of wood in the Victorian style of the day. Then he stepped from the car and rang the bell at the iron-gated front door. A maid answered, and he handed her Cromwell’s calling card. The maid took it and closed the door. A few minutes later, the door reopened and a tall, handsome man with sharply defined facial features came out and walked toward the car. He could have passed for a matinee idol onstage. Like Cromwell, he wore a woolen suit that was dark navy rather than black, a starched collar, and a tie with a white-diamond pattern. He paused in the portico and sniffed the air, which was tinged with a light fog that rolled in from the bay.

Abner opened the Rolls’s rear door, pulled down a jump seat, and stood back. Butler got in and sat down. He turned to Cromwell’s sister. “Maggie, you look positively stunning, good enough to eat.” He left it there, seeing the fearsome, hostile look in Cromwell’s eyes. He greeted Cromwell without offering his hand. “Jacob, good to see you.”

“You look fit,” said Cromwell as if he cared.

“In the pink. I walk five miles a day.”

Cromwell ignored him, picked up the speaking tube, and instructed Abner where to pick up Marion Morgan. He turned to his sister. “What saloon on the Barbary Coast do you wish for us to mingle with the foul-smelling rabble?”

“I heard that Spider Kelly’s was quite scrubby.”

“The worst dive in the world,” Cromwell said knowledgeably. “But they have good bands and a large dance floor.”

“Do you think it’s safe?” asked Margaret.

Cromwell laughed. “Red Kelly hires a small army of husky bouncers to protect affluent clientele like us from harm or embarrassment.”

“Spider Kelly’s it is,” said Butler. “I even took my mumsy and dad there one evening. They truly enjoyed watching the mix of unsavory people who frequent the place. We sat in the slummers’ balcony to watch the lowlife cavort.”

The Rolls stopped in front of an apartment building on Russian Hill just off Hyde Street on Lombard, a fashionable but affordable district of the city. This area of Russian Hill contained the homes and meeting places where intellectuals, artists, architects, writers, and journalists engaged in lofty arguments and discussions—but mostly socialized and partied.

Marion did not stand on protocol. She was waiting out front, on the top step of her building. As the Rolls eased to the curb, she descended and then stopped as Abner opened the door for her. She was dressed in a short jacket over a blue blouse with a matching skirt that had a simple elegance about it. Her blond hair was drawn back and twisted into a long braid with a bow at the back of her long neck.

Cromwell stepped out and gallantly helped her into the backseat. The chauffeur pulled down the other jump seat in which Cromwell, in a courtly manner, seated himself. “Miss Marion Morgan, may I present Mr. Eugene Butler. And you’ve met my sister Margaret,” he said, using her proper name.

“Miss Cromwell, a pleasure to see you again.” Marion’s tone was gracious but not exactly filled with warmth. “Likewise, Eugene,” Marion acknowledged sweetly with familiarity.

“You know each other?” asked Margaret in surprise.

“Eugene…Mr. Butler…took me to dinner some time ago.”

“Two years,” Butler said good-naturedly. “I failed to impress her. She spurned all my later invitations.”

“And advances,” Marion added, smiling.

“Ready for a hot night on the Barbary Coast?” asked Cromwell.

“It will be a new experience for me,” said Marion. “I’ve never had the courage to go there.”

“Remember the old song,” said Margaret:

    “The miners came in ’forty-nine,

    the whores in ’fifty-one.

    And when they got together,

    they produced the native son.”

Marion blushed and looked demurely at the carpet on the floor as the men laughed.

A few minutes later, Abner turned onto Pacific Street and drove through the heart of the Barbary Coast, named after the lair of the Barbary pirates of Morocco and Tunisia. Here was the home of gamblers, prostitutes, burglars, con men, drunks, derelicts, cutthroats, and murderers. It was all there, debauchery and degradation, poverty and wealth, misery and death.

The infamous coast boasted more than three hundred saloons, wall-to-wall, within six city blocks, fifty of them on Pacific Street alone. It existed because of crooked politicians who were bribed by the saloon, gambling house, and brothel owners. The reputable citizens of the city complained publicly about the den of iniquity but averted their eyes because they were secretly proud of the distinction that their fair city of San Francisco more than equaled Paris, which bore the enviable reputation as the wickedest city in the Western Hemisphere, as a carnival of vice and corruption.

And yet the Barbary Coast was glitzy and glamorous, with loads of ballyhoo and skulduggery, a veritable paradise for people of honest means to go slumming. The unsavory who ran the dens of sin—in most cases, men—relished seeing the swells from Nob Hill enter their establishments because they had no scruples charging them exorbitant prices for admission and liquor, usually thirty dollars for a bottle of champagne rather than the going rate of six to eight. Mixed drinks in most saloons were twenty-five cents and beer a dime.

Abner slipped the Rolls through the revelers wandering the street and pulled to a stop in front of a three-story building that served as a hotel upstairs—in reality, a brothel, called a cow yard, which housed fifty women in rooms, called cribs. The main floor was for gambling and drinking, while the downstairs basement had a stage for bawdy shows and a large wooden floor for dancing. They stepped from the car, with the men in the lead to shield the ladies, who stared with fascination at a flashy uniformed barker on the sidewalk.

“Step right into Spider Kelly’s, the finest drinking and dancing establishment on the coast. All are welcome, all will have the night of their lives. See the wildest show and the most beautiful girls to be found anywhere. See them kick their heels over their heads; see them sway in a manner that will shock and amaze you.”

“I like this place already,” said Margaret gaily.

Marion stared and clutched Cromwell’s arm tightly and looked up at a sign largely ignored by the clientele that read NO VULGARITY ALLOWED IN THIS ESTABLISHMENT.

They entered a large, U-shaped entrance lobby decorated with framed panels of nude women dancing amid Roman ruins. A manager decked out in an ill-fitting tuxedo greeted them and escorted them inside. “Do you wish to go downstairs for the show?” he asked. “The next one starts in ten minutes.”

“We would like a safe table away from the riffraff,” said Cromwell in a demanding tone. “After we’ve enjoyed a bottle of your finest champagne, we’ll go downstairs for dancing and the show.”

The manager bowed. “Yes, sir. Right this way.”

He escorted Cromwell’s party through the crowded saloon up to a table on the slummers’ balcony Butler had mentioned overlooking the main floor of the saloon. Soon a waitress wearing a thin blouse cut low across her breasts and a skirt that came well above her knees, showing an ample display of legs in black silk stockings held up by capricious garters, brought a magnum of Veuve Clicquot Ponsardin champagne, vintage 1892. As she eased the bottle into an ordinary bucket filled with ice, she brushed against the men and gave each an earthy smile. Margaret returned the smile, letting the waitress know that Margaret knew that besides serving customers in the saloon she also worked in the cribs upstairs. Surprised at seeing a Nob Hill swell dressed in a revealing outfit, the waitress gave Margaret a lewd look.

“You know, dearie, a redhead like you is in high demand. You could name your own price.”

Marion was stunned. Cromwell fought to keep from laughing, while Butler became outright indignant. “This is a lady!” he snapped. “You will apologize!”

The waitress ignored him. “If she’s Jewish, she can make the top of the scale.” Then she turned, gave a wiggle to her buttocks, and walked down the stairway.

“What does being Jewish have to do with it?” Marion asked naively.

“There is a myth going around,” explained Cromwell, “that Jewish redheads are the most passionate of all women.”

Margaret was enjoying herself as she gazed around the main floor of the saloon. She felt a giddy elation at seeing the sailors and dock-workers, the young and honest working girls who unknowingly were easily led astray, and the hardened criminals milling around the floor, which was littered with a small army of men too drunk to stand. Unknown to the others, including her brother, Margaret had visited the dives of the Barbary Coast on several occasions. And she was well aware that her brother Jacob often frequented the expensive and most exclusive parlor houses, where the royalty of the shady women plied their trade.

Marion found it disgusting and fascinating at the same time. She had heard the coast was the pit of bitterness and despair for the poor of San Francisco, but she had no idea how far humans could sink. She was not used to drinking and the champagne mellowed her after a while, and she began to see the depravity in a less-sickening light. She tried to imagine herself as one of those loose women, taking men to the cribs upstairs for as little as fifty cents. Horrified at herself, she quickly pushed the thought from her mind and rose unsteadily to her feet after Cromwell held up the empty bottle and announced that it was time for them to go downstairs.

The manager appeared and found a table that was occupied on the dance floor not far from the stage. Two couples dressed in soiled working clothes protested at having to give up their table, but the manager threatened them with bodily harm if they didn’t move.

“What luck,” said Margaret. “The show is just starting.”

Cromwell ordered another magnum of champagne as they watched a well-endowed woman step onto the small stage and begin a Dance of the Seven Veils. It wasn’t long before the veils dropped away and she was left with a scanty costume that left little to the imagination. Her abdominal muscles rippled as she gyrated and made several lusty contortions. When she was finished, the men in the audience threw coins on the stage.

“Well, that was certainly arousing,” Margaret said sarcastically.

A small band began playing and couples moved onto the dance floor, stepping lively to a dance called the Texas Tommy. Butler and Margaret swirled around the floor with gay abandon as if they were one. Marion felt a self-conscious sense of embarrassment at being held close to her boss. In all the years she had worked for him, this was the first time he had ever asked her out. He was an excellent dancer, and she followed his lead gracefully.

The band changed tempo at different times so the dancers could move to the steps of the Turkey Trot and the Bunny Hug. Soon the dancers began to sweat in the confined, airless quarters of the basement. The champagne began to make Marion’s head reel and she asked Cromwell if she could sit down for a few minutes.

“Would you mind if I left you for a little while?” Cromwell asked courteously. “I’d like to go upstairs and play a few hands of faro.”

Marion was vastly relieved. She was on the verge of exhaustion, and her new shoes were causing discomfort to her feet. “Yes, please do, Mr. Cromwell. I could stand a breather.”

Cromwell climbed the wooden stairway and walked slowly through the bustling gambling section until he came to a table where there were no players except the dealer. Two burly men stood behind the dealer and discouraged any customer from sitting at the table.

The dealer looked like he was born from a bull. His head sat like a chiseled rock on top of a neck that was as thick as a tree stump. His black hair was dyed, plastered down with pomade, and parted in the middle. His nose was flattened across his cheeks from being broken numerous times. His limpid eyes looked oddly out of place on a face that had seen more than its share of fists. He had the torso of a beer keg, round and abundant, but hard, without fat. Spider Red Kelly had been a fighter and had once fought James J. Corbett, knocking down the former heavyweight champion twice but getting knocked out himself in the twenty-first round. He looked up at Cromwell’s approach.

“Good evening, Mr. Cromwell, I’ve been expecting you.”

Cromwell opened the cover to his watch and glimpsed the hands on the dial. “Forgive me for being eight minutes late, Mr. Kelly. I was unavoidably detained.”

Red Kelly smiled, showing a mouth full of gold teeth. “Yes, I would have also been detained if I was in the company of such a lovely lady.” He nodded at the table. “Would you care to try your luck?”

Cromwell took out his wallet and counted out ten fifty-dollar National Bank notes printed by his bank under contract with the federal government. Kelly casually placed the bills in a small stack on the side of the table and pushed a stack of copper tokens advertising the saloon across the table. A typical faro layout of a suit of thirteen cards was painted on the table’s green felt cover. The suit was in spades from ace to king, with the ace on the dealer’s left.

Cromwell placed a token on the jack and one between the five and six in a bet called splitting. Kelly discarded the top card from the dealer box, displaying the next card, called the losing card. It was a ten. If Cromwell had bet on it, he would have lost, since the house wins any wagers placed on the displayed card. Then Kelly pulled the losing card out of the box, revealing the winning card. It was a five. Cromwell won the full bet, not half.

“Beginner’s luck,” he said as Kelly pushed the winning tokens across the table.

“What is your pleasure, Mr. Cromwell?”

“Nothing, thank you.”

“You asked to see me,” said Kelly. “What can I do to return the favors you’ve given me over the years, the generous loans and the help in keeping the police out of my place?”

“I need someone eliminated.” Cromwell spoke as if he was ordering a beer.

“Here in the city?” asked Kelly as he dealt another hand.

“No, Denver.”

“A man, I hope,” said Kelly without looking up from the dealer box. “Place your bet.”

Cromwell nodded and moved a token between the queen and jack. “Actually, he’s an agent with the Van Dorn Detective Agency.”

Kelly paused before pulling a card from the box. “Taking out a Van Dorn agent could have serious repercussions.”

“Not if it’s done right.”

“What’s his name?”

“Isaac Bell.” Cromwell passed across the picture his sister had given him. “Here’s his photo.”

Kelly stared at it briefly. “Why do you want him removed?”

“I have my reasons.”

Kelly pulled the losing card and revealed the winning card as the queen. Cromwell had won again.

Kelly gazed across the table at Cromwell. “From what I’ve heard, everyone who’s killed a Van Dorn agent has been tracked down and hung.”

“They were criminals who stupidly allowed themselves to be run down by detectives from the agency. If done in an efficient manner, Van Dorn will never know who killed Bell or why. Make it look like a random killing or even an accident. Leaving no trace would make it impossible for Van Dorn’s agents to retaliate.”

Kelly sank slowly back in his chair. “I have to tell you, Cromwell, I don’t like it.” There was no “Mr. Cromwell.”

Cromwell smiled a grim smile. “Would you like it if I paid you twenty thousand dollars for the job?”

Kelly sat up and looked at Cromwell as if he was not sure if he believed him. “Twenty thousand dollars, you say?”

“I want it done by a professional, not some two-bit killer off the street.”

“Where do you wish the deed to take place?”

There was never doubt that Kelly would do the job. The saloon owner was knee-deep in any number of criminal activities. Coming under Cromwell’s spell for financial gain was a foregone conclusion.

“In Denver. Bell works out of the Van Dorn office in Denver.”

“The farther away from San Francisco, the better,” Kelly said quietly. “You got yourself a deal, Mr. Cromwell.”

The “Mr.” was back, and the transaction agreed upon. Cromwell rose from his chair and nodded toward the tokens on the table. “For the dealer,” he said, grinning. “I’ll have ten thousand in cash delivered to you by noon tomorrow. You’ll get the rest when Bell is deceased.”

Kelly remained seated. “I understand.”

He pushed his way downstairs and through the dancers, who had stopped dancing. He saw they were watching his sister perform an undulating and provocative hootchy-kootchy dance on the stage, to the delight of everyone present. She had loosened her corset and let her nicely coiffed hair down. Her hips swiveled and pulsed sensually to the music of the band. At the table, Butler was sprawled in a drunken haze while Marion stared in awe at Margaret’s gyrations.

Cromwell motioned for one of the managers, who also acted as bouncers.

“Sir?”

“Please carry the gentleman to my car.”

The bouncer nodded, and with one practiced motion lifted the thoroughly intoxicated Butler to a standing position and threw him over his shoulder. Then the bouncer proceeded up the stairs, carrying Butler’s bulk as lightly as if he were a bag of oats.

Cromwell leaned over Marion. “Can you walk to the car?”

She glanced up at him as if angry. “Of course I can walk.”

“Then it’s time to leave.” He took her by the arm and eased her from the chair. Marion, unassisted but wobbly, went up the stairs. Then Cromwell turned his attention to his sister. He was not amused by her scandalous behavior. He grabbed her by the arm hard enough to cause a bruise and hauled her off the stage and out of the saloon to the waiting car at the curb. Butler was passed out in the front seat with Abner while Marion sat glassy-eyed in the back.

Cromwell roughly shoved Margaret into the backseat and followed her, pushing her into one corner. He sat in the middle between the two women as Abner got behind the wheel, started the car, and drove up the street that was ablaze with multicolored lights.

Slowly, Cromwell slid his arm around Marion’s shoulders. She looked at him with a vague, unresponsive expression. The champagne had given her a sense of lethargy, but she was not drunk. Her mind was still clear and sharp. His hand squeezed one shoulder and there was a small pause in her breathing. She could feel his body pressing against hers in the narrow confines of the seat.

There was a time when Marion had found her boss appealing and felt a deep attraction to him. But in the years she had worked for him, he had made no effort to bridge the gap between them. Now, suddenly, after all this time, he was showing an interest in her. Strangely, there was no emotion or arousal surging within her. She felt as if she were repelled by him and she couldn’t understand why.

Marion was relieved there were no further moves on his part. The one arm remained snaked around her waist and his hand rested lightly on her shoulder until Abner stopped the Rolls in front of her apartment house. Cromwell stepped to the sidewalk and helped her from the car.