Clive Cussler - The Chase

“Nothing odd about it,” said Irvine. “He murders them all. The dead can’t speak.”

Bell seemed to ignore the conversation as if he was lost in thought. Then his eyes focused on the map and he said slowly, “The big question in my mind is why he always kills everyone in the bank during the theft. Even women and children. What does he gain by the slaughter? It can’t be that he simply doesn’t want to leave witnesses to the robberies, not when he’s already been seen around town in disguise…unless…” He paused. “There is a new definition created by psychologists for murderers who kill as easily as they brush their teeth. They call them sociopaths. Our man can kill without remorse. He has no emotions, does not know how to laugh or love, and has a heart that is as cold as an iceberg. To him, shooting down a small child holds the same sensitivity as shooting a pigeon.”

“Hard to believe there are people that cruel and ruthless,” muttered Irvine in revulsion.

“Many of the bandits and gunfighters of the past were sociopaths,” said Bell. “They shot other men as easily as if they sneezed. John Wesley Hardin, the famous Texas badman, once shot and killed a man for snoring.”

Curtis looked steadily at Bell. “Do you really think he murders everyone in a bank because he enjoys it?”

“I do,” Bell said quietly. “The bandit gets a weird satisfaction from committing his blood crimes. Another peculiar factor. He makes his escape before the people of the town, including the town sheriff, realized what happened.”

“So where does that leave us?” asked Irvine. “What avenues do we search?”

Bell looked at him. “Another of his routine habits is to ignore any gold and take only currency. Glenn, your job is to check out the banks that were robbed and study their records of the serial numbers on the stolen bills. Start in Bozeman, Montana.”

“Banks in mining towns aren’t in the habit of recording the identifying number of every bill that passes through their hands.”

“You might get lucky and find a bank that recorded the numbers of the currency sent from large city banks to make the miners’ payroll. If you do, we can trace them. The robber had to either spend the money or exchange the currency through bank deposits and withdrawals. A trail he can’t cover up.”

“He could have exchanged through foreign financial institutions.”

“Maybe, but he would have to spend it overseas. The risk would be too great for him to bring it back into the U.S. I’m betting he kept his loot in the country.”

Then Bell turned to Curtis. “Art, you check out all stagecoach and train schedules for any that departed the towns on the same day the robberies took place. If our man couldn’t be tracked by a posse, he might easily have taken a train or stage for his getaway. You can begin in Placerville, California.”

“Consider it done,” said Curtis firmly.

“Are you going to remain here and act as a command post?” asked Irvine.

Bell shook his head and grinned. “No, I’m going out in the field, beginning with Rhyolite, and retrace the robberies. No matter how good the murderer is or how well he planned his crimes, there has to be a stone he left unturned. There must be evidence that’s been overlooked. I’m going to question the mining town citizens who might have seen something, however insignificant, and failed to report it to the local sheriff or marshal.”

“You’ll give us your schedule so we can get in touch by telegraph if we come onto something?” said Curtis.

“I’ll have it for you tomorrow,” replied Bell. “I’m also going to travel through the mining towns that have large payrolls our man has yet to rob. Maybe, just maybe I can second-guess our butcher, set up a trap, and entice him to strike another bank on our turf.” Then he pulled open a drawer and passed out two envelopes. “Here’s enough cash to cover your travel expenses.”

Both Curtis and Irvine looked surprised. “Before now, we always had to travel third class, use our own money, and turn in bills and receipts,” said Curtis. “Alexander always demanded we stay in sleazy hotels and eat cheap meals.”

“This case is too important to cut corners. Trust me, Mr. Van Dorn will okay any monies I request, but only if we show results. The bandit may have everyone believing he’s invincible and can’t be caught, but he’s not faultless. He has flaws just like the rest of us. He will be trapped by a small insignificant mistake he neglected. And that, gentlemen, is our job, to find that insignificant mistake.”

“We’ll do our best,” Irvine assured him.

Curtis nodded in agreement. “Speaking for both of us, permit me to say that it is a real privilege to be working with you again.”

“The privilege is mine,” said Bell sincerely. He felt lucky to work with such intelligent and experienced operatives who knew the people and country of the West.

THE SUN was falling over the Rockies to the west when Bell left the conference room. Always cautious, he closed and locked the door. As he passed through the outer office, he ran into Nicholas Alexander, who looked like he’d just stepped out of an expensive tailor’s shop. The usual shabby suit was gone and replaced by an elegant tuxedo. It was a new image of respectability that he didn’t quite pull off. The inner polish simply was not there.

“You look quite the bon vivant, Mr. Alexander,” Bell said graciously.

“Yes, I’m taking the wife to a fancy soiree at the Denver Country Club later this evening. I have many influential friends here in Denver, you know.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“A pity you can’t come, but it’s only for members of the club in good standing.”

“I understand perfectly,” Bell said, masking his sarcasm.

As soon as they parted, Bell went down the street to the telegraph office and sent a telegram to Van Dorn.

Have set up a schedule of investigations by myself, Curtis, and Irvine. Please be informed that we have a spy in our midst. A woman, a stranger who approached me at the hotel, identified me by name, knew my past, and seemed to know why I was in Denver. Her name is Rose Manteca and she supposedly comes from a wealthy family of ranchers in Los Angeles. Please ask our Los Angeles office to investigate. Will keep you advised of our progress on this end.

Bell

After he sent the telegram to his superior, Bell walked down the busy sidewalk to the Brown Palace Hotel. After a few words with the concierge, who provided him with a map of the city, he was escorted down to the storeroom and the boiler room beneath the lobby, where he was greeted by the hotel maintenance man. An affable fellow in stained coveralls, he led Bell to a wooden crate that had been dismantled. Under a single, bright lightbulb that hung from the ceiling, the maintenance man pointed at a motorcycle that sat on a stand beside the crate and gleamed a dazzling red.

“There she is, Mr. Bell,” he said with satisfaction. “All ready to go. I personally polished her up for you.”

“I’m grateful, Mr….”

“Bomberger. John Bomberger.”

“I’ll take care of your services when I leave the hotel,” Bell promised him.

“Glad to be of help.”

Bell went up to his room and found hanging in the closet the tuxedo that had been cleaned by the hotel during the day. After a quick bath, he dressed and removed a long linen coat from the closet and slipped it on, the bottom hem dropping to the tops of his highly shined shoes. Next, he slipped on a pair of leggings to save his tux trousers from the oily liquid that often came out of the engine. Finally, he donned a cap with goggles.

Bell took a back stairway down to the storeroom. The red cycle, with its white rubber tires, stood as if it was a steed waiting to carry him into battle. He kicked the stand up to the rear fender, took hold of it by the handlebars, and pushed all one hundred twenty pounds of it up a ramp used by wagons to remove the hotel bedding for cleaning and to allow merchants to bring in food for the restaurant and room service kitchens.