Clive Cussler - The Chase

“Comes from all those years my mother forced me to take lessons so I could impress the debutantes in our city.”

“You also dress very well for a detective.”

“I grew up in a city where the affluent men lived in tuxedos.”

“That would be Boston, would it not?”

For once, in his years of investigation, Bell was at a loss, but he recovered and came back. “And you’re from Los Angeles.”

She was good, he thought. She didn’t bat an eye.

“You’re very knowledgeable,” she said, unable to fathom his eyes.

“Not half as knowledgeable as you. What is your interest? How do you know so much about me? Better yet, I should ask why?”

“I was under the impression you like to solve mysteries.” She tried consciously to look past him over his tall shoulder, but she was drawn into those incredible eyes. This was a sensation, a stirring she had not counted on.

The photographs she had been shown did not do him justice face-to-face. He was far more attractive that she had imagined. He also came off as highly intelligent. This she’d expected, though, and could understand why he was so famous for his intuition. It was as though he was stalking her as she was stalking him.

The music ended and they stood together on the dance floor waiting for the orchestra to begin the next musical arrangement. He stepped back and ran his eyes from her shoes to the top of her beautifully styled hair. “You are a very lovely lady. What prompted your interest in me?”

“You’re an attractive man. I wanted to know you better.”

“You knew my name and where I came from before you met me in the elevator. Our meeting was obviously premeditated.”

Before she could reply, the orchestra began playing “In the Shade of the Old Apple Tree,” and Bell led her around the floor in a foxtrot. He held her against him and gripped her hand tightly in his. Her waist was small, made even smaller by a corset. The top of her head came up even with his chin. He was tempted to press his lips against hers but thought better of it. This was neither the time nor the place. Nor were his thoughts on romance. She was spying on him. That was a given. His mind was trying to formulate a motive. What interest could a total stranger have in him? The only possibilities he could conjure up were that she’d been hired by one of the many criminals he had put behind bars, shot, or seen hanged. A relative or friend out for revenge? She didn’t fit the image of someone who associated with the scum he had apprehended over the last ten years.

The music ended, and she released his hand and stood back. “You’ll have to excuse me, Mr. Bell, but I must return to my friends.”

“Can we meet again?” he asked with a warm smile.

She slightly shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

He ignored her negative reply. “Have dinner with me tomorrow night.”

“Sorry, I’m busy,” she answered, with a haughtiness in her voice. “And even in your fancy tuxedo you couldn’t bluff your way into the Western Bankers’ Ball at the Denver Country Club like you did tonight at the benefit for St. John’s Orphans.” Then she threw out her chin, swept up her long skirt, and walked back to her table.

Once seated, she stole a glance back at Bell, but he was nowhere to be seen among the crowd. He had completely disappeared.

THE FOLLOWING MORNING, BELL WAS THE FIRST ONE in the office, using a skeleton key that could open ninety doors out of a hundred. He was sorting through bank robbery reports at the end of the long table when Arthur Curtis and Glenn Irvine entered the conference room. Bell rose to greet them and shook hands. “Art, Glenn, good to see you both again.”

Curtis stood short and rotund, with a rounded stomach neatly encased in a vest whose buttons were stretched to their limit. He had thinning sandy hair, wide megaphone ears, blue eyes, and a smile that showed a maze of teeth that lit up the room. “We haven’t seen you since we tracked down Big Foot Cussler after he robbed that bank in Golden.”

Irvine placed his hat on a coat stand, revealing a thick head of uncombed brown hair. “As I remember,” he said, standing as tall and as scrawny as a scarecrow, “you led us directly to the cave where he was hiding out.”

“A simple matter of deduction,” Bell said with a tight smile. “I asked a pair of young boys if they knew of a place where they liked to hide out from their folks for a few days. The cave was the only location within twenty miles, close enough to town so Cussler could sneak in for supplies.”

Curtis stood in front of the large map of the western United States and thoughtfully studied the little flags signifying the killer’s spree. There were sixteen of them. “Got any intuition on the Butcher Bandit?”

Bell looked at him. “Butcher Bandit? Is that what they’re calling him?”

“A reporter from the Bisbee Bugle came up with it. Other newspapers have picked it up and spread the term across the territory.”

“It won’t help our cause,” said Bell. “With that name on everyone’s lips, the law-abiding citizens will come down hard on the Van Dorn Detective Agency for not apprehending him.”

“That’s already started,” Curtis said, laying the Rocky Mountain News on the table in front of Bell. He stared down at it.

The lead column was on the robbery and murders in Rhyolite. Half the column was devoted to the question “Why haven’t law enforcement agencies made any progress in the case and captured the Butcher Bandit?”

“The heat is on,” Bell said simply.

“The heat is on us,” Irvine added.

“So what have we got?” asked Bell, pointing to a stack of files two feet high on the bank crimes piled on the desk in front of him. “I’ve studied the reports while coming west on the train. It appears that all we have is that we’re not dealing with the typical cowboy turned bank robber.”

“He works alone,” said Curtis, “and he’s devilish clever and evil. But what is most frustrating is that he never leaves a trail for a posse to follow.”

Irvine nodded his head in agreement. “It’s as though he disappears into the hell he came from before he leaves town.”

“No tracks are ever found leading into the surrounding countryside?” asked Bell.

Curtis shook his head. “The best trackers in the business have come up dry every time.”

“Any evidence he might have holed up in town until the excitement died down?”

“None that’s ever turned up,” replied Curtis. “After the robberies, he was never seen again.”

“A ghost,” murmured Irvine. “We’re dealing with a ghost.”

Bell smiled. “No, he’s human, but a damned smart human.” He paused and fanned out the files on the conference table. He selected one and opened it, the report on the robbery in Rhyolite, Nevada. “Our man has a very rigid modus operandi that he sticks with on every bank job. We believe he hangs around for a few days studying the town and its people before robbing the bank.”

“He’s either a gambler or a risk taker,” said Curtis.

“Wrong on both counts,” Bell corrected him. “Our man is bold and he’s shrewd. We can assume he does his dirty work using disguises, since the people of all the towns he’s struck never agree on the appearance of suspicious-looking strangers.”

Irvine began pacing the conference room, occasionally examining a flag pinned on the map. “Citizens of the towns recall seeing a drunken bum, a uniformed soldier, a well-to-do merchant, and a small-time freight hauler. But none could tie them to the murders.”

Curtis looked at the carpeted floor and shrugged. “How odd there are no witnesses who can give a credible identification.”